Dear Tim Kring,

I have a special request. One which I’m sure that many people hold close to their hearts, fondly whispering to the skies, possibly with the preface ‘Dear Tim Kring, wherever you are…’

Can I please have some of your money? Because I feel owed.

My request is this: can you please not make another terrible season of Heroes?

I know, I know. I’ve been harping on about this for a while. But the problem is that just when I think your show can’t get any worse, there it goes and just drops the ball even further. It’s as if I dated a really beautiful, really wonderful girl for 22 weeks, she went on holiday, then came back, and she was Herman Munster. Then she did it again, except this time she was Herman Munster’s non-union equivalent. And then she repeated the process one more time, and she became myself, and I was forced to experience first-hand just how horrible it is to date me.

Ignorance, Tim Kring. That’s what I crave. The sweet, gentle, cotton-wool touch of complete and total ignorance. And, originally, that’s what you gave me. That’s what you gave all of us.

Remember Season 1? Sure, the brushstrokes were a little broad, but it was comic-book universe, so who cared? Peter and Nathan Petrelli, saving the world and working out their complicated fraternal relationship. Hiro and Ando, bumbling from one crisis to another, with just their wits, courage, and control over the space-time continuum to save them. Clea DuVall, cherished object of my undying affection.

And one of the best villains to hit screens for years in Sylar, a slowly-growing menace who was only hinted at, rather than directly seen, for just about the first half of the whole story arc.

I nearly wept at the conclusion of the first series, Tim Kring. I really, really nearly did. Such a touching display of self-sacrifice and radiation had never graced my screen before, except for once, in Sex and the City. And I couldn’t wait to see Season 2. Season 2… and beyond.

Jesus Christ. I’ve been less upset to swallow live ants.*

My questions on the long and terrible slide into badly-made television that your brainchild has become include:

– why does everyone get amnesia all the time, and is it really believable that this is anything more than your writers frantically trying to extricate themselves from the corners they’ve written themselves into?

– why does anyone die in the show anymore? Apparently there’s such a thing as magic healing blood, which can cure death. So, when someone dies, why doesn’t someone else say ‘Hey! Let’s totally shoot them up with that blood! That we used every other time previously when someone died‘?

– given that the show keeps getting worse, and worse, and worse… why can’t I stop watching it?

Even the terrible nadir of Heroes, when Sylar’s wondering face is superimposed over a far-too-long flashback scene of his memory of the death of his mother… I couldn’t look away from it. And I don’t know why.

Please, Tim Kring. I’ve suffered enough. All I ever did was love you, and this is how you repay me. If you’re going to make popcorn TV, at least make good popcorn TV. Talk to Eric Kripke, or Kevin Williamson. See if they can help you out.

Alternately, I’d be more than happy to adopt the ‘Let’s see if YOU can do better’ approach. Although that would lead directly to the sudden and jarring appearance of a character named Simon Smithson on the show. It’s OK – I’ve already got the alliterative super-powered name.’


Your regretful friend,


*- this happened one time.

TAGS: , , ,

SIMON SMITHSON is an Australian writer and editor. He is currently based in Melbourne, Australia, but frequently finds himself in Los Angeles and San Francisco. His work has appeared on both sides of the globe in print and online in publications such as BLIP, Every Day Fiction, Beat, The Loop, My Sinking Boat, and more. He has a tumblr at www.simonsmithson.com and he runs a lifestyle experiment at www.selfhelpless.net.

6 responses to “Dear Tim Kring”

  1. Greg Olear says:

    If this is a petition, consider it signed by me. And Stephanie, too.

    Let’s have the TNB writers do the next season. And star. Wipe the slate clean.

    In a power outage in New Paltz, NY, stress from watching two kids in a blackout for four days translates into the ability to generate electricity in my hands.

    Meanwhile, in Hilo, Don Mitchell discovers he can walk on water.

    Zara, in New Zealand, fleeing the tsunami and leaping over a chasm, never lands — she can fly.

    Simon Smithson runs a race. Really really really fast.

    Megan DiLullo hits herself with a toilet seat — but this time, the wound heals immediately.

    Jedi can make fire.

    Brad can turn invisible.

    Lenore can make ice.

    In Echo Park, Duke learns his echoing voice can shatter glass and tumble buildings, a la Black Canary.

    And in a redoubt somewhere in the mountains of Colorado, Uche finds himself equipped with Professor Xavier-like psychic abilities.

    Like you wouldn’t watch this.

  2. Darian Arky says:

    I stopped watching a long time ago. I guess I’m a Coward, not a Hero, because I was too afraid to find out where it was going after watching two seasons. So, did they ever save the cheerleader?

  3. Matt says:

    I haven’t even bothered with season 4 at all. I see no reason to. I’ve walked away and I’m not looking back. If I’ve got time to kill, I’d rather just revisit my DVDs of Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Deadwood.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *