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[It] settles upon you like an uneasy dream: You don't always know quite how you got there, or how you left, but what you saw is as indelible as the chubby, grinning alligator that struts out a front door into the sunlight in an early episode.
Atlanta's oddness is its greatest strength. It's a show that feels as hard-to-define as its characters; what seems easy to explain on the surface gets messy and complicated upon further examination.
I'm not really sure where Atlanta is heading. But I know its comedy is drenched with foreboding. I also know there's nothing else quite like it on TV, no series at once so strange and angry and hysterically funny.
If Atlanta were a book, not only would it not be a novel, but it might not even be a book of short stories. It would be a book of poems, sketches, verses written in different colors of ink.