I’m about to watch the season finale of Penny Dreadful. I’ve enjoyed this season, for the most part. For the most part being more than half of it, at the least.
I’ve even come to enjoy Dorian Gray, who I disdained during the first season. He was less fop and more fiend this season. I do so love a good fiend.
I still can’t stand John Clare, the creation of Dr. Frankenstein. Or as the blind gal calls him, Mistah Clayahhhh. She isn’t the only one tired of Mr. Clare’s crappy poetics.
Oh, how we get it Mr. Clare. You poor monster. Forever waffling between being a new god among men and being just another emo twat without anybody to love him. Perhaps it isn’t your ugly mug, Mr. Clare. Just perhaps it’s because you are truly dreadful company. Not even worth the penny, I would say.
I didn’t think his bride would be worse. She is. Brona Croft. A fittingly shitty name for a shitty, undead hooker. Mr. Clare can have her. I hope they elope. Soon.
Of course, that won’t happen. The gloomy Mr. Clare couldn’t accept such happiness. I don’t think he was built for it. Even the undead hooker seems sketchy on him. Can’t blame her, though they were made for each other. Two pissants in a pot, if you ask me.
The fast on the draw American wolf. The gloriously wicked Madame Kali and her naked, bald witches. Dr. Frankenstein, as long as he’s high as shit. Miss Ives and Sir Malcolm, stiff upper lift – stiffer jab. Especially Sembene, the enigmatic, former slave-trading African. Even Ferdinand Lyle, the great, gay, hilariously lispy oopma loompa of the story. These are the characters for me.
I’m sure it will all work out. Won’t it, mum?