Archer-Hating Wife ditched me tonight, having lucked into third-row seats for a hockey game. The Washington Capitals, after having sucked like Sasha Grey getting double overtime for months, are now in first place in their division, and I’m on the couch writing about a cartoon. I am all that is man.
This week’s episode of Archer begins not in a sweltering desert but in Mallory’s office in the semi-permeable temporal anomaly that is ISIS HQ. Danish modern furniture! Squabbling! Pedantry! H-BOMB! The Russians!
And yes, Sterling is on the autism spectrum. I know that a fathom is six feet, but I can’t do instant conversions. And Mike Eruzione was the captain of the 1980 Winter Olympics United States national team that defeated the Soviet Union in the famous “Miracle on Ice” game. Now a motivational speaker. You know you care. And we get a taste of Krieger, plumbing torch in hand.
And thus do we meet Cecil Tunt, who looks like he had a lot of fun with that name all the way through school. And Archer’s Dutch pronunciation is pretty well on point.
So, Cecil travels by Chinook helicopter, which is what I’d do if I was a half-billionaire. By which I mean, that’s how I’d do a trip to the deli. To pick up some panda cutlets, not this guilty-ass vegan dreck. But to each his own. Not that the crass, privilege-driven exploitation of quinoa is creating critical staple food shortages in the Andes.
Also, as much as I treat my body like a used hatchback that runs on trans fats and cheap liquor, I’ve never in my life consumed a Long Island iced tea. Or a fuzzy navel, for that matter. Sterling clearly runs on heavier fuel than mere mortals. And Cecil is leveraged to the hilt with all this charity administration, and Lana must get tired of playing the straight man.
And Cecil didn’t even bring a glass for himself for this little game of Pour Scotch Into Mallory. Not that he even needed the Scotch, if all he’s doing is collecting evidence that Cheryl/Carol is as unstable as a rocket assisted unicycle. Honestly, Even Tunt herself knows you aren’t supposed to actually hear the incidental music when you have evil thoughts.
Poovey? Having a fine time disregarding her food allergies. Mrorwmf! Ray and Figgis? Having a better time than Lana. Sterling? Saving Cecil the effort of pouring Scotch into him. Cheryl/Carol? Heading back to werewolf territory. Also, cockpit. I know, phrasing.
Are we going to get a switchblade/crazy straw tracheotomy? Probably not. We do get Sterling shooting point blank at a bulletproof door, because he rolls that way, and Cecil eating a ricochet because he’s sort of a prick. And this is all an elaborate set-up, because that’s what ISIS gets for gigs these days. And Mallory gets line of the night with “Oh, put another man’s penis in it.”
And oh yeah, this is part one of two. What’s our cliffhanger? Wacko undersea research scientist with nerve gas missiles. Great. You know what this means? Yes you do: Lana, Tunt, and Poovey in 60s vintage wetsuits. Hell yes. See you next week.