I began by dismissing Mare of Eastwood on the mere basis of atmospheric gloom and wretched characters with all kinds of downmarket maladies and addictions. But episode #2 put the hook in and I’ve been on board ever since.
As mentioned earlier I’ve managed to put aside my issues with Kate Winslet (cravenly apologizing for working with Roman Polanski and Woody Allen in order to curry favor with #MeToo Academy types and possibly land a Best Actress nomination for Ammonite) and have even become accustomed to the Easttown demimonde and their endless summonings of moods and vibes most of us would rather not absorb.
Winslet’s “Mare” is a good generational match for Guy Pearce‘s Richard Ryan, who’s been romantically appealing from the start, but it makes no sense at all for Evan Peter‘s Detective Zabel, her investigating partner, to have a competing interest — at 34 he’s way too young for the 45-year-old Winslet, and he seems like a fool to be saying stuff like “I’m only interested if you’re interested” and “Mare, all my cards are on the table.” Dude, you can do better.
James McCardle has a face I’d love to punch repeatedly, and his Deacon Mark Burton is obviously a dangerous sicko. I decided last night that I won’t be happy until a mob gangs up on his ass and maybe throws him off a bridge.
I’m told that episode #5 (“Illusions,” 5.16) is the best yet.