Pop culture obsessives writing for the pop culture obsessed.

Castle Rock follows up on that killer cliffhanger

Lizzy Caplan
Photo: Dana Starbard (Hulu)

Here’s what’s happening in the world of television for Wednesday, November 27. All times are Eastern. 


Top pick

Castle Rock (Hulu, 3:01 a.m.): Your life is your own. Your choices are your choices. You are the captain of your ship, and so on and so forth. But please hear this: If you’re watching Castle Rock but have not yet made your way through last week’s “The Word,” you’re going to want to check that item off of your to-do list faster than you can say “cock-a-doodie dirty bird.”

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We won’t spoil anything here, but suffice it to say that the most recent episode ended with a damned fine cliffhanger, and we’ve been eagerly anticipating the next chapter since the moment the credits rolled. But don’t take our word for it. Here’s Emily L. Stephens, in her most recent recap:

There’s a rare thrill these days in a real cliffhanger, and “The Word” has got that. For the first time all season, I cannot wait to get back to Castle Rock, and to Castle Rock.

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And that’s about all we can excerpt without giving away the game. Get in there! Hasten thee to Castle Rock, and maybe bring a flashlight, because it’s about to get dark. Emily’s recapping fingers are at the ready.

Regular coverage

South Park (Comedy Central, 10 p.m.)

Wild card

The Irishman (Netflix, 3:01 a.m.): If you’ll excuse us, we’ve got an appointment with a guy who paints houses. We’ll turn things over to film editor A.A. Dowd with an excerpt from his review of this Netflix release, which you can also catch in some theaters:

The Irishman, a three-and-a-half-hour crime epic about the rise and ignoble decline of a mob hitman, may be the very first Martin Scorsese movie that feels explicitly like the work of an old man. Scorsese, of course, is an old man (he turns 77 next month), but he still directs with a mad enthusiasm and muscular craftsmanship we tend to associate with the youngest and hungriest of filmmakers. The Irishman is no exception; there are sequences in this supersized opus, like a snappy montage of retaliatory car-bombings, that prove once again that there really is no substitute for Marty’s eternally imitated style. No, it’s not creakiness but an elegiac mood that afflicts the latest (and last?) gangster picture from the master of the form. Reuniting with a murderers’ row of similarly wizened crime-movie veterans, Scorsese hasn’t just returned to reclaim the genre he nearly perfected. He’s come to bury it, too, with what feels an awful lot like a preemptive eulogy for everyone involved, himself included.

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And here’s the trailer.

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