Just a quick check-in on Outlander, because last week — after I wrote about getting impatient waiting for the sweaty, bodice-ripping and double-backed thrashing — some folks cautioned me to, “Just wait.”
“It’s coming,” they wrote.
IT DID NOT COME THIS WEEK.
To be fair, when Captain Black Jack Randall was describing the massacre he created on Jamie’s back (“That boy and I, we were creating a masterpiece”), he certainly sounded like he was describing a sexual experience. The guy was quivering like the first time Lloyd Dobler made love to Diane Court (“Why are you shaking?”)
And that flogging was downright gruesome, and the real horror — what really brought home the damage Randall was inflicting — was seeing Jamie’s boot slip and slide in a huge puddle of his own blood. Blood should not gush from a fella’s backside. That motherf*cker had flesh hanging from his back.
It wasn’t a short scene, either. From the moment Claire walked into Randall’s room to witness him getting a shave until she walked out, 29 minutes of screentime had passed. Twenty-nine minutes in which Randall threatened to slice his barber’s neck with a razor, discussed at length the beating that Randall gave to Jamie, and punched Claire in the gut.
It was a brutal sequence and it basically did two things: It illustrated that Captain Black Jack Randall is a sadistic piece of sh*t, and maybe the blackest, most unambiguous villain since King Joffrey, and it gave Claire a reason to marry Jamie. And as a non-book reader, I haven’t heard this many whispers about an upcoming wedding since the Red one in Game of Thrones. Oh My God! Are they going to kill Jamie?
I bet not. But I am guessing that Claire is going to MASSACRE his virginity.