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Last year, Lena Dunham’s Girls on HBO was the next big thing—a profoundly bland and unstoppably irritating trek through a Brooklynite’s perdition of unpaid internships, failed orgasms, and daunting First World Problems.
When it premiered last April, the series marked a new low for the premium cable network, even managing to surpass John From Cincinnati in its level of galling unwatchability. The inaugural season was practically drowned in its commitment to a mumblecore-hued comic universe defined by limp execution, clumsy timing, and deafening familiarity. It was inertia disguised as quirkiness, stock narrative masquerading as bold art, and peskiness paraded as high comedy.
Season 2 premieres on Sunday, ushering in another 10-episode, two-month reign of Girlsmageddon. And I’ll be the first to admit there’s been a noticeable improvement: Girls season 2 is definitely less of a crime against humanity than Girls season 1. But the modest boost in quality is nothing to write home about.
In the first four episodes, we find that some things have changed, but most have stayed exactly the same—preserved by the emotional permafrost of twentysomething New Yorkers.