Tonight we’re gonna party like it’s 1923!
Oh Boardwalk Empire, how I’ve missed you so. Just the sound of the twangy guitars gave me a little thrill and the Magritte opening may have made me squeal, but then I saw the most beautiful thing: “Written by Terence Winter. Directed by Tim Van Patten.” I’m sorry I looked elsewhere in the HBO lineup to spend my Sunday nights. It’s always only been you.
As for the premiere, it’s 16 months later so they’re pretty much starting from scratch, and yet, can’t resist the lure of the Jersey coast to set up some mayhem as we meet
Bobby Cannavale’s eyebrows Gyp Rosetti, and he doesn’t take kindly to mockery.
Over in Atlantic City, Nucky’s not in the least bit haunted over killing Jimmy (JIMMY!) and is business as usual: strong arming petty thieves, hobnobbing with corrupt politicians, metaphorically smacking around Mickey Doyle and generally preening around like the peacock he is because he knows who’s the star.
Margaret’s still dissatisfied with her life but is much better at covering it up, choosing to get actively involved with the hospital her “kind” donation has helped fund. She takes a tour and is very impressed with her generosity until she gets an earful from a young doctor who doesn’t impress quite so easily.
Then the Thompsons throw a swank New Year’s Eve party around the theme of King Tut’s Tomb because it’s 1923 and no one had heard Steve Martin’s song, yet. There’s food and booze and the New York crew who engage in mild anti-Semitism but it’s Meyer so that’s okay and entertainment provided by Eddie Cantor who thankfully left Lucy behind and brought along a flapper named Billie.
Gillian runs a classy brothel that looks kind of like a finishing school for whores and brought Richard along to take care of Tommy. A decision she soon regrets when he keeps correcting Tommy that Gillian’s not his mother. Thankfully, the more things change, the more Richard remains awkwardly and creepily endearing. Never change, half-faced man.
In B-story news, we head over to Chicago where Al gets disrespected by an Irish florist while Nelson is brought low and is a door-to-door salesman trying to hustle a few more sales on New Year’s Eve. But things take a serendipitous turn when he walks into the florist and his giant, totem pole head comes in handy.
Lest all that set up start to bore you, there is, as there usually is, still plenty of violence and boobs to keep your attention. Oh yeah, one of my predictions from last season’s finale was way off base.
Full recap in a few days. Until then, you can catch up on last season’s recaps here.
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