Archer renewed for Fifth Season

FX has ordered season five of its critically-acclaimed animated comedy series Archer, it was announced today by Nick Grad, Executive Vice President of Original Programming and Development, FX.   The network has ordered 13 episodes for the series’ fifth season. (via)

See the Real Models for the Archer Characters

Archer is one of those rare shows that’s capable of finding humor both high and low in its characters’ diverse and often self-inflicted quandaries, whether they’re dangerous missions in exotic locations, or just a bevy of HR complaints. Like anything great, Archer has its following on Tumblr, including copious gif sets from choice jokes, two different Fuck Yeah Archer blogs, and fandom crossovers like Sterling Archer Draper Price. Although show creator Adam Reed was indisposed (in his “writing cave” attempting to finished the season finale’s script) Matt Thompson, Executive Producer and collaborator with Reed on such wonderful shows as Sealab 2021 & Frisky Dingo was nice enough to answer our most pressing questions about Archer. 

How did you two start working together?
Thompson: Adam and I were both working in the On-Air Promotions department at Cartoon Network (1994???). It was a really great place to work too. It still had that small, us against them feel as the network had not been around that long. At that time it was mostly a place to catch old Hanna Barbera cartoons as Adult Swim did not exist yet. Our boss, a really great guy named Stephen Croncota, decided to pair us together to make some small interstitial shows to wrap around things like the Smurfs. We came up with a talking hand show where my hand was a no nonsense cowboy and Adam’s hand was my wacky sidekick. I use to have tons of tape on this, but I can no longer find it. I did find one thing online, a promo we did for an upcoming show of ours.  It starts at the one minute mark.

Timothy Olyphant to guest star on the upcoming season of Archer

“Olyphant’s one-episode guest role in the episode airing on January 24th 2013 is just as epic. Olyphant is close friend of Sterling’s— another agent who is presumed dead after being accused of stealing company funds and killing colleagues. He, too, has a big secret— that only Sterling seems to be in the dark on.” (via)

I should preface this by saying that I really couldn’t care less about football outside of The League and Friday Night Lights. When I watch The League, I represent at least some portion of the show’s fanbase that is watching without getting a single one of the references getting thrown around. But that hasn’t stopped me from enjoying the show.  I was totally surprised by how much I actually like it which is why it took me two seasons of prodding before I got into it.  

Now I count The League as one of my favorite shows on TV.  When I put on FX on Thursday nights in the fall, I’m now more interested in The League than It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia. This is not something I ever expected to happen to me when I first heard that FX was going to have a show about a fantasy football league.  I’ve not only never participated in a fantasy league, but my limited knowledge of how the game of football is played has been cobbled together through watching movies and TV shows.   

As near I can tell, The League has two main segments to its audience with some healthy overlap. The show appeals to sportsfans (duh) because if it didn’t, it would kind of be a complete flop given its premise. But someone like me who knows next to nothing about football can watch an episode and laugh at the more out-there jokes without getting lost in the sports references (which have gotten sparser as the show has gone on).

I think that even at its densest amount of sports talk and jargon, the show never alienates the kind of viewer that might be tuning in because they’re a big fan of Nick Kroll or Paul Scheer. Even when the comedy is at its broadest and Taco is throwing monkeys from moving cars, the average jock tuning in after Sunny can find something amusing in that too.  

If the show tipped the balance any further in either direction it would run the risk of alienating a major part of its audience, I think.  But it does a fine job of mixing the more absurd humor with the topical sports references/jokes. 

This isn’t to say, of course, that these two types of viewers are mutually exclusive. I know lots of people who are big sports fans and also appreciate the show’s comedy for being one of the funniest on TV right now, and I imagine that to them, the show is even more spectacular than I think it is.    

There are certain aspects of the show that I know appeal to my friends who are in fantasy football leagues and know what it’s like to orchestrate elaborate three-way trades and accuse each other of colluding to get the number one pick in the draft.  And while I can understand these situations and process why they would be entertaining to some people, I’m more interested in what scheme/invention/Vinegar Strokes Symphony Taco is working on or what ridiculous new fad Andre is going to be engrossed in.  

