If there’s anything I’m more sick of than shows about murder among the mopey denizens of ultra-wealthy enclaves, it’s shows about murder among the mopey denizens of ultra-wealthy enclaves in which one character’s upbringing in places like Bakersfield or Chino (or Cleveland or Buffalo, if the writers are feeling exotic) is treated with a condescending contempt normally reserved for lesser Trump cabinet officials, imbecilic Manosphere podcasters and the New York Jets.
Apple’s new — I’m hesitant to use “new” given how little in it actually feels “new” — limited series Imperfect Women isn’t the worst entry in television’s most exhausted genre, but it arrives so late in the genre’s lifespan that its generic blandness feels more offensive than jagged ineptitude. Some people will like Imperfect Women, because it features a bunch of actors who have earned our admiration and it bears a resemblance to other things that some people
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