After Life, Second Season - Ricky Gervais As The Master Of Grieving and Grumbling, The Very British Way
There is so much time to watch Netflix these days, that you get the feeling, this is it, you have seen it all, no more recommendations, please, no more adjusting to you "profile". But then there comes a sequel of a show you loved so very much the first time around, that you cannot resist. Good for you!
"After Life" is the meanwhile-in-a-little-town-near-London story of a not-so-merry widower who had lost his beloved wife to cancer some time ago and is not even willing to go on with his life - at least he wants to feel miserable and depressed, close to suicide and full of guilty feelings for having survived.
The setting is half "The Office", half "About A Boy": a cast full of characters you fall in love with, from a self confident sex worker to lost left husband to a doubtful generous publisher to a fellow widow lady to a bunch of over-weight people or homeless postmen to just your normal desperate single women.
The thing is: There was never a more convincing love declaration.
You chuckle among tears, you yearn for the next episode, you get addicted to every emotion of every character, even the minor parts, sketched just within two or three dialogues.
When talking about Ricky Gervais, Madonna once said, she adores him so much, she would "go and sweep his floors" if that would bring her closer to him. That was back then when she herself was married to a London director and very much in love with everything British. That is some time ago, right now, she would probably rave about all things Portuguese.
For me, there is just nothing better than anything British: no pop music, no country style, no fashion, no sense of humor. And above all that, there is Ricky Gervais.