Many of The League’s best episodes, at least to me, happen to have very little to do with fantasy football, which sounds counterintuitive considering the show has a very basic premise.  “The Expert Witness” and “High School Reunion” are standouts yet they pretty much ignore the fantasy football aspect of the show, which is a testament to just how good it can be.

Having Jeff Goldblum do a terrific guest spot as Nick Kroll’s father is insanely funny and a pitch-perfect bit of casting.  That episode doesn’t even have a little to do with football. And yet, “Sunday at Ruxin’s” (an episode heavy on the fantasy football stuff) is also one of my favorites.   

The League is a show about sports that doesn’t even need to address sports to succeed.  As it’s evolved over the past three seasons, the show has established the competitive childishness of its characters and then started showing us how they’d behave in more everyday situations, outside of the fantasy universe. But each episode contains enough player references to keep the average viewer/sportsfan entertained. That’s the genius part of the show.      

Besides being a funny show for someone like me, it’s also given me enough sports culture knowledge to fake my way through conversations about sports a male in his early twenties would otherwise be expected to be able to take part in.  I’ve encountered people in my life whom I’ve had very little in common with as far as television shows go (but who am I kidding, that’s all I really try and bond over) but who share a love for The League that we can use to jump start a conversation.  

So thank you, Jeff Schaffer for creating a sports show for sports illiterate people and making small talk that much easier for me.

Guest post by Matt Ern. The League returns tonight at 10:30pm on FX. 

As if to assuage any unfounded fears that Louie would attempt anything so close to traditional storytelling as a three-part arc again, the season finale “New Years Eve” plays out as the messiest, most fragmented episode of the series so far. Taking place over approximately six days, one (possibly two) dream sequence(s), a flashback, and five distinct locations, the episode achieves whatever could be called “tying loose ends” within the plausibility of the show’s universe. Bear with me, this is gonna run a little long.

We open cold to Louie, swathed in blankets, sipping distractedly on coffee, and looking troubled. We’re not sure exactly what is happening (or has happened), but he’s wearing the sort of depression that a Northeast winter buries you in by inches, until leaving or staying in bed both feel insurmountable. His children, Jane and Lilly, are opening their Christmas presents. As the gifts are hastily ripped open, we jump backward in time to CK’s frustrating preparations for this day: fighting for a stuffed animal in a mobbed toy store, falling asleep covered in seasonal wrapping paper, and a 3-minute montage of Louie attempting to repair a doll thats eyes have fallen into its own head.

The last gift—which Louie points out is from him and not from Santa—is an illustrated book for Jane about a duck named Ping who lives with his mother and father and multiple siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins on the Yangtze River. “It looks like it’s so nice to live on that river,” Jane notes, entranced with beauty of the illustration. “Yeah, it does, doesn’t it,” Louie echoes, the way a parent kindly dismisses a child. The familial aspect of Ping takes on new meaning as Janet and Patrick come to pick up Lilly and Jane shortly thereafter for a two-week trip somewhere abroad. Louie stares at the four of them as the elevator doors close—husband next to wife, children in front, composed like a perfect Christmas card he’s been cropped out of. The kids are gone. He goes back to his apartment, pushes the Christmas tree out of the window, closes the shades, and lets himself be enveloped by darkness and bed-ness. 

He’s awakened by a phonecall from his younger sister Debbie (Amy Poehler) who invites Louie to join her, her husband, and her children in spending New Years in Mexico with their grandmother. Despite her genuine worry over his spending New Years “all alone” Louie declines and goes back to bed, where he dreams of his daughters—grown up and beautiful—meeting for coffee. They too obsess over Louie’s fundamental all alone-ness: “all he does is sit in that big old chair and eat pinwheel cookies.” The words, “we’re probably kind up fucked up from having that kind of a dad,” rouse CK from his sleep, and the TV news informs us that it’s New Years Eve. Presumably, Louie stayed in bed for the better part of a week.

Some spark has been lit. Whether it’s the revelation that his dream could be reality in twenty years, or that the news anchor dares him to put a gun in his mouth, Louie rises from bed and, fully clothed, takes a cold shower. As the water cascades down the top of his head he lets out a yell—the physical pain of the freezing water allowing him to vocalize a more primal sorrow—and cut to Louie packing a single suitcase with abandon. 

