I was chatting with a friend after we'd watched this latest House episode, "Finding Judas" (which makes House Jesus? Talk about your ironic titles). She loved it, I hated it. (Well, "hate" here is defined as "loved slightly less than most other episodes of this show.") When we got further into the discussion, it was obvious that our overall impressions were virtually identical, until we got to those opposite conclusions. Sometimes there really is a fine line, not a great wall of China, between love and hate.
I love bastard House. I defend bastard House. I've never thought the bastardliness was hiding a man who really loves puppies and sunsets, and I think it's more interesting that he's not only a bastard on the outside. But this House, the House who is hitting rock bottom in "Finding Judas," was not fun, or funny, or sympathetic, and all that candy coating is what makes bastard House go down so smoothly.
I thought I'd really enjoy watching Chase getting punched, as he was at the end when he provided the medical epiphany moment after House botched the case. Foreman is right, Chase is hardwired to kiss ass, and that doesn't endear him to me. But it turned out I wanted Chase to get up and beat House senseless with his stethoscope so he'd quit his bloody whining. Your leg hurts? Do something about it. Try something else for pain management, like all those doctors around you are pleading, like the cop who is making your life and your colleagues lives miserable is demanding.
Yeah, I know that's not House's M.O. (And I know he's a fictional character and my hectoring will have no effect.) That's why I can appreciate what the episode is trying to do without necessarily enjoying it (remember the silent "as much as most other episodes" at the end of that sentence).
I can't believe I'm agreeing with scary Tritter, but we keep coming back to this: apparently everyone but House believes he is taking too much Vicodin, yet no one will actually do anything to stop him from practicing medicine in what they think is an impaired state. Maybe he's impaired when he's taking too much Vicodin, or maybe he's impaired when he's in too much pain to focus on the case. Either way, in "Finding Judas," little Alice, the six-year-old patient of the week, almost lost her limbs because he was too busy focusing on how mean Cuddy was for rationing his Vicodin. (He hides his secret stash in a lupus textbook, because "it's never lupus.")