Where the first series was a noble misadventure, the second set is treacherous. Every possible cliché, trope and familiar banality is recycled in pursuit of simply filling out another series so that R Kelly finally has a reason to wear a selection of suits and look cool and in control. Any pretence of a through dramatic line is abandoned as if the script were being prepared in situ by children with foul mouths and limited or crippled imagination. Even the earlier rough sense of rigour or formality with respect to singing the script crumbles away.
One might suspect that if R Kelly had managed to persuade the money men to OK the first series, the unexpectedly half-positive critical response forced their collective, calculating hand to demand a second where there was - artistically speaking - none. Worse than wallpaper.
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