On the bus, Louie has his eyes closed. His hands rest on top of the telescoping handle to his rolling suitcase that is framed to look like a cane. The old man from his dream sequence—the dried husk he might become—seems not so far away. He’s secretly waiting for the energy of someone more helpless or broken to buoy him against the current of depression, and lo and behold his erstwhile beau, Liz (Parker Posey), enters the bus. They’re mutually excited by the chance encounter. As old man Louie rises to greet her, she begins bleeding profusely from the nose. An ambulance takes them both to a nearby hospital where Liz very abruptly flatlines and dies after delivering the heart-wrenching, “…bye?” As Louie exits the room, doctors, patients, residents and other hospital folk count down the new year, cheering and laughing as he mulls over the death of someone who’s both a near stranger and an important part of his life. Just as season two ended with Pamela leaving the show, season three sees Liz leaving the world. He’s free of romantic entanglements.

Louie awakens in the airport terminal. He checks the board for a flight to Mexico but his eyes wander to ‘Beijing, China’ which is scheduled to leave at the same time. 

And suddenly, he’s in China, in a dreamlike state. With Ping in mind, Louie asks people on the street to direct him to the Yangtze, which he believes they don’t understand because of his poor pronunciation (when, in fact, the Yangtze does not flow through Beijing). When a man offers to drive him there and they arrive at something more closely resembling a bog, Louie simply continues walking, ending up at a small house in the most rural of rural-looking places. An old woman beckons him inside and the family within seems overjoyed by his presence. They immediately hand him a bowl and begin filling it with food. They speak to him slowly in Mandarin and he repeats the syllables without understanding them, which causes them all to laugh (probably a classic case of the locals fucking with a stranger). 

Whether or not the Beijing sequence is a dream is unimportant. Why is it happening? Because Louie is seeking a sense of family and belonging. The episode up to that point serves to sever his ties to New York. The children and his ex-wife are away, his love interest is dead, and his career (both Letterman, and stand-up in general, as evidenced by the absence of the Comedy Cellar as a location) is on hiatus. Not even his usual bouts of depression seem to suffice anymore. So he runs. He runs as far as he can from what he knows, because his life and his family are, temporarily, beyond his repair. Flying out to his daughters or arranging a date would be, in light of the circumstances, utterly inappropriate. 

If he’s seeking belonging, why does the episode not end with Louie, in Mexico, with his sister and grandmother, rather than with this surrogate family of strangers who he can’t even interact with? Because his sister is trying to dote over him, to nurse his depression. At the core, Louie knows it’s time for him to stand on his own two legs, even if that means doing something kind of stupid. Stupid is always preferable to self-destructive. 

Does the episode do a good job of conveying this idea? Not really. It’s tries to portray the reckless, possible-mid-life-crisis move of rushing to Beijing with one miserably packed suitcase as a pyrrhic victory over spending the entire winter eating junk food in bed. But Louie is such a tourist in his own life throughout the episode that the third act feels like a geographic rather than emotional move. Likewise, the departure of Liz is not handled as tactfully as Pamela, nor do we really care about Liz. I’ve seen Louie’s “I was brought into existence to know you, and that’s enough,” speech to Pamela reblogged more than Doctor Who gifs (which is probably a reflection of who I follow); conversely, I had to look up the name of Parker Posey’s character at least three times while writing this (which is a reflection of how little an impact she’s made on this season’s plot). There’s something ugly about a fat white dude mooching food off of poor rural Chinese people, especially when it’s framed as some sort of path to self-discovery. Regardless, we know that Louie’s failings and obligations will be waiting for him when he returns to New York, growing bigger and worse the longer he tries to ignore them. 

Guest post by Bryan Menegus, who blogs here.

Of the many human intricacies deftly tackled by Louie, the subject of conquest was set aside and earmarked for “Late Show, Pt. 3”. On paper, CK failed his quest: the show went neither to him nor Seinfeld—Louie, and presumably Jerry, had something shiny dangled in front of them by a manipulative network exec in order to lower the pricetag on re-signing David Letterman (by a cool 20 million). Worse yet, CK’s attempt now precludes him from ever being a guest on the Late Show. However, as a smiling Louie shouts up at the marquee on the Ed Sullivan Theater, “I did it! Hey Letterman, F*$k you!” and walks away towards the all-enveloping lightshow of Times Square, we know that he has won. Louie has succeeded in a conquest of self: the Late Show gig was his golden fleece, but the real prize was a reminder of his ability to beat back discomfort and the fear of failure. And to assuage our suspicions that this victory will only be a temporary peak among the interminable valleys of Louie’s self-image, “Late Show, Pt. 3” closes with a sequence of Louie still in the boxing ring. “Jab, uppercut,” his trailer demands over heroic trumpets, and Louie fulfills those demands, not yet a champion, but with the passion of a true contender. 

