The Failed Promise of Binge TV

This past week, Netflix dumped the first half of the third season of the Shonda Rhimes–produced Regency soap Bridgerton. Between seasons, I do not think about Bridgerton. I wouldn’t rank it high on my list of the best things Netflix has ever produced. And every time that a new season has dropped on Netflix, my first reaction has been, “Really? There’s more of this? How? Why?” But then something happens. After about a half-hour, I get locked in. All of a sudden, all I want is Bridgerton, as much as I can get. I’m invested in every will-they-won’t-they plot; I’m laughing out loud at even the mildest witticism from Eloise (Claudia Jessie); I’m remarking, to anyone who’ll listen, which actors are nailing the 1990s BBC performance style and which ones aren’t. And when I’m finished watching the season, all I can think is, “Why aren’t there forty more episodes of this available to watch right now?” Bridgerton is, in other words, a pure, perfect binge.