Okay, here's my two-star take on Normal People, served with a side of personal nitpicking:

First, the good stuff. The actors, wow. They crackle with raw talent, especially Marianne. You can practically feel the weight of her secrets in her every blink. And the intimacy, oof, it's there in every stolen glance, every whispered word. I was hooked on their chemistry, like a moth to a flamethrower.

But then, the pacing. It crawls, meanders, leaves you wondering if you accidentally skipped an episode. We get endless shots of Connell kicking a football, Marianne staring out windows, their unspoken emotions swirling like dust bunnies in a neglected corner. I get it, simmering tension, but sometimes I just wanted to yell, "Spit it out already!"

And speaking of spit, the dialogue. So much unspoken longing, so much angst disguised as intellectual banter. I longed for a bit of bluntness, a good old-fashioned "I love you" instead of all the cryptic metaphors about Yeats and Foucault.

Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm too old for this teenage will-they-won't-they dance. Maybe I need a bit more plot, a bit less navel-gazing. But in the end, Normal People felt like a beautiful, frustratingly slow burn that never quite reached the fireworks I craved. It's a gorgeous portrait of young love, sure, but sometimes a love story needs a little more fire, a little less smoke.