One of my all-time favorite television clichés revolves around the inexplicably inappropriate attire chosen for funerals, regardless of the show's sophistication level. (Even Fleabag, in her moment of mourning at her mother's funeral, looked stunningly alluring, with her hair defying gravity in the chicest of manners!) It's almost a given that women on TV funeral scenes arrive dressed as if they're about to hit the town, and the ladies of "You" are no exception. Delilah's dress choice, in particular, raises more than just an eyebrow in such a solemn setting, though Amy/Candace's ensemble isn't far behind in questionable fashion decisions. Gabe stands out as the lone beacon of appropriate attire, looking absolutely splendid. (He also steals the show with the juiciest gossip: "I heard they found his body in a sex dungeon." Now, that's what I call a plot twist!)
Furthermore, the frequency with which TV characters bring plus-ones to funerals never ceases to amaze me. Really, who brings a date to a funeral? It's hilarious how getting a plus-one to a wedding is akin to pulling teeth, yet on TV, people bring guests to funerals like it's the most casual affair ever. If anything, funerals are arguably the most significant events, no disrespect to weddings intended.
I adore how Forty, banished to Henderson's social outskirts, pretends he and Hendy were thick as thieves. And how about Kathy Griffin delivering a eulogy? It sparks all sorts of meta-thoughts—how does she feel about portraying "herself" in this alternate universe where she praises a serial predator who preyed on young girls? Amid the post-funeral chaos, Forty impulsively asks "Amy" to move in with him. Love interjects wisely, suggesting he shouldn't make such a weighty decision amidst grief, causing Forty to fly off the handle and escape to drown his sorrow in matcha.
After his departure, the gang dives into the seven totems of Los Angeles—a motley crew of cursed images that, once witnessed by an individual, bestows upon them the mantle of a True Angeleno. They include: a rollerblader in booty shorts, a police helicopter, two starlets in matching dresses, a pack of coyotes, a dog in a stroller, an off-brand superhero, and a palm tree engulfed in flames. By episode's end, Joe will have collected them all, making one wonder if he must now live out his haunted days in a city he despises.
Speaking of haunted lives, it's Love's anniversary with her deceased husband—another rare peek into a world that isn't Joe's. Alas, this crushes my hope that Love might out-crazy the crazy and reveal herself as her husband's killer. We do learn that Love once stood independently of her parents' finances, a pre-nuptial agreement that underscored her marital independence. However, both she and her late spouse misuse the term "golden parachute," which actually refers to the lucrative severance package given to CEOs and the like upon dismissal, enabling them to land softly on a pile of cash. Perhaps they meant... just a safety net? Regular or gold, who knows?
Back in the apartment, Delilah is in a dilemma, mistakenly grabbing a curling iron for a hairbrush. Ouch, that must have been excruciating! Meanwhile, the sprite on the balcony takes on the role of a guardian, dialing up her sister Jessica Jones (yep, all my recaps are intricately linked!) and prescribing a cocktail of "four ibuprofen and a Xanax." But Delilah has neither the time nor luxury for medication or heart-to-hearts; she's got work beckoning. Later, she matter-of-factly declares her mission to "topple the patriarchy from the confines of her two-bedroom abode." Honestly, I wouldn't mind taking a break from the word "patriarchy" for a good stretch.
Forty informs Joe that he's been credited as a producer for the Beck movie. The contact sheet serves as Joe's roadmap to track down Candace, who's holed up in a "gothic Barbie fantasy mansion" easily traceable by Joe. Will he make it back in time for his doughnut date with Love? Fat chance. He's an hour tardy and notices a guy tailing him in a Toyota. Turns out, it's a private detective employed by Love's family for years, tasked with probing into Candace. Joe's reaction is anything but chill: "Would you seriously consider hiring someone to follow me?!!!" Major red flag alert. Love insists it's just a routine practice for the well-heeled. Perhaps some folks have wealth overload? Just saying!
Candace slips away from Forty to case Joe's apartment. She knows just the right words to charm Delilah and gain entry—mentioning "Will," a complicated ex, and hinting that Hendy "struck her as a creep." She cleverly unlocks a window from the inside, setting the stage for a future break-in. Impressive stuff! When Joe returns, Ellie teases him about being "drenched in pheromones." Joe is utterly flabbergasted. Candace has "risen from the dead like a ginger vampire intent on sucking my life force," he laments as he assembles his signature DIY murder kit. (Do you really label someone ginger when their dye job is obvious?) He heads to her place, but twist alert! The hunter becomes the hunted!
Yet, it's not Candace but the dominatrix renting her place who's waiting. She happens to be an expert at knots. Joe's alibi—an elaborate rape fantasy premeditated with his beloved—slides smoothly. "You poor, pathetic soul," mocks his captor, spilling the contents of his backpack. "You hit Home Depot." She dismisses Forty as a "douche-canoe," threatens to throat-punch Joe with her Louboutin, and dismisses him with, "Cab it, sweetie, and scram outta here." I...adore her? She's my new fave!
Meanwhile, Candace and Joe are nocturnal intruders crossing paths, for she's breaking into his apartment at this very moment. And who does she find there? Love. Love, who learned from her PI that Candace is no indie film producer but "barely a waitress" without a fixed address and a history of institutionalization. (To be honest, Forty's more of a "barely a barista" than an indie filmmaker.)
Candace endeavors to impart the grim truth to Love: that Will's authentic moniker is Joe Goldberg, and he came perilously close to ending her life. Yet, her assertions ring hollow, casting her as utterly deranged. Nevertheless, she produces a crucial piece of evidence—a snapshot of her and Joe from their blissful, coupled days—that triggers a flicker of doubt in Love's mind.
Upon Joe's return, Love awaits him, busy icing cinnamon buns. Oh, Love and her antics! She conjured an entire batch of subpar cinnamon buns merely to drive home the point that deception stings? As if her baking fiasco is remotely comparable to his deceit? When Joe casually mentioned their terrible taste, I momentarily wondered if actual feces had found their way into the pastry! Alas, it was mere salt that ruined the batch. My main grievance with this series is its hesitancy to fully embrace its疯狂 essence. It yearns to push boundaries but chickens out at crucial junctures, and this indecision is its aching flaw.
Furthermore, much like I did with Beck beforehand, I find myself shouting at Love through the screen: Given even a modicum of suspicion that your beau might be a serial killer, or had buried his previous lover alive, what possessed you to be alone with him in his apartment?! Why opt for seclusion when a public rendezvous or having friends nearby would have been prudent?
Joe concedes that Joe is indeed his true name, but he masterfully twists the narrative, portraying Candace as the疯女人 while he played the innocent escapee from her clutches. He weaves a tale about how Love can address him by any name, as long as she keeps addressing him, period. Candace had also unveiled the tale of Beck to Love, but Joe insists their encounter amounted to but a single date. Love declares Candace's departure definitive, citing threats and bribes. Alright then. Desperate, Joe vows he's never loved anyone as deeply as he loves Love. Love echoes similar sentiments, yet she decides to sever ties with him anyway. I can't shake the feeling that her fate is sealed; she's doomed.
