When does one's journey intertwine with fate, and when does it merely plummet into the abyss of exhaustion? Over the course of six seasons – or rather, a substantial four and a half, considering his contentment in the inaugural season – Guillermo has been relentless in his quest to extricate himself from the shackles of being Nandor's unpaid servant, only to be repeatedly ensnared by the familiar confines of his past. At least, technically speaking, he's no longer a familiar; that ship sailed when, at the conclusion of season four, Guillermo beseeched Derek to transform him into a vampire. However, that metamorphosis proved to be a half-hearted success, paving the way for what ultimately transpires as Guillermo's final, fruitless endeavor to carve out a new existence far from the clutches of Nandor and the Staten Island vampires.
My presumption that Cannon Capital would unveil itself as a literal lair of bloodthirsty vampires, with Jordan at its vampire helm, proved to be erroneous (albeit, perhaps, with a revelation lurking in next week's series finale). Instead, Guillermo's supervisor emerged as a far more mundane entity: a run-of-the-mill, selfish human, all too willing to exploit the ambitions of his naive subordinate. Jordan is a creature driven solely by instant self-interest, a master of saying whatever suits the person in front of him, devoid of consistency from one moment to the next. Should he contradict himself or disappoint someone, who cares? It's as if words held no repercussions.
Or do they? A recurring theme meticulously tied up in "The Promotion" is the omnipresence of cameras – sometimes acknowledged, often overlooked – that have doggedly followed our vampires since the series inception. Like Guillermo, one becomes accustomed to their presence, eventually forgetting their constant vigilance. And, akin to Guillermo, they remain ever-watchful. (If Guillermo were a superhero, he'd embody The Accountant, given his penchant for meticulously keeping receipts.)
Here lies the convergence of Jordan's disdain for his underlings and his inflated ego, potentially leading to calamitous consequences: we are privy to countless footage of Jordan blithely perpetrating fraud, a spectacle we've witnessed not just in this week's episode, but throughout the entire season. He can scarcely utter a sentence without confessing to a white-collar crime. It remains uncertain whether Guillermo will indeed report him to the SEC, or whether such a report would yield any fruits. Nonetheless, the mere specter of this threat appears sufficient to alter the power dynamics between them. Add a dash of vampire super-strength, merely to drive the point home.
Regardless, the immortal beasts subsisting on human blood looked resplendent in this week's episode. True, they are blunt, cruel, and murderous, but at least they uphold a code of conduct! This facet of vampire culture was also underscored last week through the gang's unwavering loyalty to their creator/lover/boss, Baron Afanas. And respect trickles down within their hierarchy too: Nandor, the eldest and most old-fashioned of the vampires, is offended by Jordan's failure to appreciate Guillermo, who, despite performing menial tasks, executes them with diligently.
In Jordan's scheme to perpetually dangle the carrot of promotion before Guillermo without ever delivering, Nandor perhaps recognizes a facet of his own behavior; after all, he had kept his now-former familiar in limbo for over a decade, never bestowing upon him the coveted vampire status. The unspoken affection that once simmered between Nandor and his familiar—a subtext more subtly woven earlier in the series—now haunts him, evident in his deliberately specific "joke" about two Guillermos sharing mutual love, a detail too pointed to be spur-of-the-moment. Despite this, the best he can muster is to offer Guillermo a sidekick role, akin to Robin to his Batman, merely relabeling their old dynamic. It's a situation Nandor craves, undeniably dependent on Guillermo for both emotional sustenance and to prevent the familiar from inadvertently meeting his demise. However, whether this is truly what Guillermo desires remains uncertain, rendering his eventual return to the mansion at the episode's climax somewhat anticlimactic.
Moreover, the subplot involving Laszlo, Colin, and Cravensworth's Monster in "The Promotion" failed to fully resonate with me. While there were clear parallels drawn between the Monster's anxiety to please his stern father figure, Laszlo, and Guillermo's relentless pursuit of validation from his indifferent superior, the Monster's role in addressing an unspoken rift between Laszlo and Colin felt forced—at least to this extent. Colin's empathy towards the Monster was at odds with his character as an energy vampire, one who one might expect to feed off the creature's social awkwardness. Nevertheless, Nandor's maniacal grin when the Monster insisted on a peck on the cheek from his "daddies" was a delightful moment. Nadja, however, seemed less enthused, a surprise given her mischievous spirit.
She was on a mission to wreak havoc, ensuring the vampire crew's perpetual exile from Cannon by demolishing the egos of her soon-to-be-former coworkers in what she perceived as a human tradition upon departing a company specializing in colossal lamps. Another recurring theme in What We Do in the Shadows is the vampires' age-old susceptibility to scams targeting the elderly. Nadja's despatch of $10,000 and photos of her feet to a cold caller on her work landline exemplified this vulnerability—a move she dismissed nonchalantly, her prize being a new headpiece for her mantelpiece. This susceptibility underscores the necessity of a Guillermo to watch over them, though again, I harbor doubts about whether this is what Guillermo himself seeks. Does he even know what he wants? It's a question that has echoed through these recaps, with but one episode left for him to find an answer.
