I have no memory of ever watching Lost in Space growing up but like other shows from that era, like The Man from U.N.C.L.E. or Star Trek, my appreciation for them as cultural touchstones is steeped in nostalgia, and nostalgia is a major theme of the show, and of this review. Watching this reimagined Lost in Space reminded me of one of my favorite memories of watching television, and also reminded me of how life has changed since that time in terms of how we consume and watch media.

When I was in graduate school I started going over to another student’s apartment on Fridays to watch whatever series was playing on the SyFy channel. At the time it was Doctor Who, and then something forgettable. And then Battlestar Galactica started. Battlestar Galactica is memorable to me not only because of the series itself, which was incredible (at least for the first three seasons…), but also because of the experience I had watching it with other graduate students. We cooked for each other, hosted each other at each other’s apartments and houses. When BSG was on, there were episodes when we didn’t talk until a commercial break, and it felt like you could finally breathe again. And then you had to wait. A week. Sometimes two. Sometimes a whole summer or longer between seasons. The waiting was the worst part. But it also bonded you with other people in pain and suffering.

Bingewatching has changed things.

Bingewatching a series when a full season is released in its entirety is, for the most part, an isolated experience, and one compromised by social media. To avoid spoilers, you have to either blacklist the series and any related terms until you’ve finished, or try to mainline it yourself in one sitting and risk becoming a zombie the next day at work (if you manage to make it in at all). The process of reviewing Lost in Space, which dropped on the 13th, stirred a little nostalgia in me for a simpler time, before DVR, when you had to watch something live or miss it; when the race to avoid spoilers was on an episode level and not an entire season or series. And to be honest, I do feel that Lost in Space would have benefitted from that kind of release. It’s a show that needs time between episodes, because while the episodes aren’t episodic per se, there is a sense of temporality and the passage of time in between them. It’s a show that works best on its audience when they have time to process what’s happening and creates engagement and narrative tension based on waiting for that shoe to drop. It lessens the effect, somewhat, to have that shoe drop within a day instead of six weeks later.

The opening credit sequence evokes nostalgia in a different way, through a montage of images and videos that trace humanity’s progress into space. It feels like a promotional video for the Alpha Centauri colony, the utopia our characters are trying to get to. After seeing a few episodes, though, the opening credits seem almost ironic with their utter dissonance to the show itself. By the end of the first episode it’s clear that the show is not a reboot but a reimagining. It’s not telling the same story again, but asking the same questions. The changes that are made are based, for the most part, on the changes that we’ve experienced culturally (and in what we value representationally) in the 2010s instead of the 1960s.

Noteable are the ways that the show rejects the very nostalgia one would expect it to create and plays with those expectations. The opening scene begins with the Robinsons playing Go Fish while Dobie Gray croons about drifting away and ends with a crash landing. Life, we are given to understand, has no problem saying “fuck you” to your nostalgia, and that unapologeticness carries through the show itself in the ways that it’s reimagined what Lost in Space could mean.

One of the major reimaginings is what defines a family. The Robinsons in this reboot are far more complicated and even non-traditional compared to their 1960s counterparts. They’re a mixed family that contains half-siblings, but the “mystery” of how Judy is related to the rest of her family isn’t even brought up until halfway through the season. Why would it be, the show implies. The Robinsons get to define what family means, and that includes adding an alien robot who has imprinted on their son like a baby duck if they want to. The family “unit” is not that 1960s nuclear family for many families today. The definitions have changed, so what defines the Robinsons has changed too. And that’s a good thing. In that genre and tradition of optimistic sci-fi, any show that attempts to ask the question of what humans be in the future, who wants to see humans as their best selves, the show has to move beyond the white nuclear American family with traditional gender roles.

Maureen Robinson, played by Molly Parke, is the unquestioned matriarch, as well as being a scientist and engineer. I generally adore Molly Parker in everything she’s in, but I really think she shines in this role as a woman capable of facing down any kind of challenge, whether she’s squaring off against her husband or tackling scientific challenges. At the same time she’s allowed vulnerability and to not be perfect. She’s allowed to question her own decisions, while still being strong in her convictions. Changing this role, which to some might seem like a “politically correct” nod to feminism, is actually not a reimagined but a recovered aspect of the original Maureen Robinson. In “No Place to Hide,” the 1965 unaired pilot of Lost in Space, Maureen Robinson was a scientist, and that aspect of her character was completely written out of the series after the pilot–not unlike what happened in Star Trek to Majel Barrett’s role as the original Number One/First Officer of the Enterprise.

Another major reimagining that the show would not succeed without is the way the robot and his relationship to Will Robinson has been completely changed. If I had to describe their relationship in a nutshell it’d be as Lilo and Stitch. Even the scene where the alien robot remodels his form after Will’s is reminiscent of the scene where Stitch reimagines his form to be more appealing to Lilo. Who doesn’t love a story where someone who has only known a life of violence and destruction is adopted by someone pure and it changes them? It’s a familiar trope, and Will Robinson is the epitome of a small, pure child. Will’s relationship with his alien robot friend is the heart of the show in many ways, because it’s a counterpoint to how everyone else interacts with the alien robot.

How others view Will’s alien robot friend is, after four episodes, what is shaping up to be the central tension or theme that the show is exploring. Lost in Space is not, as one might expect, exploring what being “lost in space” means, but what we, as humans, might lose in space when faced with situations where the trappings of society, with preconceptions, structures, and clear rules for what constitutes ethical behavior, no longer apply. There is real narrative tension on the episode level, and the show has a structure, plot, and resolution for each episode. But the underlying question, the point of all this, is the contrast between the alien robot and the sociopathic Doctor Smith, played brilliantly by Parker Posey. Both characters are learning about ethics and morals from the Robinsons, and it will be worth watching through the season to see how the show will resolve the issue.

There are other virtues to recommend Lost in Space. At the top of my list is Toby Stephens as John Robinson. If you wanted to see Toby Stephens as a hot dad/action hero (and really, who doesn’t), your wish is granted. Stephens definitely beefed up for this role and the show’s cinematography is very generous with its shots that remind us of that fact. Also shoutout to the wardrobe department for all of those very snug shirts that emphasize those shoulders and biceps. But the best part of Stephens’ performance is the way he manages to subtly shift what could easily be a role epitomizing toxic masculinity into something nuanced. Having watched Stephens in Black Sails I wasn’t surprised, since his character of Flint embodied not only 18th century piratical violence but also polyamorous bisexuality. As John Robinson, Stephens manages to demonstrate all of the traditional features of masculinity you’d expect as a military dad/husband, but he’s also portraying a father figure far more sensitive and vulnerable than this genre of military patriarchs are generally allowed to be. He’s flawed, like all of our characters are, and just as Maureen is allowed to be strong in her convictions while at the same time doubting herself, we see the same type of struggle in John, who saw his marriage fall apart from a distance and is now experiencing what that means outside the theoretical.

The set dressing and special effects for this series are clearly a priority as well. The scenes that take place on the space ships are beautiful and clean while still managing to seem practical. Similarly the special attention paid to the robot himself are amazing, and some of the visuals of the alien world the Robinsons are exploring are truly stunning and difficult to describe. My favorite might be the scene where what seem to be bioluminescent jellyfish swarming through the night sky like fireflies. There’s something nostalgic there, too, in the way that the series embraces that part of sci fi that perhaps is the most basic and childlike of all–that sense of imagination and wonder. Taken all in all, the series is like the Robinsons themselves–flawed, but earnest in its efforts, and far more complicated than the 1960s version of itself.