
Walton Goggins and Aimee Lou Wood spark feud rumours after SNL parody
Goggins, 53, praised the sketch in an Instagram Reel, joking that Jon Hamm, who played his character Rick Hatchett, was better suited for the role. He also commented 'Amazzzingggg' on the official SNL post, adding to speculation that he supported the portrayal in full.
Wood, however, called the sketch 'mean and unfunny,' taking issue with the use of fake oversized teeth to depict her character, Chelsea. She clarified that while she's open to satire, she believed the joke unfairly singled her out. 'The joke was about fluoride,' she wrote. 'I have big gap teeth, not bad teeth... I don't mind caricature — I understand that's what SNL is. But Chelsea was the only one punched down on.'
Wood later shared an Instagram Story amplifying support from her sister, who called her a 'powerhouse,' and received public praise from celebrities including Cara Delevingne and Georgia May Jagger.
Though Goggins deleted the Instagram Reel, his positive comment about the sketch remains live on SNL's post. Fans also noticed that Goggins no longer follows Wood on social media and that her comments disappeared from his posts. Wood unfollowed him shortly after, adding to speculation of a fallout.
The tension follows the April 6 season finale of The White Lotus, in which their characters faced dramatic on-screen developments. The two had previously shown public support for each other throughout the season.

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Back in the mid-2010s, when the idea of 'binge-watching' was still novel, you could impress someone you met at a party by saying you watched Black Mirror. The streaming service Netflix had already changed how people rented movies—killing Blockbuster with the casual cruelty of convenience—but now, it wanted to change what people watched. By the time Stranger Things dropped in 2016, the game had already changed. The show, with its mix of Spielbergian nostalgia and synth-scored sci-fi, hit audiences like a cultural bomb. Kids dressed up as Eleven for Halloween. Adults argued over the ethics of what happened in the Upside Down. Netflix had hit a bullseye. And more importantly, it had found its business model: make people stay subscribed, not just for content, but for connection. Fast forward to 2025. Stranger Things is nearing its final season. Squid Game, the Korean thriller that became a global parable about class, is also wrapping up. And the streamer, now sitting atop a global empire of 270+ million subscribers, faces the kind of existential question that haunts legacy studios and tech giants alike: What happens when your biggest hits stop hitting? Shows like Stranger Things, The Crown, The Witcher, and Squid Game weren't just were global cultural events, they brought in millions of subscribers, shaped social media discourse, and most importantly justified Netflix's spendthrift content budget to nervous investors. The blockbusters that built the brand Stranger Things wasn't Netflix's first original hit—but it was the one that felt tectonic. House of Cards and Orange Is the New Black had kicked off the 'prestige streaming TV' era, giving Netflix credibility in awards circuits and pop culture columns. But Stranger Things was different. It had meme power. Fandom. Merchandising potential. It was a world that extended beyond the screen—and into Funko Pops, comic cons, and even retro-style video games. 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It wasn't just the most-watched Netflix show in history at the time — it reshaped the perception of international content. It proved that language was no longer a barrier; if the story was good enough, audiences would follow. It tapped into a pandemic-era malaise: economic anxiety, social isolation, the sense that we were all playing some perverse, rigged game. Netflix reported that 142 million households had watched it in the first month. It became the platform's biggest show ever at the time, helping to stem a slowdown in growth and proving the viability of non-English language content in global markets. While Stranger Things and Squid Game were pop-cultural tsunamis, they weren't alone in making Netflix what it is. The Crown lent prestige and awards legitimacy. Bridgerton brought in the romance crowd with period drama and redefined inclusivity in costume storytelling. The Witcher pulled in fantasy lovers post-Game of Thrones. Money Heist (La Casa de Papel), a Spanish-language crime thriller, became a bankable brand globally, despite originally being a flop on Spanish TV. Even lighter fare like Emily in Paris, Outer Banks, or reality TV hits like Love is Blind and Too Hot to Handle drove viewership numbers and kept the content wheel spinning between prestige projects. Netflix had a machine: fund broadly, promote smartly, find a breakout, ride the wave, and double down. But as the biggest shows begin to sunset, the cracks in the model are becoming visible. The problem with blockbusters Unlike linear TV, which offered seasons year after year at regular intervals, Netflix binge-dumped content. Stranger Things seasons dropped two years apart. Squid Game took even longer to follow up. In between, Netflix relied on a pipeline of content to keep subscribers around — a gamble that became harder as competition intensified. Enter Disney+, HBO Max, Apple TV+, and Amazon Prime — all offering their own prestige fare, some with legacy franchises (Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones), others with buzzy new titles (Severance, The Bear, The Boys). Suddenly, Netflix was no longer the only game in town. Worse still, the streamer's own release model may have backfired. Releasing an entire season in one go made for headlines, memes, and cultural moments — but those moments were fleeting. Compare that to HBO's week-to-week strategy, which allowed Succession, Euphoria, and The Last of Us to dominate conversations for months. Netflix's shift from a growth-at-all-costs model to a more mature, revenue-focused one was inevitable. With subscriber growth slowing in North America and Europe, and saturation looming in mature markets, the company has introduced ads, cracked down on password sharing, and flirted with licensing content to others — all moves that would've seemed blasphemous five years ago. 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That still takes vision.