Before it had become a monster of a cultural event, it seemed like I was the only one in my friends group that had even heard of Stranger Things. I remember seeing the trailer, thinking it had the potential to be something special. Why was nobody talking about this?
It seemed like such a departure from your typical Netflix original. There was a solid cast of “oh-yeahs” and “looks-familiar.” “Hey, there’s a white-haired Matthew Modine, and there’s Winona fucking Ryder!” It looked moody with an aesthetic drenched in homage to the 1980s, which some might call the golden era of monster mystery thrillers. And then there was the music, and that title card… Fuck me, it was awesome.
So when it finally released, I strapped myself in for the pilot with high hopes but cautiously low expectations. Three episodes later I was madly in love. I was drooling. I was a Facebook-posting son-of-a-bitch. I was hooked and I needed everyone else in the world to be hooked like me.
I went on a journey with Dustin, Lucas, Mike, and Eleven (Millie Bobby Brown for the win!) I ventured into dark and unsettling places with the Sheriff and Joyce. I felt a sense of unease every time Martin Brenner (Dr. Brenner?) slithered in and out of scenes. I screamed at Nancy to get her head out of her fucking ass. Shit, even Steve won me over eventually.
After the final episode’s credits had rolled, I felt I had witnessed a complete story with a satisfying conclusion. Despite my love, I didn’t feel like there was anything more I needed to see. Even the suggestive final scenes, the breadcrumbs deliberately placed to lead us into the second season, felt more like part of an open ending than a true cliffhanger. All of the major characters had already been given reveals that left us piecing together the final details on our own. It felt like a perfect ending.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t find myself watching the clock for Season 2. Stranger Things should’ve been a one-and-done. It was the perfect once-in-a-blue-moon cultural phenomenon, and a great show to boot.
For me, the magic of Stranger Things was its newness; it showcased a world unlike anything Netflix had offered before it. It felt like a gamble — one that had paid off. There were a few moments that I struggled with, moments that strained credulity perhaps. But like any great television series, it couldn’t possibly be flawless; it was all the better for its extreme highs and minor lows.
Don’t get me wrong here; I do want more. A second season is inevitable, and I’m hoping it will be just as great as Season 1. I just can’t help but be a little bit nervous that it could be a mad dash to capitalize on a hot iron, so to speak.
Mixed metaphors aside, they wouldn’t do that to me, would they? Then again, stranger things have happened.
