No matter how much you do, there’s a market that doesn’t.
Good Article at the Daily Beast about why hating on the insipdidly-wholesome Netflix-reboot of the insipidly wholesome sitcom is probably more obnoxious than the show itself could possibly be:
Was Fuller House ever going to come back with sudden comic intelligence? Razor sharp dialogue? Angsty observations on the human condition? Was D.J. suddenly going to be cursing like Julia Louis-Dreyfus on a HBO series? Sex scenes featuring John Stamos (a person can dream)? A sudden allergy to Very Special Lessons set to twinkly music at the tail-end of an episode?
Of course not.
We keep asking for these reboots. What exactly are we expecting when they arrive?
The response to the above should mirror Tonto’s from the old joke: “What you mean, ‘we’, white man?”. And that’s the point: it’s not the critics who asked for Fuller House to be a thing, it’s a very specific audience that Netflix is catering to. And that’s okay. Because I don’t have to watch it just because it’s on Netflix. That’s how Netflix works.
So I don’t understand why anyone would write an entire blog about how Full House is the worst thing that ever happened and how it exposes the dark sick underbelly soul of America once you stare into its hideous maw long enough. Why would you do that to yourself? You aren’t going to convince anyone. You aren’t going to make anyone see the light. You’re just going to give yourself angst points for suffering under the tastes of the less-enlightened. And that’s a habit I find infinitely more tiresome than badly written sitcoms.