“Late Show, Pt. 3” wears all this on its surface, with a very un-Louie lack of subtlety or artifice. We know that Louie gets to a place of comfort by the episode’s end; the subtlety lies in what he lets go of to get there.

In my own limited experience with standup comedy hitting some of New York City’s less reputable open mics, there’s a curious thing that happens when expectation and reality misalign. Hinged on a few flimsy but hopeful convictions—“I think I’m funny, I think people will like this”—when a bit falls flat, many amateur comics fall into a very public fight or flight response, lashing out (at themselves or the audience of six to eight people nice enough to stick around). The weaker a comic’s ego, the uglier the meltdown, and the more prolonged the silence becomes.

I’ve done it. I’ve seen plenty of other people do it. It’s one of the most uncomfortable things you can watch another human being do. It’s a reaction couched in the fear of failing too early and observing your dreams become stillborn. It’s a resistance to the fact that a group of strangers doesn’t owe you a damn thing.

The first half of “Late Show, Pt. 3” shows Louie exhibiting the tell-tale signs of this misplaced indignation. “If you wanna get a big thing in life, you gotta make a big effort, you gotta try hard, you gotta do things you’re not used to doing,” CK explains to his daughters. He’s trying to teach them a simplified life lesson about determination, but it’s one he seems to believe. In actuality, what he needs to do is show he’s capable—the movers and shakers could care less about how much labor he puts in as long as he has the skills they need. Even though he’s been headlining packed houses full of true blue fans for over a decade, Louie is back down to open mic 101 without knowing it. He needs to impress some very powerful and very discerning strangers with his qualifications in a very small frame of time.

The meeting in Jack Dahl’s office drives this thesis home when it’s revealed that Mr. Dahl had no idea Louie was a comedian. Louie’s understandable incredulity (at being mistaken for a newsman) is countered by Dahl’s gambit: “Make me laugh. Go! Funny. 3. 2. 1. Funny!” Louie resists, afraid his material might not translate off-stage, or that the lunatic producer who made him read Nixon jokes might not “get” his more modern sensibilities. In reality, Dahl doesn’t want to laugh—he wants to see that Louie is capable of flipping the switch between person and persona at will. The meeting is essentially a four-minute mic, with Dahl urging a non-responsive Louie to perform, and flipping the red light to signal the last 30 seconds on-stage with the words, “Last chance and then we’re really done. Done and done…Make me laugh on the count of 3. 1, 2—”.

Dahl never gets to 3. Amateur syndrome kicks in: Louie turn towards Dahl, pointing an accusatory finger and says, “You know what your problem is—,” angry that this crazy old man doesn’t treat him like the successful comic he is, angry at having to live up to the a performer’s essential role of “Entertain me, now,” angry that the incongruousness of the way he though things were and the reality of the situation.  

He stops himself from launching into a tirade against his audience of one. In that moment of peak stress, Louie receives his quiet epiphany and quickly transitions to a high, sing-songy voice, dancing buffoonishly, blowing raspberries between the words “pencil,” “penis,” and “parade,” lifting his shirt to reveal the weight he hasn’t lost. He earns another week in Dahl’s good graces, and later on manages to kill in front of the test audience.

Although nearly every episode of the series offers up some challenge to make Louie feel inadequate—usually by highlighting his ineptitude with women—he’s able to absorb these blows with the polished armor of self-loathing, each failure helping to prove and reprove his helplessness to himself. But comedy remains his unassailably redeeming quality, the bastion he clings to for survival. Throughout the “Late Show” arc, that bastion falls under siege, and Louie comes out stronger by being forced to protect it. It’s no accident Dahl makes Louie practice without an audience, or that he doesn’t laugh after the pencil penis routine: that horrible silence is what weeds the amateurs from the professionals. Louie is no longer seeking approval from strangers—or angry when he doesn’t receive it—he’s confidant that he can “show the funny” when he needs to, and that confidence becomes infectious in front of an audience. Fulfilling and subverting the daringness but puerility of the motorcycle he buys in the first episode of this season, Louie has mentally conquered his fears (a few of them, at least) and graduated to a higher plane of emotional adulthood. 

