"Lioness" is a chaotic amalgamation of political symbols devoid of a coherent political philosophy, yet this cowboy-infused techno-thriller has etched its name into the annals of American TV classics. In these tumultuous times, its watchability borders on the verge of madness. Episode four revisits season one's beloved Cruz, seamlessly folding him back into the narrative while introducing the Israel-Palestine conflict in a single, charged scene. "Cruz, moral wars are a myth. It's a binary choice between survival and submission. Ask any concert-goer in Israel about the repercussions of surrender, or any eight-year-old in Gaza, if you can locate one."
Portraying the American imperial project in its ghoulish, unsavory light suits me well, but choosing such a repugnant subject to equivocate on both sides is beyond the pale. We're delving into vulgar military propaganda, even for someone as partial to muscular, Milius-meets-Clancy-style American entertainment as I. Yet, this ensemble of overqualified actors continues to win me over with their Al-Pacino-in-Heat-esque theatrics (off-screen cocaine habits presumably excluded from the script).
Against all odds, "Lioness" persists in weaving together discordant, pre-apocalyptic visions of American hegemony—a runaway train racing towards the "next American century." Following a heated briefing with Kaitlyn and Byron, where she's tasked with finding a competent handler for their pilot lioness, Joe's trail is picked up on the highway, prompting her to call Kyle for backup. He's already trailing her from a distance of just five minutes away. Together, they maneuver the pursuer into a halt and hold him at gunpoint. Special Agent Gutierrez (Kirk Acevedo) cuts to the chase: why is the CIA wandering across the border with drones buzzing and strike teams making a racket on abandoned runways? No one knows the reason, and Gutierrez is there on orders from the DOJ, not to spy but to provide cover.
Here's where Gutierrez unleashes an outrageous fusion of Bush-era Islamophobia and a Sicario-inspired drug-war racism, spewing venom: "You're not dealing with some pedophile fanatics hiding in the desert, dreaming of virgin paradises after blowing themselves sky-high. These damned monsters will stroll into a sheriff's home with a million dollars in cash, leaving him with a stark choice: pocket the money or witness them skewering his nine-year-old on a goddamn rake and dangling his wife from a bridge by a rope." Gutierrez, undoubtedly, has now etched his name into the show's hall of fame for the most emphatic use of the f-word in a single rant, a feat worth noting.
The crux of the matter is that this cartel has infiltrated every corner of state and federal agencies within the U.S. government. If Joe seeks to gain a decisive edge against them, she should bring Gutierrez into the fold. "I am the file that remains locked in the library's vault," he boasts, a bizarre yet undeniably cool metaphor for his two decades of unwavering dedication to his job.
Following a harrowing scene where Dr. Neal loses a child cancer patient on the operating table, leaving him to convey the heartbreaking news to the devastated parents (with absolutely no further development throughout the episode—perhaps we'll delve into Neal and Joe's domestic turmoil next week), we're reunited with Cruz through a snippet of her sniper-sharp prowess. She returns home to find Joe awaiting her, still seething with anger over how Joe ruined her life in the previous season. Cruz is naturally prickly towards her former boss and the prospect of rejoining the Lioness team. Joe argues that the mission is worthy of Cruz's laser-focused attention to the primary objective above all else. Cruz continues to serve in a counter-intelligence unit because she "believes," Joe contends, and they both share an uncanny, monk-like devotion to push through, even when the mission leaves them shattered. "There's no such thing as a moral war," Joe insists. There's only the mission and the expertise required to achieve it. Moreover, Cruz has no other option. She's already been reassigned to the Lioness team. "Quit or pack your gear."
After an incredibly jarring transitional scene where Dr. Neal loses a child cancer patient mid-surgery, the grief-stricken doctor must then break the heart-wrenching news to the parents, leaving their shattered reaction hanging in the air with no resolution for the remainder of the episode—a cliffhanger that promises to unravel Neal and Joe's domestic tranquility in the following week.
As the narrative pivots, we reconnect with Cruz through a mesmerizing display of sniper prowess, her precision cutting through the air like a whisper before she steps back into her life, where Joe awaits her return. Cruz, still bitter about Joe's role in derailing her life the previous season, greets her former boss with understandable skepticism and resentment towards the prospect of once again entangling herself with the Lioness crew. Joe pleads their mission's merit, asserting that it demands Cruz's laser-like concentration on the objective above all else. They share a monk-like fanaticism, a relentless drive to push forward, even when the mission leaves them in tatters. "In war," Joe insists, "there is no morality; only the mission and the skills required to achieve it." Moreover, Cruz's hands are tied; she's been reassigned to the Lioness team, given the ultimatum: "Quit or pack your kit."
"Lioness" continues to exhibit the rhythms and quirks that endear me to the idea of a TV show authored by a single mind, despite the contemporary Hollywood labor debates that cast such arrangements in a problematic light. While writers' rooms are undeniably a creative and commercial powerhouse, there's a unique flavor—whether whimsical, narrow-minded, enigmatic, or otherwise—that emerges from the solitary author's penned material. This singular voice, though not inherently virtuous, contributes to the vast tapestry of visual entertainment.
Take, for instance, the opening scene where Josephina catches a fleeting moment of camaraderie from Tucker. LaMonica Garrett's portrayal is subtle among the Lioness ensemble, yet he consistently breathes life into his scenes with a reassuring aura of might, kindness, and Aragorn-esque wisdom. The dialogue exchanges between characters feel tailored for a broad American TV audience yet steeped in a unique linguistic flair. Josephina's quip, "Tell me there's a sexier sound on the planet than an Apache helicopter buzzing your six while you're pinned behind a rock with a dick in your hand," is a hilariously bold mic-drop, skewering the macho bravado of her male counterparts.
Having unofficially welcomed her back into their ranks, Tucker lays it on the line for Josephina: there's no turning back to her previous life. Neither civilian life nor even traditional soldiering remains an option for her. Enter the shadows, and you're ensnared in the gray area forever, whether by your own choosing or coercion.
Hold it there, team, we're missing our weekly dose of high-octane, mid-point thrillfest. "Five Hundred Children" earns its enigmatic moniker through an unexpectedly direct narrative twist, culminating in a nocturnal assault on a Los Tigres warehouse, heavily fortified and impenetrable to the untrained eye. Gutierrez contributes mightily with some rusty yet ultimately serviceable intelligence, paving the way for Josephina's debut in all her stealthy, helicopter-piloting glory.
Upon breaching the warehouse's confines, they are confronted by a harrowing sight – hundreds of children, crouched in the shadows, eyes wide with terror. "What manner of hell is this?" Bobby exclaims as the squadron boards their diminutive stealth chopper, abandoning the hapless children to their fate. As they ascend, the children emerge from the warehouse's depths, gazing skyward at their retreating saviors, immortalized in this week's haunting, lizard-brained tableau reminiscent of Apocalypse Now's iconic imagery. What manner of hell, indeed? I daresay we are now thoroughly conditioned to dread and quake before the formidable foe awaiting us on the strategic chessboard's next square.
