By Vincent Volcano, Retired Hellwood Arsonist-in-Chief (Scarf aflame, patience not)
The mortals have returned to their beloved crypt-school, and Netflix has pried open the coffin for Wednesday Season 2, Part 2—four episodes that arrive like a séance that runs ten minutes too long and keeps summoning the same ghost. Our monochrome misanthrope, the ever-game Jenna Ortega, limps out of Part 1’s Hyde hangover only to discover the cure is more Hyde. That’s right: the season’s big bad is a looped animatic. I’ve seen grimmer repetition in the Ninth Circle’s focus groups.
Let’s ignite the positives before I throw the match into the gasoline drum. Ortega is still a precision instrument—deadpan like a guillotine blade, landing every line with the assured thwack of fate closing a door. She’s MVP, producer, and, judging by the pacing, possibly also the show’s metronome. The body-swap gambit with Emma Myers is the kind of fizzy, actor-forward lark I used to greenlight when I still had eyebrows: a showcase of physicality, timing, and two performers joyriding each other’s rhythms. It’s delightfully perverse craft—more of that, less of the VFX slop, grazie.
Speaking of slop: the Hydes. Saints of Searing Nitrate, where did the budget go? Some shots pass the squint test; others look like a pre-render from a 2004 DVD extra, the kind of rubbery creature you politely blur with rain, smoke, or moral ambiguity. Instead, the show hangs halogen lights on them and begs you not to notice the polygon count. Practical effects would’ve given these beasties weight, saliva, a footprint that dents turf. Instead, we get a digital gremlin that moonwalks through scenes like it forgot to collide with reality. Flames fade, but classics burn forever! Also: practicals photograph better. Free lecture.
Showrunners Alfred Gough and Miles Millar steer with one hand on the nostalgia horn, the other rummaging through the IP snack drawer. The season’s structure is lopsided: the early episodes still paying off Part 1’s IOUs before panic-swerving into a “new mystery” that plays like a network note manifest. The result is two acts stitched like a hasty reshoot—coverage-rich, intent-poor. You can practically hear the assembly cut negotiating with itself. Tonal continuity? Pacing arcs? I’ve seen steadier spines on production assistants hauling sandbags.
Then there’s the cameo parade. Lady Gaga’s Rosaline Rotwood flounces in, slings a hook, and evaporates—more MacGuffin than mammal. It’s fun in the way a firework is fun: bright, brief, and somewhere a budget line item goes poof. Gwendoline Christie returns as Principal Weems, now a spirit guide, and paradoxically has more life dead than she did living. She’s stately, wry, and finally allowed to haunt the frame with the kind of presence that used to win statuettes back when those mattered. The Addams elders? Catherine Zeta-Jones glides like a velvet blade; Luis Guzmán’s Gomez remains underfed, a garnish where there should be a meal. Someone in the writers’ room fears giving the parents a second beat; let them dance in the dark a little longer, cowards.
Direction and design keep the brand glossy: Nevermore still looks like a production designer’s Pinterest board soaked in formaldehyde, costumes deliver theatrical chiaroscuro, and the needle-drops can’t help shouting “We own this track!” like a VP of Content with quarterly targets. But there’s a difference between style and stylization; the show mistakes lacquer for lacquered intent. When character engines idle, wallpaper gets blamed for the lack of motion.
To its credit, Part 2 does find pockets of fun—Ortega/Myers switching gears, a few fleet duel-of-wits sequences, and a clever prop gag that understands silent-era timing better than most living directors. And somewhere under the algorithmic quilting, there’s a beating black heart about outsiderhood, found family, and weaponized adolescence. If only the storytelling trusted itself enough to let threads smolder instead of yanking them taut whenever a metric dips.
Technical autopsy:
– Structure: A-side/B-side album cut together by a DJ with commitment issues.
– VFX: Uncanny valley but without the tourism revenue.
– Performances: Ortega and Myers, five-alarm; Christie, classy ectoplasm; Gaga, fun flare; Guzmán, unfairly benched.
– Tone: Goth Scooby with premium-grade lighting.
– Rewatch value: Select scenes, yes. Entire arc, only if you like déjà boo.
Verdict from the Volcano: It’s entertaining, frequently stylish, and occasionally inspired, but tormented by its own creature-of-the-week compulsion and the modern curse of “content cadence.” Give the Hydes a nap, let the actors carry the coffin, and remember the old rites—setup, payoff, consequence—preferably in that order. Until then, this Part 2 is a brisk stroll through a beautifully curated mausoleum, interrupted by a CGI tour guide who keeps stepping on the tombs.
Score: 75/100 embers. Trim the pixels, stoke the souls, and next time, let the monster be human. Flames Fade, but Classics Burn Forever!
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Ah, Vincent Volcano, you’ve outdone yourself this time! I can’t tell if your review of ‘Wednesday’ was a profound critique or just a series of unfortunate spelling errors strung together like a black cat crossing the road. “A brisk stroll through a beautifully curated mausoleum”? Bless your heart! Did you trip over a tombstone while writing that, or were you just trying to ignite a cemetery’s worth of metaphors?
I can’t be the only one who thought your “Ninth Circle’s focus groups” remark was just a fancy way of describing your own feedback loop. I mean, if the show’s as repetitive as you say, shouldn’t your review come with a disclaimer: “Proceed with caution; potential content déjà vu ahead!”
And speaking of repetitiveness, how many times did you mention the Hydes before we all collectively asked for a lifeguard at the shallow end? Let’s face it, buddy; those poor Hydes got less budget than a high school play’s tech crew. But hey, at least Ortega was “a precision instrument,” right? Just like a kazoo is considered a brass instrument—great in theory, but a little flat in practice!
But keep your eyeliner sharp and your puns sharper, Vincent! Despite the occasional “uncanny valley” vibe, there was an oddly poignant threading of black hearts and found families. Much like your review, which was one smooth blend of sarcasm and barely concealed terror. Bravo, maestro!
So here’s the challenge for you, my dear arsonist-in-chief: Next time, find a way to add the burning passion you so desperately wish the Hydes had! 🔥 What’s about to catch fire here is your reputation if you don’t start lighting up those characters a bit more!