Hate Watching

Not a good thing to do

Often I am the last person to the point of knowledge.  That’s just a fact.  I’m the “did no one tell you?” guy.  So if I am being that guy here and now, I do hope someone out there will enlighten me.  Because, you see, I always thought ‘hate watching’ was when you continued to watch something long after you stopped loving it and then carried on watching even after you stopped liking it, because you were determined to finish the whole damn series. 

But according to the oracles at Wikipedia….

“Hate-watching is the activity of watching a television show or film with the intention of acquiring amusement from the mockery of its content.”

I mean why would anyone do that? Who, in their right mind, deliberately watches something they know they are going to hate, just so they can hate on it? Who has the time in their life for such pointless vitriol?

So today I’m going to stick with my definition, which is that when you ‘hate watch’ something it is ‘because you are a long way into a series before you realise that you don’t actually like it, but nonetheless you hang in there to the bitter end, just to: (a) see how it turns out; (b) see if it gets any better; and/or (c) confirm that you were right about it not being any good’.

Now, when pondering the issue of hate-watching, I reckon the first thing you need to take into account are your expectations going in.  Case in point for me: The Old Man (Disney+).  Jeff Bridges does espionage, you have me interested.  Throw in the fact it is about a dude (pun intended) getting old, which is a subject near and dear to my heart these days, and I am prepared to give it a go.  A promising first episode with a few nice gags, all good so far.

Cut to about three episodes in and John Lithgow is asking Jeff Bridges: “What is it? What is it you’re not telling me?” Meanwhile, I’m yelling at the screen: “Ask me, John! I know! It’s really fucking obvious!”

There is nothing like guessing the big twist, the one they’re desperately trying to hide, well ahead of the characters, to turn you against a show.  Suddenly the people who are meant to be smart in the show seem to be very dumb, because the twist is so freaking obvious and they cannot fucking see it.

But I still watched it to the bitter end, just so I could be proven right.  And I was.

Lately, however, I have started to fight back on that urge to finish a show that is causing me pain.

I’m not entirely sure when my love of Ozark (Netflix) started to wain but by mid-Season 4 I had hit a wall.  As much as I like Jason Batemen and Laura Linney as performers, their characters – Marty and Wendy Byrde – were driving me up the wall.  I didn’t care who killed them – the cartel, the FBI, their messed-up kids – just as long as someone put them out of my misery.

But I persevered. Sort of.  Through sporadic viewing I managed to get to Ep.10 of Season 4.  Then I stopped because I could stand the Byrdes no more.  But I still felt the need, having come this far, to reach the end.  So I kept going back.  And every time I went back I would last maybe 15 minutes before my desire to kill was too much and I would stop again.

In this stop-start-stop manner I made it to somewhere in the middle of Ep.11.  But I was a broken man.  So, within 3 episodes of the finish line, I walked away.  And I have never been back to the many lakes of Ozark.  Hate viewing was doing bad things to me so the hate had to stop.  I feel no remorse or regret at my decision.

Reacher Season 2 (Prime Video) sees me approaching the hate watching thing from a whole other perspective.  Full disclosure: I like the Jack Reacher novels.  I haven’t read them all, but I’ve read enough of them to know where they fit in my world.  They are something I can dip into for a couple of days, enjoy them for what they are, and then move on.  I have even dipped into Reacher Said Nothing, which is a book about Lee Child writing a Reacher book.

FYI: Andy Martin also wrote a great book about surfing, called Walking on Water

Being as simple a creature as I am, I was perfectly happy with Reacher Season 1. The casting of the very large Alan Ritchson removed the giant shadow the very tiny Tom Cruise had cast over the movies.  The series was very affable and ticked all the boxes you would expect in a Jack Reacher series. Baddies duly dispatched, job well done.  There was happiness all round and a sense of wild anticipation (or as much wild anticipation as a fully grown man should have for anything Reacher) as I awaited Season 2.

Then Reacher Season 2 was upon me, but it felt like everything had changed.  Reacher seemed even bigger, but the gain in muscle-mass had come at the cost of acting-ability.  The script, which had once been dumb in a smart way, was now dumb in a dumb way.  Even worse, there were long sequences where Reacher seemed to be trying to deal with, you know, feelings.

The thing about a Jack Reacher novel is that you know what you are signing on for when you crack the cover.  Like AC/DC albums they are, essentially, all the same.  But Season 2 of Reacher the TV show was not like Season 1.  It had many of the same elements, yet somehow it was completely different.  

I was very confused.

But it’s Jack Reacher and Reacher doesn’t give up when the going gets stupid.  So I stuck with it, hoping it would get better. And then trying to figure out if it was all because of me when it didn’t. 

So I tried hate watching it.  I would bloody well hang in there, long after any sensible person had given up, whether I liked it or not.

But I did not like it.  It made me sad and angry at the same time.

I gave up on Reacher Season 2.  I abandoned my boy Jack, before staying with him turned me into someone I didn’t respect when I looked in the mirror. Because I am not a hate watcher.  I watch TV for enjoyment, to be taken away from this world to places where great things happen. Not to places where I am clutching my head as line after line of dialogue falls to the floor and scurries away into a corner to die.

Do I feel as if I have betrayed Jack Reacher?

Of course I do.

But it’s okay because I’m going to make it up to him.

How, you may ask.

The old-fashioned way, of course.  I’m going on holiday soon, to a tropical paradise, and in my carry-on will be the latest Jack Reacher novel.

Me, Jack, a beach, maybe a beer or two.  Nothing at all hateful about that.