But there was TV I loved this year; oh, there was. The Big C came rushing into my life and somehow became the most devastating show I could imagine, bleaker than its partner show Weeds (which, for the record, I love again), bleaker even than Breaking Bad sometimes, and I'd thought that was as bleak as it could get. The thing is, even on Breaking Bad, there's some intrigue and even some lightness, sometimes, in figuring out how Walt will get out of this latest spot; on The Big C, "comedy" though it may be, there's no way out but death.
It was a kick in the stomach every week, and so Friday Night Lights has been — both in its fourth season and in what I've seen so far of this glorious fifth, the season I never dared dream would happen, this gem of a show getting to finish telling its own story on its own terms. The smoothness with which they've turned over nearly the whole cast continues to boggle me, and week after week there are Coach and Tami at the center, and I cry every time because I know I'm one hour closer to the end of this most unlikely survivor.
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