The Walton Dead

They, the studio, producers, writers, promise the second half is serious, that the season picks up after Christmas. But the talk turns out to be sham, the way marriages do after months of magazine rumours and leaked pictures online of the partners with altogether different people. No-one leaves the farm. They bury the undead, waste scenes on zombie’s limbs falling off trucks as they’re transported to bonfires or graves, alternate endings depending on who means something is made mundane. Women make irrational decisions: wander the woods, drive unnecessarily, often straight into zombies, causing car flips and wreckage. And the men drink, have stuttered revelations, stagger, piss on floors in public places, lie, shoot the living in the head, the only interesting characters we’ve seen in weeks ended after ten minutes’ screen time, because the fact you can act doesn’t lend itself to this show. It’s a liability. You’ve got to go.

I placed a bet that his wife would be dead by the end of the season. The end of the world makes people ruthless.




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