However, this sudden and drastic path towards self-improvement will undoubtedly cause tension in his existing relationships with friends and fellow comics who will be made uncomfortable by having to reassess who their Louie has become. 

Guest post by Bryan Menegus, who blogs here.

As a general rule, a trilogy’s second installment is the darkest, the most challenging for the protagonist. He or she goes through the worst possible trials to emerge a worthy hero, capable of taking the third installment to task with the full force of his or her newfound abilities (you know, the ones that were there all along, waiting to be discovered?).  

If we’re to take this general rule as gospel, ‘Late Show, Pt. 2’ does everything to show us that Louie is no hero—at least not the Late Show-hosting sort—not to himself, not to his family, and not to the syndicated audience he has recently begun to loosely fantasize about wooing. 

The episode makes this all embarrassingly clear by pursuing two clear lines of humiliation. The first is Louie’s attempts to find motivation through second opinions, first by announcing his opportunity to his ex-wife (hoping she’ll let him pass it up guilt-free because it would mean taking custody of his children far less), then by seeking guidance from fellow comics Jay Leno and Chris Rock. Not only do these tête-à-têtes—by virtue of even happening at all—expose Louie’s lack of self confidence, but they reveal his utter guilelessness, his impotence as a politician: Janet immediately grasps, without explanation, that her ex-husband is being optioned against Seinfeld for reasons of frugality; Leno, in a piece of uncomfortably honest humor, tells Louie, “If you get the job, it’ll be the last time we talk as friends”; Chris Rock uses Louie’s intel to backstab and outmaneuver him for the job. Psychologically, Louie fails every heroic challenge without realizing any had been put before him.  

Classically, heroic cycles often contain the trope of a guide (Merlin, Yoda, et al.); Louie’s is the raving lunatic Jack Dahl (masterfully played by David Lynch). Their interactions comprise the second line of soul-battering preparing us for Louie’s downfall, a set of tasks that elucidate his physical lack of fortitude.  

‘Late Show, Pt. 2’ is bookended by two nods to, ostensibly Rocky if not boxing movies in general: Louie stretches half-heartedly in ratty blue sweatpants, becoming winded shortly after beginning to jog; following Dahl’s cryptic instructions, he ends up in a gym, having the shit beat out of him by a muscular boxer. He makes three or four weak attempts at a punch, landing none, ending up KO’d after 17 seconds. 

Although Dahl treats Louie like a rank amateur, constrantly undermining his abilities as a comic and a person, where Dahl and CK’s misunderstanding truly come to a boil has to do not with Louie’s fitness, but his physical presence and appearance. Dahl contends that every late night host ever has worn a suit. For the first time in the episode, Louie stands up for something (something as trivial as his sartorial rights) and fires back,  “I’ve been this guy for 25 years, I’m not gonna become a different person.”

Although the “25 years” jab would likely be the pull-quote of this episode, the narrative bent is contained within the vignette involving Louie, his daughters, and an old crone who’s pilfering salami from the grocery store. Jane begins to shout, “she’s stealing!” while Louie tries to quiet her down. Metaphorically, the old woman represents the hype-and-media machine attempting to seduce Louie, an institution everyone accepts as being underhanded at best, while Jane—uninhibited by “how the world works”—has the moral compass to loudly point out this injustice. Why should she be allowed to get a free lunch, just because she’s been around a long time (see: “Jack Parr, Steve Allen, Carson, Letterman—not a t-shirt in the bunch!”)? At the same time, what purpose will Jane’s complaints serve? The security guard who approaches this woman will likely remove the salamis and ask her to leave without contacting the police, and this woman will continue to steal. Louie hovers in between, without the power to manipulate the system or the gall to fix it; a tourist in both realms making his permanent home on the fence dividing them. 

