I’m sending this week’s newsletter a day early in observance of tomorrow’s Good Friday, for which I’ll (try to) retreat into contemplation. That’ll be made easier by the fact that my two favorite TV shows of the 2021-22 season (which I promised in the last edition I would reveal when the time was right) just wrapped up their freshmen runs, which means the temptation to eschew Passiontide reflection for some fun bingeing will be off the table. But if you’re looking for ways to celebrate Easter on Sunday, I offer you these delicious (if chocolate-less) indulgences!
A comedy: Abbott Elementary
The pitch: The late-2000s mockumentary format comes back to life in a Philly public school sitcom—and manages to feel fresher than the “edgier” comedies on the air.
Me gusta porque: the single-camera sitcoms, which refreshed a genre that peaked with Friends, tended for the most part to err on the side of cynicism, following the Seinfeldian rule of “no hugging, no learning.” Some of my favorites, including 30 Rock and Arrested Development, were more likely to mock a sentimental moment than to let the audience get their love fix. Even if I sometimes resented them for it, I appreciated the consistency; the ones I struggled with more, like The Office or Parks and Rec, swung wildly between both modes, and the whiplash often prevented me from settling into a groove. Notably, those last two were mockumentaries, a genre that I also thought had peaked—but out of nowhere came Quinta Brunson with a mockumentary sitcom that is steeped in emotion and not ashamed to show it. It’s not that Abbott Elementary doesn’t have cynicism in it; it would be impossible to seriously tackle public education without raising your eyebrow at least a handful of times. But this show, which follows a group of Philadelphia public school teachers, has nothing but love for everything it mocks—including its star. Brunson plays the lead role of Jeanine Teagues with Big Nerd Energy, a Leslie Knope-type that doesn’t win people over with a can-do attitude but with a can’t-do attitude—in spite of her passion, her schemes to help students and fellow teachers tend to backfire hilariously, coercing those around her to help her. You’d think a show anchored around Charles Boyle wouldn’t work, but it does, and Brunson shines even brighter when surrounded by her stellar castmates. Sheryl Lee Ralph and Lisa Ann Walter in particular do amazing work, but the biggest presence is Janelle James as Ava, a principal with as many credentials for running a school as Anna Delvey (she got the job through blackmail, of course)—and the show refuses to ostracize even her, humanizing Ava without condoning her behavior. “People were tired of seeing their Twitter regurgitated back to them through their viewing,” said Brunson in a recent interview with the New York Times, and the show clearly reflects this: in a cultural landscape that has mostly eschewed compelling narratives in favor of TED Talks masquerading as entertainment, Abbott Elementary is the only show that truly got me to care.
Also this season: Hulu’s hilarious PEN15 finished its two-season run this winter (though it felt like three, since season two was twice as long and had an animated special in the middle). The show stars Maya Erskine and Anna Konkle playing 13-year-old versions of themselves, best friends going through the terrifying and hugely exciting experience of attending seventh grade—and all their classmates are played by actual 13-year-olds, which somehow never gets old. The show hits especially hard for millennials (there’s gel pens, burned CDs, and AOL chats galore), but its biggest triumph is managing to do what most TV shows about puberty try to and fail: make you feel the stakes of an unrequited crush or an unwelcome bodily development as intensely as you felt them back when you were a teenager.
A drama: Severance
The pitch: A show that will confirm all your darkest suspicions about capitalism and its rotten work culture—while making you miss your coworkers.
Me gusta porque: the premise of Severance, created by Dan Erickson and shepherded to life by none other than Ben Stiller (who directs several episodes), is deceptively simple: what if you could separate your work and personal lives, forgetting everything from the other side the moment you step in or out of work? It sounds like perfect balance, preventing you from taking work home and bringing your personal drama into the office—but Severance takes this premise to its bleakest, inevitable conclusion: your work self would be trapped in the office, stepping out at 5 only to be immediately back at 9. A perfectly cast Adam Scott, playing a version of Parks and Rec’s Ben that’s stuck in the darkest timeline, tries to submit to the overlords of the Lumon corporation, finding joy in the little rewards his team gets for a job well done—finger traps, dance breaks, and waffle parties. But the gloom of his “outie” (the personal self, as opposed to the “innie,” the work self), who chose severance as a way to cope with the death of his wife, follows him around, and the introduction of a new team member who just won’t bend to Lumon’s rules has him questioning the place he spends his whole life in. And what a place it is! Lumon gives big Westworld vibes, from the quasi-religious cult of its founder to its maze-like floor plan, and the show indulges in some mythology that I refuse to invest in—it even has baby goats where Lost had polar bears—because I’ve been burned too many times before. But, quite crucially, it’s very possible to enjoy this show without wondering what the fuck the baby goats are for: every emotional twist and turn (and there are some big ones that had me gasping) comes from character development. The cast—which includes bigwigs like Patricia Arquette, John Turturro, and Christopher Walken—is uniformly great, finding the humanity in even the weirdest of characters, and the bond that forms between Scott and his office mates in the face of oppression makes an unexpected case for returning to the office in person. I’m still not going to do it, but at least I know that I can count on my coworkers to fight the system with me should I be forced to.
Where? Apple TV+ (which, should be noted, has been maturing nicely as a streaming service. Severance is its first offering that I consider truly essential, but For All Mankind has been steadily growing on me).
Also this season: the other big puzzle box drama (and the one that got most of the attention), Showtime’s Yellowjackets, aired its first season. A vague similarity to Lost, the first show to ever burn me, initially prevented me from checking Yellowjackets out, but culturista R. Eric Thomas called it “a valedictorian understanding of the assignment,” so I relented. Yes, it involves a plane crash and subsequent shenanigans. Yes, there’s some weird supernatural energy at the site of the crash. Yes, the show flashes backward and forward in time. And, unlike Severance, it indulges in its Lost-like mysteries at higher-than-safe levels. But its particularities keep it interesting: the plane crashes are members of a female high school soccer team, and the survivors’ future selves are played by 90s teenage staples like Christina Ricci (who is deliciously unhinged). While the show comes dangerously close to boiling its message down to “women! (flexed biceps emoji),” the actresses give the drama three-dimensionality, and the jumps in time all skirt around the show’s central issue: at some point during their time stranded in the Canadian woods, these girls formed a deranged cult and started eating their teammates. Why, and which ones, is a question that will keep you coming back—nothing like cannibalism to hook viewers.
I thought we said no puns. I thought I told you to mind your business.
One more time for the people in the back:
Two of the plays whose scripts I recommended earlier this year are currently running, and you should absolutely check them out. I caught DREAM HOU$E at Long Wharf, and thought the team did a wonderful job of bringing Eliana Pipes’ vision to life. The lighting design in particular was very cool, and unexpected choreographed moments made the whole thing feel electric. The New Haven run is done, but you can still watch it in Baltimore! Overnight trip?
But if you wanna stay in the city, please get a ticket to How I Learned To Drive. The production, which echoes the original 1997 world premiere at The Vineyard, hasn’t been accurately resized for the Friedman’s Broadway size, and some scenes in the beginning don’t click as well because of the excess space. But Paula Vogel has only lightly revised her brilliant script, blessedly resisting any impulses to make it more “relevant,” and the actors do incredible work in bringing it to life—particularly David Morse, who must win a Tony or I’ll quit theater forever. I left with a knot in my throat and a sense of gratitude for having gotten to experience it.