#tvcritique

Arrowverse Failed Them — The Multiverse Didn’t

I’m going to double down on my unpopular opinions.

If you’ve been here long enough, you already know: this blog does not do safe takes.

A few days ago I wrote about Overgirl — how her alternate version of Kara felt sharper, more layered, more emotionally compelling than canon Supergirl ever allowed her to be.

So today we’re taking it one step further.

Let’s talk about ships.

And yes — I am about to say something deeply controversial:

I was more emotionally invested in Dark Arrow and Overgirl than I ever was in Oliver’s or Kara’s canonical relationships.

Three episodes.

That’s all it took.

Kara’s Canon Love Life

I actually liked Kara and Mon-El. I did.

But looking back? Their ending didn’t elevate her character.

If the intention was to show that Kara doesn’t need a relationship to exist — that’s a strong narrative choice.

But then you have to give her growth in exchange.

Independence has to transform the character.

And it didn’t.

She remained fundamentally the same.

The breakup felt like sacrifice without narrative payoff.

And that’s frustrating.

Oliver’s Canon Love Life

Unpopular opinion number two: I never connected to Oliver and Felicity.

Not emotionally. Not structurally.

It always felt misaligned.

And in eight seasons of Arrow, it’s kind of astonishing that Oliver never had a relationship that felt both emotionally grounded and narratively inevitable.

Laurel didn’t fully work. Sara didn’t stabilize him. Nyssa was political. Felicity carried weight, yes — but for me, the chemistry never felt balanced.

Which makes what happened in the crossover even more baffling.

Three Episodes. That’s It.

Dark Arrow and Overgirl appear briefly.

They’re villains. They’re morally compromised. They belong to a nazist regime.

And yet — narratively — their dynamic works.

Why?

Because it’s built on emotional intensity.

He wages war across universes to save her. Not for conquest. Not for glory.

For her.

When she dies, he drops his guard. And he dies too.

It’s twisted. It’s dark. It’s dangerous.

But it’s emotionally coherent.

And the real shock?

Melissa Benoist and Stephen Amell had chemistry.

Not hypothetical chemistry.

Visible, on-screen, magnetic chemistry.

In three episodes, I felt more tension, more spark, more narrative charge than I did across years of separate canonical pairings.

And that’s not because I think Oliver and Kara would work in canon.

They wouldn’t.

They’re fundamentally incompatible in their original forms.

But that raises a bigger question:

Why did the alternate versions feel so emotionally effective, while eight and six seasons respectively struggled to give us relationships with that same spark?

The Arrowverse Comparison

In the Arrow–Flash–Supergirl trio, there was one couple that felt structurally solid:

Barry and Iris.

Iconic. Balanced. Aligned. Clark and Lois-level mythic energy.

You believed them.

Which proves the Arrowverse could build powerful relationships.

So why didn’t Oliver or Kara ever receive one that felt equally inevitable?

The Real Question

This isn’t about wanting Dark Arrow and Overgirl canonized.

It’s about narrative impact.

If a three-episode alternate-universe villain pairing can create more emotional resonance than years of main-character relationships…

That says something.

So I have to ask:

Did you truly love Oliver and Felicity? Were you fully invested in Kara and Mon-El?

Or did you ever, even for a second, look at Dark Arrow and Overgirl and think:

“…wait.”

And please — let’s leave Lena out of this one. That’s a different battlefield entirely.

Tell me honestly:

The Gibraltar Coffee That Meant Everything — And Nothing

Today I want to talk about a scene that, on the surface, seems almost irrelevant.

But I’ve always believed it was a perfect hook for something that never happened.

Season 3, Episode 18 of 9-1-1: Lone Star.

Owen invites Tommy out for coffee.

Simple. Casual. Almost throwaway.

Except it isn’t.

He doesn’t even tell her what he’s ordering. The drink arrives, and he says:

“Don’t ask questions. Just drink it. It’s easier than explaining.”

And that line?

That line means more than the scene ever follows through on.

She drinks. She says it’s good. He reveals he doesn’t have cancer — it was just a fungal infection. He’s in full remission. He wanted to celebrate. He wanted to tell someone.

And of all the people he could tell… he tells Tommy.

Why her?

Because the scene isn’t about the remission.

It’s about possibility.

Then comes the second layer. He admits the remission was almost an excuse — he just thought it had been too long since two captains of the 126 had coffee together outside the firehouse. Like normal people.

And then… nothing.

The scene ends.

No emotional pivot. No follow-up. No arc.

Which is exactly why I thought it was the beginning of one.

The Gibraltar Coffee as Metaphor

Let’s talk about the drink.

The Gibraltar coffee isn’t random.

It’s not a standard espresso. Not a latte. Not something casual.

It’s a double shot of espresso balanced with lightly textured milk. Intensity and softness in perfect proportion.

Tell me that isn’t Owen and Tommy.

Owen is the double shot — sharp, loud, chaotic, deeply New York.

Tommy is the milk — grounded, steady, emotionally mature, family-oriented.

And here’s the detail that makes it almost too perfect:

The Gibraltar was created accidentally. Baristas bought glasses that were too small and had to adapt.

An accident. A miscalculation. Something that shouldn’t have existed — but worked anyway.

Like them.

Tommy didn’t arrive in his life intentionally. She arrived through circumstance. Through loss. Through timing. Through shared command.

The drink also has to be served at the right temperature, in a specific glass, balanced precisely.

Strong. But gentle. Capable of heat without burning.

That scene wasn’t meaningless.

It was metaphor.

And then… it went nowhere.

Why It Could Have Worked

At that point in the series, they would have worked.

Not earlier. Not in the beginning.

But there? Yes.

They were different. Opposite even.

Owen, emotionally impulsive. Tommy, structured and duty-bound.

But that contrast could have created depth.

Instead, Lone Star consistently avoided building pillar relationships beyond T.K. and Carlos.

And that’s the real issue.

The original 9-1-1 thrives because of its relational foundation:

• Bobby & Athena • Hen & Karen • Chimney & Maddie

Those couples aren’t side plots. They’re structural beams.

Even unexpected ones became anchors.

Lone Star never built that architecture.

T.K. and Carlos carried the emotional weight alone.

Tommy’s arcs were fragmented — widowhood, the ill-fated brother storyline, the reverend. Judd and Grace were destabilized behind the scenes. Nancy and Mateo were sweet but not foundational. Owen’s relationships never rooted.

The Gibraltar coffee could have been the start of something intentional.

Not a Bobby/Athena duplicate — they’re completely different characters.

But something balanced. Mature. Steady.

A relationship born not from drama, but from shared survival.

And Lone Star needed that.

The Missed Opportunity

Maybe it was considered and abandoned.

Maybe it was never planned.

But that scene reads like narrative groundwork.

And when groundwork isn’t built on?

You feel the absence.

Lone Star wasn’t weaker because of action or storytelling.

It was weaker because it lacked relational gravity.

And sometimes, all it takes to build that gravity…