Joe has returned, his heart awash with nostalgia. Ah, those uncomplicated days when love was but a信仰 in his heart! How enviable to be young and innocent once more! To pace anxiously before unadorned windows, peering into an unknowing future, feeling both "bold and exposed," embracing the "archaic methods" as he vanquished every hurdle in his way, including Benji (may he rest in peace) and Peach (likewise, eternal rest). Yet, these once sweet reminiscences are now tainted by darker memories—his beloved uncovering his macabre collection of teeth, extracted from a homicide victim's gums to obscure their identity (again, our condolences). Ultimately, left with no alternative, Joe was compelled to deliver a fatal blow to the woman he deemed his soulmate, driven more by psychotic delusions than by actual shared experiences (our heartfelt sympathy once more).
And when another whom Joe believed deceased unexpectedly resurfaced—enter Candace—Joe came to a realization. No, not that he required therapeutic intervention (though, in fairness, he had already attempted it). No, he grasped that love was a sentiment he could never embrace again. How melodramatic! Season two heralds the breaking of fresh boundaries. It's akin to Fleabag vowing celibacy.
To this purpose, Joe journeys to what he considers America's least romantic metropolis: Los Angeles. Is it surprising that Joe, a connoisseur of dusty hardcover tomes, finds L.A. repulsive, with its influencers, shameless self-promotion, and that incessant, harsh sunlight? Yet, he knows this is the locale where he must reside to become, as he claims, his authentic self: "A reclusive soul yearning for a tranquil existence." It is also where he must hide, as revealed through later flashbacks, from Candace, who prefers to torment Joe by driving him insane, employing whatever means at her disposal, rather than simply…reporting him to the authorities…with all the incriminating evidence she possesses against him for multiple homicides.
I'm relieved that, despite Shay Mitchell's departure from the You-verse, her Pretty Little Liars essence persists. That is, individuals refrain from alerting the police when they ought to, allowing murderers to roam free for various reasons. Candace believes that if Joe were imprisoned, he would merely sit in his cell, convinced of his own virtue and the wrongness of others. Who cares, really? Is that so dreadful? Bill Cosby continues to profess his innocence from behind bars, yet here he is, incarcerated nonetheless. #JusticeForBenjiPeachAndBeck.
Joe adopts the remarkably unobtrusive alias of Will Bettelheim, seeking refuge on the second floor of an apartment that boasts an unobstructed view of the yoga enthusiasts across the street. He secures his new abode with the aid of a landlord who mentions casually that the previous tenant "departed hastily," piquing Joe's suspicion. Establishing his lair, Joe meticulously manages his "obsession" with stalking and murdering women by allotting himself a mere ten minutes daily to fixate on various females, rather than fixating all his energies on a single target.
Joe secures employment at the upscale hybrid establishment named Anavrin, a play on the word "Nirvana," perhaps mocking the concept of utopia (or a nod to Erewhon, L.A. residents, your insight would be appreciated here). During his interview, Joe nonchalantly drops a copy of "Crime and Punishment," setting the stage for a later revelation: Joe had conducted thorough reconnaissance and knew that Anavrin was in desperate need of someone capable of shifting piles of Russian literature. Calvin, the store's manager, mistakenly believes his patrons yearn for Dostoyevsky due to Russia's interference in the 2016 election, hinting at his lack of insight into his clientele's preferences.
Joe finds himself daydreaming and behaving foolishly as he watches an attractive girl perusing the grocery aisles. She entices him into a playful conversation about which foods resemble which suggestive body parts – peaches as butts, and bell peppers as vaginas, contingent on slicing technique. Her impeccable instinct for assessing character fails her this time; she doesn't detect Joe's creepiness. To his surprise, they turn out to be coworkers, she being a kitchen staff member. If you believed that the show, which introduced us to Guinevere Beck and Peach Salinger, would tone down its intensity for season two, prepare yourself for the arrival of a woman named quite literally, "Love." The absurdity of this name delights me immensely.
Joe is deeply smitten and deals with his feelings in a decidedly unhealthy manner: by masturbating in the storeroom while fantasizing about Love, a spot where anyone could walk in unexpectedly. As he solidifies his false identity, Joe visits the Hollywood DMV to obtain a genuine, albeit misleading, driver's license. He stages a chance encounter with Love, whom he heroically assists in standing up against a racist DMV employee who's mistreating an Arabic-speaking woman in a hijab. Love rewards Joe with a cheek kiss, sending his heart racing. At least her Instagram profile is private! However, this encounter ensnares another girl in Joe's sights – one who could tutor him in creating a convincing and cool social-media presence, thereby allowing him to befriend and follow Love.
