The Punisher Season 2: Brutal But Good

Considering that three of the five Netflix Marvel shows have been canceled in the last six months, I suppose it’s not really much of a competition anymore, but since the fate of The Punisher is still up in the air, it’s worth saying: If the first season made it a contender, then the second season settles it. The Punisher is the best show in the Marvel Netflix Universe.

Season 2 picks up a year after the events of season 1 and finds Frank—having untangled the conspiracy that led to the murder of his wife and kids—on the road in the Midwest, new, squeaky-clean identity in tow, trying his hand at an everyman existence. It almost seems like he might be able to make it work, too, until Frank crosses paths with Amy, a teenager caught in the middle of something bad, something much bigger than her, and Frank can’t help but get involved. Despite the distance and his best intentions, he can’t seem to leave his alter ego behind; it’s an itch that needs to be scratched. He’s still haunted by the death of his family and what it revealed: He’s good at putting people down, and he likes doing it.

Frank isn’t the only one being haunted this season. Curtis’s old life keeps getting in the way as he tries to build a new one; Billy is tormented by his shattered memories; and Dinah by Billy himself, by their past relationship and the lies and trauma she suffered at his hands.

The sophomore outing feels less like a second season and more like a second chapter, the harsh reality of what comes next after a seemingly tidy ending. Because of course—there are no endings. The hardest part is to keep going. Too often shows skip past this—the messy aftermath—willing to subject their characters to trauma, but preferring to gloss over the fallout, the healing process, the ways trauma changes you. The show has plenty of shots to take—at the religious right, Russian colluders, homophobia, pedophilia, Nazis, people who use their money to buy Congress—but amidst the violence you’d expect from a show called The Punisher, it gives its characters room to breathe. To grieve, mourn, struggle. To feel fear, to act out, to ask themselves who they want to be. It’s the kind of thoughtful, nuanced writing that made the show shine in its first season, and it’s still on display here.

Notably absent from season 2 is Ebon Moss-Bachrach’s charismatic David Lieberman, but the show makes up for it by showcasing the dynamic between Frank and Curtis and giving more screen time to the excellent Jason R. Moore, who plays Curtis with the perfect combination of compassion, frustration, pragmatism, humor, pain, and sadness that makes him the show’s true moral compass. The lack of Karen Page this season is a loss, but the scenes between Deborah Ann Woll and Jon Bernthal remain some of the most captivating, compelling, and emotionally rich scenes on the show, and the connection that we do get to see develop, between Frank and Amy—funny, smart, and sarcastic in her own right, all while remaining believably young and naïve—is a worthy, heartbreaking addition, a stark reminder of the father Frank was and never got the chance to be.

Without the singular purpose of taking out the people responsible for murdering his family, the second season feels slightly unmoored. But then again, so is Frank. The more he feels like he’s the only one capable of stopping the people hunting Amy, of bringing a final end to Billy, the more he pushes people away. Cuts himself off from his humanity, resigned to live as a weapon. The question this season seems to be: What kind of future does Frank want? If an undeniable part of him is the Punisher, is there a way for him to live with both sides of himself?

By the end of the season, Frank’s answer is definitively “no,” but there’s something unfinished about it. His answer may be “never,” but the showrunners seems to be saying not right now, or even perhaps—hopefully, tentatively—not yet. It’s as painful a conclusion for Frank to come to as it is to watch, but not in a way that makes you want to look away. If anything, it draws you in, makes you root for him and keeps you wanting more, longing for the next chapter where maybe, finally, Frank can get it right.

Seasons 1 and 2 of The Punisher are now streaming on Netflix.

American Vandal: Criminally Good

Here at Grammatical Art, we love true crime stories in their many forms: TV miniseries, books, podcasts, and Emmy-nominated, Peabody-award-winning documentary parodies.

The first season of American Vandal followed aspiring filmmaker and amateur documentarian Peter Maldonado and his best friend Sam Ecklund as they attempted to exonerate fellow classmate Dylan Maxwell—falsely accused of spray painting 27 dicks on cars in the faculty parking lot—and uncover the identity of the real dick drawer. Season 2 premiered earlier this month, and in a move exemplary of the kind of simple yet genius comedy that makes American Vandal so hilarious, its central mystery revolves around nothing more and nothing less than no. 2.

Fresh off the viral-video fame of their first investigation and now backed by a Netflix production team (yes, they incorporated the show’s Netflix sensation into the premise), Sam and Peter are called in to unmask the anonymous vandal known as the Turd Burglar, responsible for terrorizing a Catholic high school in Bellevue, Washington with not one, but three poop-related crimes, including spiking the cafeteria lemonade with laxatives, leading to a massive, school-wide pooping incident dubbed “the brownout.”

To reveal much more of this season’s plot would be to ruin the delight of watching the mystery unfold because what makes American Vandal so excellent is that—despite (or maybe even because of) its bathroom humor and parody premise—it actually holds up as a compelling entry in the very genre it’s making fun of. Each of the seven episodes leading up to the final eighth episode ends on a cliffhanger that gives you no choice but to press play on the next one. And if season 1 was a scathing indictment of the way the public education system cuts corners and prejudges students, labeling them as worthy or unworthy just so they can promptly give up on them, then season 2 is a hard look at cover-ups, conspiracies, the preferential treatment of athletes as money makers, and the cost of coming of age in the age of social media.

Investigating the poop crimes at a different school where Peter and Sam are outsiders to the social structures of the faculty and student body lends the season more red herrings, more false assumptions, and more plot twists than the show’s first outing. Season 2 could use more of the filmmakers themselves—arguably the strongest and funniest parts of both seasons are the behind-the-scenes moments of Peter and Sam tracking down leads, discussing strategy, and piecing together clues and motives on their crime boards—but when we do see them, the duo shines and the show is as ridiculous and clever as ever.

Is season 2 as funny as season 1? Close, but not quite. At the end of the day, dick drawing just may be inherently funnier than poop pranks, which is not to say season 2 is some kind of sophomore slump. It’s still laugh-out-loud funny, and just like with season 1, when all was revealed and the Turd Burglar was finally unmasked, I was left wanting more. Not because the solve wasn’t satisfying, but because it was just that damn good.

Seasons 1 and 2 of American Vandal are now streaming on Netflix.