Kay, I hear you howl, everybody has already seen Schitt’s Creek!
Have they really, though? Because until a couple of weeks ago, I hadn’t. Sure, now and then I’d stood in the doorway while the young folks were watching it, and I’d smiled at Eugene Levy and Catherine O’Hara—who are always, outrageously, brilliant no matter what they’re doing—and their funny younger counterparts. But I didn’t sit down and start with episode 1 and just let them roll, which is what I’m doing right now, every night for an hour or two.
What the casual viewer misses is the love. The series keeps building to a crescendo of love for humans in all their inherent, inescapable self-deception and weakness. It’s marvelous. Light entertainment and belly laughs and humanity.
Schitt’s Creek is the television series that will get us through this moment. I will stand by that statement. I’m in the middle of the third season (of six), streaming on Netflix. I’m told that I’ve not even gotten to the best episodes yet, and I’m loving it.
It’s also great company if you are knitting 259 stitches of a 6-stitch lace repeat.