Fuller House
The new Full House is devastatingly unfunny. I thought about writing a full review of it scene by scene but honestly, I'd be afraid because the F on my keyboard is already pretty loose. This is the laziest, most derivative, pathetic excuse for a sitcom I've ever seen. The ORIGINAL Full House was more creative, which is unsurprising because the new one is literally the exact same show thirty years later. At no point does it take any chances, and at no point does it decide to stretch beyond the same garbage that wasn't funny the first time around. The cast? Still awful. Stamos' "what a hip old guy I am" wears obscenely thin when he's making a baby in an Elvis outfit dance within the first two minutes. Coulier is still an offensively unfunny lump whose defining characteristic remains the rumor that Alanis Morissette wrote "You Oughtta Know" about him. Saget, Laughlin, and the rest of the dead-eyed cast that pans to the camera and pauses for unrealistically drawn out audience applause look like they're caught in the purgatory of a nightmarish "we used to be famous" existence. This thing wasn't worth the thirty seconds it took for NetFlix to update on my iPad, let alone the thirty six minutes it took to watch it. Thirty six minutes of desperate flailing like a fish with its tail nailed to a dry dock. Thirty six minutes of having the worst of the 80s spit broken glass into your eyes. Thirty six minutes without a single laugh, save for the point where I choked on my sweet tea halfway through and for a flicker of time I thought the suffering would finally be over. There's the death of comedy, and there's the Saw-esque torture of comedy. This show would be that, if you multiplied it by itself and added three dead clowns. I bet things will be really awkward at the Cameron Thanksgiving table this year. Kirk will be mighty upset that Candace had such a hand in proving to America that there is, in fact, no God.
