Needless to say, The Strain is not a particularly smart show. Nor is it, I must say, a consistent one. Sometimes The Strain suggests that Manhattan, in the span of a week, has transformed into a dystopic failed state of roaming monsters, petty crime, and random explosions. Other times, the easygoing traffic on the Manhattan Bridge resembles a summer Sunday morning. I’ve seen New Yorkers more upset when the F train isn’t running than they are in Day 5 of a supernatural slaughterfest. Worse, The Strain doesn’t even pass basic geography: Three weeks ago, Zach Goodweather was able to use an old, battery-drained laptop (OK) to track his mother’s iPhone (fine), despite the Internet being down (sure). The live map he shared with his father clearly showed the phone in Brooklyn Heights. “She’s in Astoria!,” Eph Goodweather declared before running off to find her. That wouldn’t be a big deal if the Toronto-filmed show didn’t lead off nearly every scene with a nonsensically specific bumper. (118th Street; Harlem; etc.). Don’t tell me where you are if you can’t even manage to get there!
Yes, the show is fantasy, but come on. There was gravity on Tatooine, you know? On The Strain, it often feels like the rules are being made up as they go along. To wit: There is an entire city feeling the effects of a monstrous plague and yet the only ones interested in putting a stop to it are a senior citizen, an exterminator, two doctors, and (ugh) a hacker? (Did it occur to no one to maybe knock on the door of a fire station or police station?) The white worms are predatory and infectious, but no one bothers to wear masks or gloves. Vampires die in the sun except when they don’t. Vasiliy Fet’s goatee appears to change color from week to week. If The Strain doesn’t care enough to follow its own internal logic, why should we bother to try?
