A very irritating thing is happening to me with this season of AHS. I find myself caring about the residents of the Hotel Cortez, and becoming invested in their fates. Even (especially) the wicked ones. So it’s a little frustrating that I keep getting into specific storylines (the vampire children, the love affair between Liz and Tristan), and then having to forget them as we’re whisked off on another wild tangent. It’s like a needlessly complex board game, where the creators keep adding more pieces. (And almost all those pieces are white dudes with slicked-back dark hair.) That being said, I adore Old Hollywood, with its elegance, decadence, and especially its ubiquitous queerness. BUT NO MORE NEW CHARACTERS AFTER THIS, OKAY?
So first up, Will Drake (still not over the fact that his name is not the vastly superior “Wildrake”) is in the middle of gutting the hotel to make room for his atelier. (He also takes the time to summarily inform his son that he and Gaga are getting married.) Aside from the usual horrors of renovation, the workers find a mysterious passage, blocked by bricks and steel. Inside are a man and a woman who have been trapped in there long enough to work up quite an appetite.
Not even the Countess knew about this walled-off part of the hotel, and she has no idea who the vampires inside might be. I love that we are supposed to be frightened by the fact that she is frightened. The Countess is Lawful Evil, and she’s the devil we know and love. As opposed to this Ten Commandment joker who (spoiler alert) is Detective Lowe. Don’t worry; I have evidence.
This week, Dear John gets himself locked up in a psych ward, but not because he actually thinks he needs help. No, this is a Spencer-in-Radley style ploy to dig up information on the Ten Commandments Killer. What he finds is a little blonde vampire who has taken it upon herself to aid and abet the killer. She throws herself in front of a bus before we get much useful information out of her, but we do learn that:
Meanwhile, back at the Cortez, the monsters from inside the walls continue to drain the blood of guests (does NO ONE check the Yelp rating before checking in?), and as they feed, their faces look more familiar.
But this version of Finn Wittrock isn’t Tristan, it’s Rudolph Valentino, god of the silent film era.