Sometimes you rewatch a show not because you forgot what happened, but because you remember exactly how it made you feel.

Enter The Night Manager. One of my absolute favorite shows. So good it’s basically therapy wrapped in espionage with a tuxedo and a silencer. Yes, I’m rewatching it. Again. And this time around, I’m not just absorbing the plot—I’m studying the characters like a psychologist with a spy dossier and a glass of wine.

Let’s start with our man of the hour: Jonathan Pine, aka Andrew Birch. Intense. Dashing. Traumatized with flair. The kind of good guy you don’t want to meet in a dark alley unless he’s saving you from an arms deal. He’s the epitome of elan, a word that casually sauntered across the screen like it had been waiting years to shine. Style, energy, confidence. The man practically sweats it. And yet, he’s also a haunted soul masquerading as a concierge. Classic.

Jonathan is that rare archetype: the good guy pushed to morally ambiguous extremes for the greater good. The kind of character who gives therapists the urge to mutter, “Oh honey,” while furiously taking notes.

But then there’s Corky. Oh, Corky. My twisted little truth-teller. The loyal soldier who saw through the Jono-glamour from day one. While everyone else was mesmerized by Pine’s perfectly tousled hair and thousand-yard stare, Corky sniffed out the lies like a bloodhound in Gucci loafers. His demise? Brutal. Undeserved. And frankly, a major misstep by the so-called brilliant Roper. You don’t discard the only person who actually sees the chessboard. Especially not when you’re a delusional king being outmaneuvered by a pawn in disguise.

Corky’s death wasn’t just tragic—it was strategic karma. You cut off your truth-teller, and what happens? You fall for the pretty mask. That’s not espionage; that’s hubris. And Roper? Oh, Hugh Laurie played him with such delicious depravity that I almost rooted for him. Almost. But alas, just because you say “darling” with the voice of a velvet scalpel doesn’t mean we forget you’re selling missiles to murderers.

Which brings me to a bigger point: The Night Manager lingers because it’s not just a spy drama. It’s a study in perception. Loyalty twisted, truth obscured, morality massaged until it fits into a champagne flute. And through it all, we watch the dance between facade and truth. The ultimate psychological pas de deux.

And let’s be real, we all wish we could say we had “elan.” Some days, I manage a mild swagger with caffeine and good lighting. Jonathan Pine walks into a room, and entire governments shift. Corky side-eyes from the corner, and truths unravel. Roper sips wine with a menace so elegant it deserves its own TED Talk.

In the end, it’s not the gadgets or the explosions that keep me coming back, but it’s the people. The contradictions. The beautifully broken souls navigating a world where loyalty is currency and truth is the ultimate liability.

So yes, I’m watching The Night Manager again. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll start casually slipping “elan” into everyday conversation. After all, if Jonathan Pine can topple a global arms dealer with nothing but charm and repressed trauma, I can survive another Monday meeting.

Cheers to espionage, elan, and emotional complexity.