It's high time we delved into the tale of this year's stairwell urchin, who is, in truth, more of a balcony fairy: a precocious 15-year-old with minimal supervision, proudly declaring, "I'm basically 16, so..." Meet Ellie, whose older sister is the landlord, and whose welfare fills me with immense concern.
Through a series of fateful encounters with Joe—where she flirts openly, he senses her profound longing for a male guardian, and in a moment of clumsiness, hurls her phone off the rooftop—a unique bond begins to blossom. Ellie, an advocate for embracing all forms of visual art, movies included ("Why deprive your eyes of the myriad wonders out there?"), strikes a deal with Joe: they'll exchange recommendations, provided his book recommendations remain concise. "Nothing too lengthy, I've got a life to live," she asserts with a grin. She mentors Joe in creating an Instagram account, hers being a gallery of her artwork and photography. With an astute insight, she uncovers Joe's motive: is he seeking love or vengeance through this newfound social platform? As their conversation draws to a close, she playfully warns, "Don't take this the wrong way, Will, but try not to be such a bore on your Instagram."
Observing Joe's abrupt dive into social media, it's evident that his nascent Facebook profile seems suspicious, given its mere three-day existence. The notion of Joe having actually read "The Power," a recent novel penned by a woman that envisions a world where women possess the physical dominance over men due to their ability to electrocute with bare hands, is laughable. (A highly recommended read, by the way!) While Joe roams in search of picturesque sunsets for his Instagram, exhaustion overtakes him, leaving him with a painful sunburn. Upon waking, he discovers that Love has accepted his friend request and learned of her marriage three years prior—hardly the ideal scenario.
Curiously, Love is already privy to Joe's residence (What?! Do you share such personal details with coworkers after merely a day's acquaintance?) and arrives to tend to his sunburn. In accordance with the unbreakable television rules of health and medicine, Joe's wounds require delicate, almost sensual attention: gentle dabbing of apple cider vinegar on his cheekbones and soft blows on his face. Seeing Joe's paltry stash of 99-cent ramen noodles, Love decides to whisk him away on a whimsical tour of Los Angeles, inspired by the illustrious food critic Jonathan Gold. After these endearing, romantic attempts to discover Joe's culinary soulmate (one true plate, if you will), she brings him back to Anavrin to prepare a roast chicken, the ultimate litmus test for a chef's prowess. The whole scenario evokes the enchanting image of Meghan Markle cooking for Prince Harry.
Just as the intimacy between them was reaching its crescendo, she unexpectedly unveiled her past, confessing that she was once married and her husband had passed away two years prior. She recounted how he succumbed to illness, leaving her as a young widow, enveloped in what she termed a "Victorian-era gloom." In the margin of my notes, I jotted down an absurd thought: MAYBE SHE MURDERED HIM. COULD THIS BE ONE OF THOSE TWISTED PLOTS? Although the melodramatic revelation amused me, I suspected her struggle was genuine—a tragic weight that Joe's entrance into her life might only exacerbate. Furthermore, I couldn't help but wonder, when had she found the moment to purchase him a book? Had she swiftly grabbed it from a nearby store or café in a spontaneous gesture? Regardless, Joe was now set to delve into the works of Joan Didion; a commendable shift in literary taste for him.
As the night drew to a close, the enigmatic figure from the balcony revealed herself once more, lingering in the stairwell, clarifying any lingering doubts about her role. She mentioned a visit from Jasper, an "old friend" of Will's, adding another layer to the already tangled web. Joe then ventured to a storage unit, where to my astonishment, he had constructed an identical glass cage to the one found in the bookstore's basement—a question mark hanging over the source of his funds and ingenuity. Inside this eerie confines lay the real Will, whose identity Joe was in the process of usurping with chilling precision.
Moreover, it seemed Love was not merely a resident of the neighboring area; she resided directly across the street. Joe had been silently observing her for an indeterminate amount of time, his supposed departure from such espionage clearly a hollow promise. Farewell, indeed.
