Ok. I gave this the old college try. I managed to make it through the first episode with an equal number of out loud guffawing and head scratching moments.
Conceptually, on paper, in theory this is pretty cool and should work. It's too bad the concept was the only interesting thing in execution. Jesus, Mary and Joseph the writing, the acting.....Oh did I mention the writing? Holy whole herd of cows. It's not good. Really not good.
The classroom scene in episode two was so bad I blushed. Really. Full facial flushing. I kind of panicked a bit thinking I was having a stoke and a heart attack. Then I realized I was just embarrassed at what I was watching. Feeling I had to do something in response, I turned on light in the TV room. As if more light would make it better. It. Did. Not.
When I started fantasizing about the end of the world as a legitimate reason to stop watching, I gave up and turned it off.
I wanted to like it. I wanted to watch it. But I couldn't.
My mothers go to compliment in situations calling for a compliment, but where no compliment is readily obvious, always has something to do with having lovely hair.
You have heard "the bigger the hair, the closer to Jesus?" The bigger, and softer, and shinier and bouncier my mothers compliment, the more she's tying to cover up a bald spot where something good is supposed to be.
To that, Dystopia has really, really, lovely hair. A big bouffant of lovely hair. Piled high and held in place with three cans of Aqua-net, lovey hair.
Conceptually, on paper, in theory this is pretty cool and should work. It's too bad the concept was the only interesting thing in execution. Jesus, Mary and Joseph the writing, the acting.....Oh did I mention the writing? Holy whole herd of cows. It's not good. Really not good.
The classroom scene in episode two was so bad I blushed. Really. Full facial flushing. I kind of panicked a bit thinking I was having a stoke and a heart attack. Then I realized I was just embarrassed at what I was watching. Feeling I had to do something in response, I turned on light in the TV room. As if more light would make it better. It. Did. Not.
When I started fantasizing about the end of the world as a legitimate reason to stop watching, I gave up and turned it off.
I wanted to like it. I wanted to watch it. But I couldn't.
My mothers go to compliment in situations calling for a compliment, but where no compliment is readily obvious, always has something to do with having lovely hair.
You have heard "the bigger the hair, the closer to Jesus?" The bigger, and softer, and shinier and bouncier my mothers compliment, the more she's tying to cover up a bald spot where something good is supposed to be.
To that, Dystopia has really, really, lovely hair. A big bouffant of lovely hair. Piled high and held in place with three cans of Aqua-net, lovey hair.