The second season of this science-fantasy is a deluge of everything that made the first so phenomenal, somehow continuing a story that could have easily been left as a closed case. Thankfully, they didn’t.
When Russian Doll’s first season came out in 2019, I was blown away by how innovative the show was. Yes, its time-looping plot gimmick was far from original, but following Natasha Lyonne’s loose and laidback Nadia as she dug herself deeper into a Groundhog Day-shaped hole was the breath of life that this sci-fi cliché needed. And it didn’t stop there; writers, producers, and co-creators Amy Poehler, Lesyle Headland, and Lyonne built an enigmatic world where the norm is the lack thereof, carefully expanding on an idea and finishing on a holistic and succinct drug-fuelled tale.
It was hard to imagine how such a standalone story could continue into a second season without diluting its potential, a common recurrence in Netflix productions as the cow is milked for every last drop. And even if there was some gas left in the tank, season one’s showstopper finale left little room for expansion. Would Nadia and Alan (Charlie Barnett) find themselves stuck in a time loop again – akin to Stranger Things trying to stretch out a plot that should have been left as an anthology?
I should have had more faith. Season two finds Nadia and Alan four years after their mystical meeting, days away from the former’s 40th, the pair still on edge for the universe’s next cruel puzzle. It doesn’t take long for the cosmos to bare its ugly teeth, this time in the form of metro time-travel rather than a trapping loop. Once again, Netflix have found another gimmick to centre the season on and, just like its predecessor, Russian Doll isn’t going to waste its time focusing on a mediocre premise without perfecting it.
Unlike the first season, season two doesn’t trap Nadia indefinitely. She is free to travel back in time whenever she feels like, catching a subway line back to 1982 New York where she inhabits her to-be-deceased schizophrenic mother’s body, pregnant with an unborn Nadia. Expectedly layered with confusion, Nadia roams back and forth as we get to see a more human side to the nonchalant druggie, her intentions both selfish and selfless. This new (or should I say, old) version of New York also brings along a couple of well-needed introductions to the cast, Sharlto Copley’s creepy and perverted unromantic figure able to match Lyonne blow by blow while Annie Murphy’s younger version of Elizabeth Ashley’s Ruth carries the witty and philosophical mantle gracefully.
But I came here for the jaw-dropping moments that hooked me in the first place, the cynically deranged comedy that kept me coming back, and Lyonne’s unfailing ability to carry such a psychedelic experience that makes it all unforgettable. Thankfully, they all return by the bucket-load, wasting no time on useless exposition and diving straight into the excitement of decoding all the new exciting layers – this time without Harry Nilsson’s Gotta Get Up. There aren’t any repeating theme songs this time around, however the soundtrack is menacing and poignant as Bauhaus opens up the series before Pink Floyd closes the finale with yet another clean and unblemished bow.
COVID-delayed, Netflix have taken their time over the past three years in their attempt to put lightening back in the bottle, their efforts paying off tenfold as season two does what most sequels can’t: it can still surprise. Season two repeats everything that made it such a hit; the quick-paced plot told through 30-minute vignettes, the nonsensical air that teaches you to expect the unexpected, fantastic three-dimensional characters, and vivid cinematography that hammers the surrealism home. I would normally be satisfied with the show ending here but as I said, I should have more faith. It will certainly be paid off.