I viewed the first five episodes of this high quality TV series on Netflix, though it may have been produced by some other network. I stopped viewing it when the obligatory homosexual encounters became astoundingly unbelievable, with Dorian Gray seducing the classic conflicted American Wild West hero, a gunslinger hired out of a Wild West show to provide muscle for a group of monster hunters.

However, until the intrusion of the sacred symbol of post modernity—inferred butt-fucking—this was quite a show. Honestly to view any TV series of quality now you can bank on having to put up with homo sex.

Set in London of 1891, where the work of Jack the Ripper was really that of vampires, where victor Frankenstein creates his monster while working as a hematologist for an adventurer lord who has plumbed the depths of darkest Africa and raided mummy tombs, returning with a savage African warrior as a very believable sidekick [the most believable black character I have seen in some while] who has partnered with a medium who has been seduced by Satan in search of he who is most certainly Dracula…the medium being the childhood friend of Mina Harker from Bram Stoker’s Dracula…

Penny Dreadful had such promise and such high production values, depicted so well the decadence of the late British Empire as the inhabitant’s of London’s top 1% invited the non-English world as living fetishes to remind them of what their parents had conquered, banally unaware that they planted the seeds of their own nation’s conquest.

But, alas, it seems every well written TV series must serve to remind us that men should be mating men and women should be sterilely slinking into one another’s embrace while we wait on our drugged, self-deprecating ennui for the monster we built in the basement of our souls to devour us.