![]() After initially publishing our Season 1 list, we added Season 2 sketches when they premiered in 2021 and now 2023’s Season 3 sketches to form a complete ranking. But when we decided to rank the sketches, we decided first and foremost this wouldn’t be a ranking of every sketch from best to worst - because there is no “worst.” There are only sketches worth celebrating. While “I Think You Should Leave” is clearly not built to be a broadly accessible comedy, anyone who dials into its specific humor frequency are bound to appreciate aspects of every sketch. The writers at IndieWire couldn’t help talking about which were the best, and which were the very best. Still more might be forgotten, only to be rediscovered as fans power through Season 3 and drown their sorrows in an inevitable series rewatch. Season 2’s sketches quickly broke through, while others were repurposed based on news at the time. It’s doubtful anyone realized what kind of impact that first season would have on our culture a man in a hot dog costume is now visual shorthand for shunning responsibility, and an old man dabbing became someone to laugh with, not at. The full series (so far - fingers crossed for more) ranks as Netflix’s easiest and most satisfying binge with episodes under 20 minutes and endless absurdity. Thankfully, the wait is over, and now comedy fans can savor a whole new batch of sketches to join the previous 57, bringing the total to a whopping 85. “A rush of talk like the whirl of starlings coming to roost” – a lot of it talk in Irish – lies beneath his writings, in the stories he gathered, the old (and sometimes not so old) place-names he recorded.If you want to feel completely unmoored by the passage of time, here’s a fun fact: Nearly four years passed between Seasons 1 and 3 of “I Think You Should Leave” from co-creators Tim Robinson and Zach Kanin. He paid attention to the people who lived in and worked the land as much as to the landscape itself. His personality – gentle, generous, inquisitive, quietly humorous – was important too. He walked the land, he was present in its contours and its weathers, he stopped to talk and to listen. He practiced a quiet revolt against the dualism of mind and body: his legs and his ears were every bit as important as his eyes and his mind. He was “drunk on flowers, on the nectar of their names” and he practiced “the priestcraft of water”. Robinson was in many ways a late flourish of the great English Romantic tradition, an heir to William Wordsworth and Samuel Coleridge. Tim Robinson (seated), shows the Ford European Conservation trophy won by himself and his wife, Mairead, in Madrid in March 1988, to Senator Eamon de Buitlear (left), one of the Irish judging panel, and Eddie Nolan, chairman and managing director of Henry Ford and Son Ltd. What made Robinson so special, and so irreplaceable, was his ability to see what he was looking at with many eyes simultaneously, to take in at once science (geology and botany), art (the fall of land and light on the perceiving eye) and narrative (the history and folklore of the people who inhabit it). To undo a little of this damage has been for me, an Englishman, a work of reparation.” “Among the historical roots of Ireland’s carelessness of place,” he wrote, “is the retreat of its language and the accompanying anglicization of its placenames, which have been defaced, rendered dumb and sometimes reduced to the ridiculous. Perhaps only an English outsider could have given this project such care. That gloriously unreasonable project produced the two-volume Stones of Aran and the three Connemara books that collectively constitute one of the great literary achievements of our time on these islands. His concern was the planet – our luck was that he chose to concentrate his great powers of observation and expression on some small rainy western Irish corners of it. In fact, though, Robinson called what he did, not “geography” but “geophany, the showing forth of the earth”. But it is his astonishing books, the two-volume Stones of Aran and the Connemara trilogy, that will stand as timeless monuments to a genius who combined the linguistic brilliance of a poet with the precision of the mathematician he once was. Generations of tourists have been guided and enthralled by his marvellous maps of these radiant places. Tim Robinson, who has died a fortnight after he lost his beloved wife, Máiréad (the M evoked in so many of his works) was a Yorkshire man who came to know, as they have never been known before or since, three Irish landscapes: the Burren, the Aran Islands and Connemara.Īuthor Tim Robinson pictured near Roundstone, Connemara, Co Galway. Ireland was blessed to have had, for almost 50 years, the loving attention of one of the greatest writers of lands. The word “geography” means in its origins “the writing of lands”.
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