Luckily, Chalke and Heigl, particularly the latter, are there to give the show its spine, or “Firefly Lane” might be totally invertebrate. Time-jumps only work when there’s a reason for them, a need in the characters to explore a certain memory or idea maybe it’s trauma resurfacing, or a long-held secret breaking free.
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More often than not, we jump from one decade to another by way of, say, someone asking for a hot dog in the “present” (the early 2000s) before the series cuts to someone mowing down on a hot dog in the past. Friedman, her fellow writers, and directors like Peter O’Fallon (“UnREAL”) rarely manage to connect the disparate stories in each episode by anything other than the friendship of Tully and Kate, or occasionally, themes like “weddings” and “mothers.” The years do not echo off each other there’s no sense of connectedness or the potency of the past.
The real lack here, though, isn’t in the absence of a compelling mystery it’s in the artlessness of those jumps. Jumping through decades with startling and often disorienting frequency, the series doles out its plot in an a-linear manner intended to engender a sense of mystery, though it never hits on question as potent as “How did Jack Pearson die?” (“This Is Us” viewers who know the importance of a kitchen appliance in the answer to that question will understand that comparison to be even more damning than it suggests.) Yet an equal influence on showrunner Maggie Friedman seems to be NBC’s “This Is Us”-think of it as “This Is Beaches,” and you’ve got a good idea of the show’s appeal. If you’re humming “Wind Beneath My Wings” under your breath right now, you’re onto something the novel has garnered no small number of comparisons to “ Beaches,” and the show seems likely to do the same. Tully getting birth control pills for Kate’s 14-year-old daughter (the promising Yael Yurman) without Kate’s knowledge or consent can’t part them. The gap between their relative levels of hotness (we’re meant to believe that Chalke is the mousy one, hence the glasses) can’t part them. Their hot producer ( Ben Lawson of “Designated Survivor”) can’t part them. Through the decades-get ready for a lot of vaseline on the camera’s lens when Heigl and Chalke navigate the pair’s 20s-they cherish, nurture, and protect each other wounds are sustained, but nearly always unwittingly inflicted. (As teens, Kate and Tully are endearingly played by Roan Curtis and Ali Skovbye.) As children, they build an unshakeable bond, one that carries them through college, then their early days in ‘80s television news, and on through Tully’s rise to near-Oprah-level daytime stardom and Kate’s journey through motherhood. The unlikely friendship of Kate (Chalke) and Tully (Heigl) defines the series, from the day Tully and her mother Cloud ( Beau Garrett) move in next door to Kate and her seemingly perfect, genuinely loving family, to the final, baffling moments of the season finale. Should that fate befall you, you’ll have Katherine Heigl and Sarah Chalke to thank. Watch one episode, roll your eyes, grimace, and settle in for another emerge 10 hours later, blinking and baffled into the light of a new day.
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Full of contradictions, structured with all the soundness of a Jenga tower but anchored by two good (one of them very, very good) performances, it’s the kind of series made for Netflix’s autoplay feature. In fact, if I might add another word, it’s eminently watchable bullshit.
“Firefly Lane,” an adaptation of Kristin Hannah’s novel of the same name, is bullshit. This writer, on the other hand, would beg to add an adjective. Unlike Kate, Tully would be lying-she’s really a slow-smile-“family” type deep down.