Over the course of ‘Late Show, Pt. 2’ Louie reaps the bitter harvest of inaction, and realizes (concurrently as the audience realizes) his staggering ineptitude at a skillset he never thought he would need, while new possibilities and the encouragement of well-wishers blinds him from seeing the skill he already has. If the boon of ‘Late Show, Pt. 1’ was his hasty induction to a dog eat dog world, Chris Rock’s betrayal puts Louie in his place as a toothless pup. The second installment of a trilogy is an unspoken promise for hardship and spiritual growth, but Louie tends to be a slow learner whose meaningful Eureka moments derive from consideration-after-debasement. 

It was never terribly important for us to see Louie succeed, but with two episodes left in this season, we’re waiting with bated breath to see how he will cope.

Guest post by Bryan Menegus, who blogs here.

It’s beyond hyperbole to say that Louie has forever changed the face of what a comedy show can accomplish, if not in its content then in how many people or how much money is required to succeed. As a result, having to write lucidly on the show rather than cower behind rabid but editorially-vague fanboyism has been causing me no shortage of anxiety, so before I have time to reconsider let’s jump into the style of the first episode in this two part arc and work our way to its substance.

We open with a lengthy establishing shot at the Improv in Hollywood — CK’s name slated for a solo Tuesday performance, while below him on the marquee Burr, Mencia, and Byrne split Wednesday. Immediately, the gaudiness (and the expansiveness of the shot, in stark contrast the sardine-packed New York) places Louie outside of his natural habitat.

A jarring cut, which replaces the crowd chatter of Melrose Ave. with CK’s performance, brings us slightly closer to the building’s façade and a lower-third announces the time and location, which to any regular viewer of Louie feels both stingy and artificial. In the aesthetic context of the show — which succeeds by eschewing exactly these sorts of shortcuts — a seemingly lazy choice such as this puts a bad taste in the mouth of the audience; it raises a red flag that something clamoring and ugly is afoot.

Like most episodes, the opening sequence in “The Late Show, Pt. 1” unfolds on stage, where CK first tackles the luxury Western parents have of gradually exposing the ugliness of Life On Planet Earth to their children (unloading, it seems, some of the psychic trauma of the previous episode wherein his elder daughter Lily showed the first signs of that vicious transition to adolescence) and then segueing into the idiosyncrasies of consumerism. 

Post-set, Louie and his child-manager Doug are approached by a representative of Leno’s Late Show, who is, like the Improv, accompanied by a lower-third. The effect is immediate: not only does it strip this executive-type of his humanity, but it acts as an affront to an audience which the show usually trusts enough to search for context clues. Another time-and-location card later (the inclusion of time adding a feeling of anxiety), and our protagonist is awaiting the closing spot on Leno, which he’s certain he’s being bumped from.

His discomfort is visible as hair and make-up artists doll him for the appearance. But contrary to expectation, the headlining guest — Tom Cruise — is a no-show, and Louie picks up the slack, improvising much of a set which we don’t see but are later told (in a phone call from Doug) has gone viral by the next morning. The set’s success leads to a meeting the next morning with president of CBS Leslie Moonves — who was, coincidentally, the commencement speaker at my college graduation — a meeting which Louie seems to attach no emotion or significance to, his reaction largely being annoyance at having to wake up before noon and interact with other humans without getting a chance to masturbate. The fundamental difference between CK and “showbiz” is established: before rushing onto Leno, a PA shouts something about not cursing on air; upon waking up, Louie squints out the over-bright window, muttering, “shit, bitch, god dammit” to no one in particular.

What follows has been masterfully established by the episode’s earlier beats: just as Cruise dropping Leno led to Louie’s “break”, Letterman is gearing up to retire and Moonves offers the position to CK, who quickly announces his inadequacy and nominates Jerry Seinfeld. The falsity, anxiety, and discomfort that pervade “The Late Show Pt. 1” comes to a head here, when Moonves casually notes that Seinfeld is already being scouted, and that Louie is being tapped strictly for the reason that he would be less expensive for the network to pay for the same job. Moonves, growing larger in frame, hammers away at Louie’s fears: that his career is in its dénouement, that he never caught the break he needed, that he’ll very soon be teaching hopeless students how to be a comic rather than working as one.  Furthermore, he informs Louie that if he should choose to try to replace Letterman, the first step would be to shoot a test — should the test fail, the scraps of Louie’s career would die with it.

