“I’ll kill you when the time comes. We can do it now if you like. I think I got a baseball bat in the back.”
“Kneeing Damon Lindeloff in the pants felt really good.”
If the remaining episodes continue the way they have been since “Bombshells,” this might end up being my favorite season of House yet.
I know, I know. I’ve been bellyaching about this season all year, lamenting the impossible union that was Huddy, sniping about Thirteen’s replacement, predicting nothing but doom and destruction for our narrative sensibilities on an essentially bulletproof series. Well, unless they can’t strike a deal.
Now that Huddy is split and House has, more or less, fallen into full-on relapse, I don’t have anything to whine about. Instead, I’ve used my crying time to reflect on the season. Living through it sucked: House was distant from his diagnoses (his puzzles and reason to live) while maintaining an uncharacteristic level of patience with his girlfriend, Masters was a shade of Cameron with potential for complications that were never realized, the other ducklings became two-dimensional shadows of their former selves unless a spotlight shined on them. It was all about enough to turn me off entirely. But, on the whole, the season works in hindsight. If we forget the ridiculous way Cuddy and House got together at the end of last season, we can see Huddy for what it is: an escalation for House’s eventual valley-making crash. Thirteen would’ve been adjunct to this season since her misery would have no company as House experienced his version of bliss. The exploitation of Masters is a missed opportunity but might’ve felt forced anyway with the jaded goblins she works with turning her into one of them. Even though in the back of my mind I knew it all had to come crashing down at some point, I didn’t believe it. And now House as a mess again makes me feel like the season was almost worth going off course to sink him lower into misery than ever before.
And misery sure does love it some company.
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