Funny thing is, having known for years that Firefly is Exhibit A in the case against premature cancellations, the primary example of unjust axing, the most lamented and longed for of all shows - even knowing all that before I started, I *still* ended every episode feeling like there'd be millions of them. Millions and millions.



How could there *not* be? It's all so well done. The performances are perfect, full of charm - the camera's always catching the facial expression here or there that brings these characters to life. The dialogue is gleeful both in its accentuated eloquence and in its Wild West (via Beijing) twang. The characters are written with buckets of depth, and the storylines take the classic Star Trek blend of moral exploration, character development and sci-fi action and renovate it, winking back to its roots whilst gunning down its cliches, finding fresh patterns in the dark and the light. It holds back from the easy sell-out, but then provides unexpected satisfactions. When its decisions are more obvious, it carries them off with polish and sparkle. But it also rejoices in *almost* being predictable, *almost* settling for what any decent series would do, and then spinning on its heel to laugh at the tropes and kick off in its own, quirkier direction. Yet it feels familiar instantly and knows precisely how to make a tin can in cold space seem like a home you don't want to leave.



It's inconceivable that there aren't more episodes. Everyone involved in making this was sorely robbed. Still, what there *is* remains a hell of a gift for everyone else.



Even if it sort of leaves you falling off a cliff you knew full well you were driving towards for eleven hours and still wondering where on earth the ground went to.