“Just do the fucking thing” is a bit of critical advice I got from a friend ages ago, and to this day I consider it a valuable and meaningful way of looking at art. I don’t mind stories taking the long way around the barn to their logical endpoint, as long as the long way is scenic and adds to our arrival at the final destination. I do mind stories beating around the bush and taking their time for the sake of taking their time. It’s annoying. More isn’t always more. Often, it’s less.
That’s kinda what I’m driving at in my review of Tell Me Your Secrets, which is neither the compulsively watchable or wholly irredeemable show Rotten Tomatoes will tell you it is. It’s fine. It has problems. Lily Rabe is a goddess. Yadda. You can read my full review for The Playlist if you don’t believe me.
A Constant Visual Feast 