Let me get one thing straight right off the bat: I was not excited about another zombie apocalypse. My walking dead fatigue had walking dead fatigue. After over a decade of Rick, Carl, Negan, and an ever-rotating cast of “beloved” characters meeting grisly ends, I wasn’t exactly clamouring for another fungus-ridden bite-fest. But The Last of Us did what few shows manage—it made the end of the world feel new again. Or at least, new enough to keep me emotionally compromised, existentially terrified, and occasionally yelling at my TV like a mad person. So yeah, I liked it.
Based on the critically acclaimed video game (which I haven’t played, but I’ve heard enough fanboy reverence to know it’s basically the Shakespeare of PlayStation), The Last of Us takes the zombie genre, gives it a fungal twist, and then injects it with so much emotional depth and production polish that you almost forget it’s a zombie show. Almost.
Meet Joel and Ellie – The sad dad and the snarky kid
Pedro Pascal, as Joel, is basically Daddy Doomsday. Stoic, grizzled, emotionally repressed—he’s everything you want in a reluctant hero who lost his daughter and replaced the void with dead-eyed survival skills. He’s got that “I will silently murder half a city for someone I love” energy, which, let’s be honest, is very in vogue right now. (See: The Mandalorian, Logan, basically any piece of media that pairs a broken man with a feisty child and lets the feels do the heavy lifting.)
Enter Bella Ramsey as Ellie, who brings enough sarcasm, vulnerability, and chaotic teen energy to keep things interesting. She’s foul-mouthed, whip-smart, and emotionally volatile—basically a Gen Z apocalypse gremlin. And I say that with love. The chemistry between Pascal and Ramsey carries the entire series. Without it, this would’ve been just another beautifully shot corpse parade. With it, it’s devastatingly human.
Not your typical zombies, but close enough
Let’s talk about the elephant in the quarantine zone: the infected. They’re not technically zombies. They’re infected with Cordyceps, a very real fungus (thanks, science, I hate it) that hijacks the brain and turns people into fungus-faced murder machines. Which, cool, great, sleep well.
I was genuinely hesitant going in because, frankly, I’d had my fill of undead shufflers and grimy survivor camps. But The Last of Us doesn’t rely on shock-value gore or endless hordes of walkers. The infected are present—viscerally, terrifyingly so—but they’re used sparingly and, more importantly, effectively. Every encounter with them is tension dialled up to eleven, and the show’s willingness to focus on character-driven storytelling instead of weekly monster-of-the-week battles is what sets it apart.
Also, can we take a moment to appreciate the creature design? The Clickers are nightmare fuel with legs. That echolocation clicking sound haunts my dreams. It’s giving Pan’s Labyrinth meets Nature is Trying to Kill You, and I respect that.
Apocalypse, but make it art
Let’s talk about the visuals for a second. This show is gorgeous. And by gorgeous, I mean everything is falling apart beautifully. The overgrown cities, the crumbling infrastructure, the sense that nature is reclaiming everything humans built—it’s all hauntingly well done. There’s a kind of solemn beauty in how the world has ended here. It’s not just brown and grey sludge (looking at you, The Walking Dead Season 8). There’s detail. Atmosphere. Even poetry in the decay.
HBO did not skimp on the budget, and it shows. The sets feel lived-in, the lighting is moody without being muddy, and the camera lingers long enough on moments of silence to let the tension marinate in your bones. It’s cinematic in a way that doesn’t scream, “Look at our prestige television budget!” but instead quietly asserts, “Yes, we are HBO, and yes, this is a post-apocalyptic tone poem, deal with it.”
Let’s talk about THAT Episode (You Know the One)
Episode 3. “Long, Long Time.” If you’ve seen it, you already know where I’m going with this. Nick Offerman and Murray Bartlett gave us a love story for the ages—and then absolutely wrecked us. I went in expecting gruff survivalists shooting raiders. I left sobbing into my hoodie.
This episode was a masterclass in storytelling. It’s the kind of narrative detour that lesser shows would cut in the name of plot efficiency, but The Last of Us said, “No, you will feel things today,” and I did. In a series filled with dread and moral compromise, this was a rare glimpse of connection and grace. And it hit harder than a bloater in a narrow hallway.
Flashbacks, world-building, and the gut punches
One of the smartest things The Last of Us does is let the world-building unfold in pieces. It doesn’t dump lore on you; it trickles it in through news clips, overheard dialogue, and the occasional flashback that punches you square in the emotions. From the chilling cold open of the first episode (where a scientist basically tells us, “Yeah, the world is ending, and it’s not even a matter of if”) to the origin story of Ellie’s immunity, the show gives just enough context to deepen the narrative without slowing it down.
There are moments—like Joel’s confession in Episode 6 or Ellie’s heartbreaking backstory in Episode 7—that peel back layers of the characters and remind us this isn’t just about survival. It’s about what makes survival worth it. And that’s something most zombie shows forget after season three.
The finale – morally gray and emotionally bleak
I won’t spoil the exact ending, but let’s just say the season closes on a gut punch wrapped in moral ambiguity. Joel makes a choice—one that will probably spark endless debates at apocalypse-themed dinner parties—and it’s the kind of finale that doesn’t tie things up neatly but rather leaves you with that gnawing feeling of, “Was that the right thing to do?”
And that’s where the show excels. It doesn’t give you easy answers. It gives you human ones. Messy, complicated, sometimes selfish—but undeniably human.
Things that didn’t quite click
Look, no show is perfect. There were a couple of pacing issues, especially in the middle of the season, where it felt like we were meandering a bit. Some characters (hello, Kathleen) felt more like plot devices than fully realised people. And for a show about a world overrun with fungus zombies, there were surprisingly long stretches without any actual infected. Which is fine, I guess, because I was there for the drama, not the jump scares. But a little more fungal horror wouldn’t have hurt.
Also, I wouldn’t have minded more female character development outside of Ellie. Tess had potential but was yeeted out early. Marlene was compelling but criminally underused. Then again, with Season 2 on the horizon, maybe the writers are just saving the heavy hitters for later.
Final verdict: Fungi never felt so fresh
The Last of Us isn’t reinventing the post-apocalyptic genre but elevating it. It takes a familiar formula—gritty survivors, bleak landscapes, impossible choices—and injects it with emotional intelligence, top-tier performances, and just enough zombie mayhem to keep things spicy.
It’s a show that understands the apocalypse isn’t scary because of the monsters. It’s scary because of what it does to the people who survive it. And in that sense, The Last of Us isn’t really about the end of the world. It’s about love, loss, and the things we’ll do to protect what matters most.
And I, for one, am ready to be emotionally devastated all over again in Season 2.
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