Yes, I am aware these people don’t exist. Maybe because it’s winter or because I began watching around Christmas, when everything felt like it was only getting worse, but this glorious, silly, fanciful French farce gave me more than just a way to pass the time. I have probably finished about 15 shows since our internment, but I have never felt more unsettled. It starts with fraught anticipation of the event (during which a media black-out is enforced, to avoid spoilers), then there is the show itself – a completely unenjoyable experience, no matter how exciting or satisfying or sweet the conclusion: one edgy eye is on the clock throughout.ĭestitution and loneliness immediately follow, then comes a day-and-a-half dissecting the shrapnel and seeking solidarity on internet fan forums, then a few days of telling people who didn’t ask and certainly don’t care that I’m trying not to cry because it’s over but smile because it happened, and then a fitful process of consulting other people about what to watch next, which by the way is supposed to be my full-time job.īack to my current predicament. Gregory Montel, Camille Cottin and Assaad Bouab in Call My Agent! (Photo: Shanna Besson/Netflix)
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I have always thought that a series finale brought about its own legitimate kind of micro-grief – Urban Dictionary calls it “Post-Series Depression”, and there are long discussion threads on Reddit about how to remedy it.
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