This is not experimental TV, and even if nearly every episode unleashes one or two moments likely to make you cringe or cover your eyes, it’s never hard to understand the plot and the slippage between reality and delirium is very straightforward. What’s odd here, other than the kittens, is that no matter how much time characters in Brand New Cherry Flavor spend tripping balls, the overall series is predominantly linear and almost formulaic in its bizarreness. ![]() There’s room for flourishes aplenty, whether it’s frequent use of blood-red filters, severe camera angles or anything used to depict psychedelic disorientation. freeways at nighttime, the shabby-chic architecture appropriating from a web of transplanted cultures, the eateries and industry haunts connected to a local past nobody remembers. The team of directors, starting with Arkasha Stevenson, establishes a level of neon-tinted, noir-adjacent polish throughout, fixating on the pulsing, luminous veins of the L.A. There are #MeToo underpinnings in the predatory relationships Liz has with various industry men, though if the series has an actual perspective on several years of reckoning and the dangers of retaliation, it’s somewhere between “muddled” and “strange in ways I was uncomfortable with and therefore stopped trying to analyze.” Brand New Cherry Flavor is a cautionary tale, but not one you want to probe too deeply into, which is ironic because there’s ample probing going on. Hollywood likes Hollywood, and nothing is more Hollywood than a meditation on transformation and identity - not that Brand New Cherry Flavor is all that meditative, what with the zombies, kittens and other diabolical doses of nightmare-fuel.Īdapted by Nick Antosca and Lenore Zion from Todd Grimson’s 1996 cult novel, Brand New Cherry Flavor was presumably made for TV because everything is easier to adapt for TV at the moment, though it maintains an “early ’90s” time period that prevents it from ultimately having all that much to say about the contemporary entertainment industry (or its ’90s equivalent, really). It’s a less paranoid version of The Day of the Locust, a less surreal version of Mulholland Drive, a less horny version of Now Apocalypse, a less glisteningly leering version of Neon Demon and a less deranged version of several David Cronenberg movies, and that’s without getting to more comparable, less genre-fueled yarns. Netflix doesn’t want me to say anything more about the kittens, so I definitely won’t mention that kittens are integral to the plot. What follows features unqualified hitmen, rainforest spirits, a wide variety of natural and unnatural hallucinogens, blood magic, sex magic and kittens. The happiness doesn’t last long, though, because Lisa is soon to learn that movie executives are sleazy, directors are replaceable and revenge pacts made with witches (Catherine Keener’s Boro) surrounded by a zombie harem come with unintended consequences. ![]() At a speed that astounds her friends, including Manny Jacinto’s Code and Hannah Levien’s Christine, Lisa has a movie deal and a decoratively dingy apartment in a classic Hollywood building and she’s even caught the attention of budding movie star Roy Hardaway (Jeff Ward). In no time, she has a meeting with a producer (Eric Lange’s Lou Burke) with Oscars on his mantel, but no recent successes to speak of. The writer-director of a student film generating buzz for a harrowing climactic sequence nobody can quite bring themselves to discuss, Lisa arrives in Hollywood with hopes of a big break. Lisa Nova (Salazar) isn’t all that innocent, though. On the surface, Brand New Cherry Flavor is a familiar fresh-off-the-bus story about Hollywood and its capacity to devour the dreams of the innocent. Newport Beach Film Fest: Adam Sandler Tapped for Performance of the Year Award, Will Record Live Episode of THR's 'Awards Chatter' Podcast
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