I’m not sure why I’m doing this now, as Black Summer dropped on
Netflix back in April and, as with all zombie content, I had to watch it there
and then. However, something about the
title seems appropriate as we reach the back end of August. No, it’s not a spin-off of Dear White People, whose third season has just
launched, the viewing of which I am saving for when I’ve bought a big telly for
my new flat. My choice is more to do
with the tempestuous weather that everyone has been moaning about. Brits have evolved to be waterproof as it’s
almost always raining here, so I’m not sure why one globally warmed day of 38
degrees would lead us to expect constant sunshine until the schools go back.
Summer 2019 is black due to the gathering storm clouds that
seem to signal an afternoon shower each day as some part of new European rainy
season. From my office window I can
spectate as workers clad optimistically in summer dresses and t-shirts alike
sprint across pavements while a good old bucketing-down catches people unawares. I know I shouldn’t delight in others’
suffering but getting caught in the rain (along with piña coladas) is something
that truly affirms your humanity: the planet has literally wetted you. Plus, I must get it from my father – he used
to arrive early to pick me up from my Sixth Form job at Waitrose before I could
drive, simply because my shift ended half an hour after closing time and he
would derive endless entertainment from watching affluent potential shoppers
stride towards the automatic doors, only to respond with outraged incredulity when
they were denied entry to their favourite providore and therefore forced to
forego a top-up shop consisting mostly of artisan cheese and fine wines.
Let’s make no bones about it: I don’t like summer. In fact, a zombie apocalypse would probably
improve my ability to withstand the aestival months. I would like to blame London for this. It’s the worst place in the world when hot,
mostly as it was built in Victorian times for the damp climate mentioned above
(though, over a hundred years later, they’re still building most of it). The morning Tube, as unpleasant as it already
is, takes on a new level of odorous odiousness: once you’ve spotted one sweat
patch, you suddenly realise that everyone’s every crevice is proffering its own
wet spot to any casually observing eye.
I may scoff into my novel, but I secretly know that the tickling in the
small of my back is from my own sweat beads dashing down my spine to pool and
fester in the dark dankness of my crack.
And there it stays for the whole working day and whatever else I am
doing with my evening (watching boxsets).
Londoners do two things in the sun. The first is to find a patch of grass, regardless
of its proximity to the heavy traffic of a thoroughfare. The second is to drink on it. I don’t enjoy exhaust fumes, nor is it fun to
look for somewhere to wee after your third cider, all while wishing you’d put
more effort in at the gym as your body stretches before you like some squidgily
marshmallow-like dough. So, once the
longest day has gone past, the chill in the air returns and the leaves start to
fall, a certain joy fills me as I know we are approaching my favourite time of
year. For some reason, autumn carries
with it the most nostalgia. A breeze can
suddenly evoke the exact moment in Year 10 when I realised that other people
were stupid. Factor in the bonus that
each autumn brought another year of school: older, wiser, no cooler, but with a
new pencil case. The geek in me loved
going back because I enjoyed all the writing and the learning and such.
Which is why some writing is happening now, as a hobby. I started this blog about TV shows. I should probably therefore spend a couple of
passages actually tackling this week’s programme instead of sharing half-baked
yet whimsically charming reflections on the passing of time. Regular readers will know of my love for the
zombie genre. Fear The Walking Dead remains one of my most-read
posts, while The Walking Dead and Korean
treasure, Kingdom (킹덤), have of course been
covered. One show I’ve seen some of but
not included here is Z Nation,
another serial tackling the undead apocalypse.
Its crime? Too many LOLs I exist in perpetual fear of a zombie
takeover, so I really struggle to see the funny side. I don’t mind dark humour in the face of
annihilation, but the viewer in me wants the genuine threat treated seriously. The point is, Z Nation misses the mark
slightly, but my scant research has revealed the Black Summer is its origin
story. Let’s not hold this against the
show though.
Our action opens in an unnamed suburb, some weeks after
breakout. Enough confusion still exists
about what is going on, and things are never really explained. We only glimpse the unfolding of
disorientating events through seemingly unrelated characters, all desperately
trying to survive (with varying levels of success). The characterisation has been accused of
shallowness, but I’m going to describe it as subtle – you’re deliberately left
conflicted about who is good and who is bad, bringing to life the fact that trusting
others while the undead chase you can lead either to salvation or betrayal, but
you’ll only find out when it’s too late.
The suburban streets in the sunshine take on a
claustrophobic air, with peril around every repetitive corner, separated
individuals hopelessly searching for loved ones. Tension builds around rumours of sanctuary,
yearning for reunion and the constant risk of zombies and bad people. The eight episodes stumble forward, arrhythmically
switching perspectives and pace, though we culminate in a series of gun battles
which are equal parts thrilling climax and video game fodder.
For devotees of the genre, this is a worthwhile watch. Its fresh-enough approach avoids the pitfalls
of what we have seen before, but there’s a sense a bigger vision is lacking
behind all the death and destruction. I’d
happily sit through a second series, but the internet is not forthcoming with
details of any recommissioning. I promise
you genuine chills from Black Summer’s flesh-eating walkers, especially in the
mix of the show’s concerning plausibility.
But I realise the most alarming image you may have from this week’s post
is that of my sweaty crack.
