Ringer’s mid-season premiere airs tonight at 9/8c. I have to say: I’m pumped. I’ve got the DirecTV box autotuned, my night free of distractions, my popcorn popped, my tea boiled. At the same time, I have the same sinking feeling a drug addict gets when he buys a bad bag of crack rock—I’m in for a torturous high. But at least I’ll be on a ride! And I’m not ashamed (of watching the show, not taking drugs… which I don’t). Allow me to explain.
Despite Sarah Michelle Gellar’s acting
which is vaguely reminiscent of frozen cardboard, the show is quite intriguing.
Or do I mean ludicrous?
Siobhan is a mastermind who has federal marshals, cops, and lowlifes doing her bidding. Bridget is a conniving, adulterous stripper. Yet somewhere (you have to dig deep) there is a story of romance, love, and family. And it’s clever. Instead of dragging out a storyline over several episodes, the creators wrap up one plot only to loosen another thread in the very next episode. I find that fascinating and it keeps me watching. Back to my analogy of bad crack—no fun, but you can’t help it.
I am willing to suspend my disbelief for the sake of 45 minutes and watch the wom(e)n dig a hole so deep you could not see her with a spotlight and a telescope. Bridget takes over the identity of her twin sister, which includes sleeping with her brother-in-law and parenting his angsty teenage daughter, and then proceeds to sabotage her previous life—i.e. herself—by planting evidence, removing evidence, and tampering evidence, all of which are felonies and could land her in jail. And in all this, nobody seems to realize that Bridget is not her sister Siobhan—even when she eats meat and does other silly things like forget appointments, dates, names, and personality characteristics. In fact, no one seems to think there’s a problem. Word to my friends: if “I” suddenly say I like Downton Abbey, you make take out a shotgun or any other weapon and kill “me” precisely because it will not be.
Honestly, however, I am ravenously curious as to how in tarnation the writers are going to get themselves out of this mess. I will follow them down this rabbit hole until we see light at the end of the tunnel. I am not afraid of said dark tunnel because, unlike them, I have an escape hatch: I can the channel.
A few words on Jason Dohring (a.k.a. Mr. Carpenter).
He. Is. Not. A. Rapist.
End of story.
Juliette has never told the truth and she has not in this instance either.
Let me enlighten you: Juliette is a conniving, self-absorbed catastrophe of a human being who says one word and already you feel she has been too loquacious. My reaction to Juliette can be summed us thusly:
And this is me being kind.
Mr. Carpenter—Jason Dohring—is not an idiot. Nor is he blind. Nor is he desperate. And those are the only three reasons that one would possibly touch Juliette. She has the personality only a parent could love. Actually, her own mother did not—otherwise Juliette would be in Florida right now, kicking in the back seat and sparing the viewers from any more of her idiotic one-liners (“Oh gawd, there’s two of them?”). Mr. Carpenter also had no chemistry with this inane specimen of femininity, making it difficult for me to believe even slightly that he could have done this to her. Either that, or he hides his feelings very well. And no man does. Ever.
He did not do it. But the show is going to make it seem like he did and everyone is going to believe Juliette. Except for me. I will be logical, intelligent, and reasonable and see through Juliette’s malignant schemes.
Or wait—what if Juliette is pregnant? With Mr. Carpenter’s child? But then they do a paternity test and turns out he is not the father?
Yes, the idea is utterly ridiculous. But the whole show is about ripping the carpet right from under. Just when you think one thing will happen, something else does. My New Year’s resolution is to stay one step ahead of the creators—that, or come up with my own ridiculous plot lines and campaign.
I’ll let you know how that goes.