Damn it, Broadchurch.
You had to do that? You had to go and break me? Rip my heart out? Make me cry like a man-baby in front of my wife?
(I’m just kidding, I do that at the drop of a hat.)
But SERIOUSLY, Broadchurch, I was expecting the ending to be a bit of a downer, but wow.
I mean, I have to hand it to you, Broadchurch, you were spectacular from beginning to end, probably the best TV drama since Top of the Lake. Earthy, believable characters; a tangible sense of place, because you (shockingly) filmed in an ACTUAL seaside town and presumably built the script to fit within it; empathetic, incisive commentary on journalism, love, infidelity, justice, misogyny, spirituality, faith; and an honest to God mystery that took me completely by surprise.
But that ENDING, Broadchurch. Why would you do that to me? What did I…
You know, what? I’m not being fair.
That ending was ROUGH, but it’s not as if it wasn’t earned. And you did leave us with some sense of hope for the future, of the possibility that a community can heal from wounds that should, by all rights, fester with hatred and rejection and fear.
It’s just hard, you know? It’s hard to watch people be broken. It’s hard to watch a family lose a child. It’s hard to watch a good man have everything torn from him. It’s hard to watch people grieve, and it’s even harder to watch people clumsily try to fix them.
So, Broadchurch, I ow you an apology. You were great. The greatest. I’m just feeling a bit emotional, that’s all.
I’ll go watch some kitten videos now. I need a break.