“I’m never getting married” a soothing but feisty female voice narrates as the camera pans over a seedy motel with flickering neon lights. The silhouettes of two lovers are visible through the drapes of one of the windows. A middle-aged man walks in a female bathrobe down the wooden stairs to the ice machine. It’s the kind of back-alley, noir realism that Veronica Mars excels in. There she is, staking out in her convertible, with a jar of coffee to help her through the night as she waits for the money shot, while preparing for the calculus exam in a couple of hours. The petite blonde lead is a lot of things at once. An unconventional protagonist. A feminist hero. A teenager. An outcast. A private detective. The list goes on and on. Even as the expositional narration, the faded colored t-shirts and the spiky hair reveal that both Veronica and her show live in the early naughties, it’s apparent that this girl should not be underestimated.
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