An adaptation of Taylor Jenkins Reid’s 2019 bestseller, with queen of the page-to-screen success story Reese Witherspoon on board as executive producer and a no-expense-spared marketing campaign, the critics’ response to the show has nonetheless been… tepid. “Lacks bite,” says Empire. “Not cool,” says The Times of London. A “diet soda version of love, lust and ’70s music” says The Guardian. I say: pass me a straw.
Admittedly, I was probably always going to enjoy this show—and not just because Jones, in her floppy hat and shearling coat, so perfectly embodies my dream aesthetic circa 2012. I read the book in lockdown, I’m a fan of Fleetwood Mac, and no amount of nepo-baby discourse could stop me being fascinated by the fact that Keough is Elvis Presley’s actual granddaughter. I was ready to sit back and let the show’s glossy hedonism-lite wash over me, a televisual tranquilizer with all the sedative effects of one of Daisy’s downers, or the half-bottle of Beaujolais she routinely knocks back for breakfast.
But even though I didn’t need Daisy Jones to be anything more than mindless viewing, somewhere around the third episode, as the memory of the awful wigs in the opening scenes receded, I realized the show had gotten its (honestly, weirdly catchy) hooks into me. I texted a friend I knew was also watching. “I am starting to think Leo’s insanely hot model ex is actually a very good actress??” She replied immediately. “I am playing the soundtrack in my car right now??”
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