It took me a bit to get into
Fleishman is in trouble
(Disney+), the series that has helped Paloma Rando to coin, in this same hole, the
Cachitos syndrome
.
I can't stand the voiceovers
or the fortysomethings from Manhattan who, like José Luis Cuerda's Americans, ride their bikes some days and others smell good, but they are always spinning imaginary traumas
.
The least one can ask of some Jews on the Upper East Side is not to take themselves seriously, to woodyalleaneen (
sic
) a little and make us laugh.
Fleishman is in trouble
bluestocking was showing up, and I had to work hard not to keep my prejudices from leading me back to the Dutton ranch in Montana, where cowboys lasso poshies who wonder when bagels stopped tasting like bagels. (I'm talking about
Yellowstone
, the only series I want to see, but my bosses have suggested that I take a look at others, so as not to bore you: I don't understand why there is a need, but I have obeyed them. That's partly why I kept watching
Fleishman
).
I persisted, then, and after enjoying one of the best written, interpreted and raised series of the season, my life has been enriched by the concept of Rando's
Cachitos syndrome
and I have reaffirmed the idea of another friend: we are a generation of shit .
It wouldn't be nice to call us that, that's why they say X or millennial, but excrement —a metaphorical excrement, I'm not talking about dirty things, but about excretory as excess and unbearable— better defines all these forty-year-olds who haven't passed twenty mentally and we are convinced that something has been left to us.
Fleishman
portrays it very well, without self-pity and without parody.
And once this is confirmed, can I please go back to the ranch in Montana?
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