Unlike his previous brush with Hollywood in “Halloween/Ellie” Moonves’ forthright nature and ease of authority affect Louie deeply. Moonves represents exactly what Louie does not have (and does not want), and has the power to trigger Louie’s feelings of inadequacy. The episode comes to a close with the wheels turning in his head, wondering how many more shows he has until he’s splitting a bill with other soon-to-be-washups.

The nuanced way that the show presents characters paints Moonves as neither bully nor adversary, and what makes Louie’s crisis of conscience all the more meaningful is that Moonves’ words hold a great deal of truth to them. Louie — whose routines regularly cite the burdens of middle age — must be considering how long he can continue being a working comic; what is the next step, or isn’t there one for him?

We believe in Louie. His character and his personal life overflow with integrity. And yet, much of that integrity stems from an internalized sense of inadequacy that Moonves has tapped into and fully exploited. 

Louie — the character — suffers from low self-esteem, seems to have no luck at anything, and is frequently depressed and eating himself oblivion. But the constant comedy of errors that are his circumstances is what allows us to know that he’s going to be okay. He’s a comedian, god dammit! Every kick he receives when he’s down, self-inflicted or not, becomes another new piece of material to try out at Carolines, right?

But there’s the rub. 

“Late Show Pt. 1” is intentionally one of the least-funny episodes of this season and of the show in general.  The absence of comedy — via the excluded Leno set and the lack of situation diversions — is what helps this episode to feel fundamentally wrong. Normal Louie is a lovable Eeyore; Hollywood Louie is genuinely unable to see the light at the end of the tunnel, or feel any sense of achievement. We understand that, to the great detriment of his “career,” Louie will retain his integrity rather than roll over for some network big-wig, but that the sound of doors closed voluntarily will haunt him. For once, rather than being able to blame a difference of opinion, a jerk promoter, or his place as a “comic’s comic,” this loss will be entirely of his own volition.

Guest post by Bryan Menegus, who blogs here.

It took me a really long time to decide if I liked Workaholics and the more I see of it the more I can’t make up my mind. There are a tons of episodes, mostly from season one, that I think are really clever and funny. The new season has been hit of miss for me but the ones I like, I love. Something about the later episodes feels off to me, and I’ve realized that it’s the same thing that feels different about the later seasons of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

From the first episode of Workaholics that I watched, I was struck by its similarities to Sunny — another show about a group of inept slackers partying/drinking all day. Not to the point I would consider Workaholics to be a rip-off but they definitely have the same vibe.

Now I’ve noticed another similarity between the two shows: as they’ve gone on they’ve become considerably wackier. Both shows’ first seasons have plots and characterizations that are more grounded in reality than later seasons. You could actually imagine these people existing and getting into some of the situations at the center of the first season episodes.

With Sunny the shift to broader situations and comedy is more demonstrable because it’s been happening for years. But Workaholics appears to be headed in a similar direction already at an accelerated rate.

Admittedly I didn’t fall in love with it right away, but when I watched the first season on Netflix I actually enjoyed it quite a bit, “Office Camp-out” and “Checkpoint Gnarly” in particular. Obviously it’s a TV show on Comedy Central and certain liberties are taken with reality so watching with a certain degree of suspension of disbelief is necessary from the get-go. But overall the characters felt like real people.

Anders is neurotic and obsessed with furthering his career (even though he’s just as incompetent as the others). Adam is obsessed with his physique and getting girls. Blake is that weird friend you have who would totally buy a bear jacket. (You know you have that friend with weird taste that you just can’t explain). But as the seasons have progressed all the characters, with a particular emphasis on Adam and Blake, have become more cartoonish.

I enjoyed season one of Workaholics because there was some level of relatability there, but the show has been going so far off the deep end that it’s almost impossible to relate to the situations presented in it.

The cold open for “The Meat Jerking Beef Boys” is completely nuts and really funny, but as a result it’s completely improbable and I refuse to believe there are actual people out there crazy enough to drag a cow carcass into their living room and start butchering it with chainsaws. As the characters get more cartoonish, so have the episode premises. They’ve gone from bizarre to the extreme. One season two episode involves everyone getting trapped in the sewer, while another has everyone in the office forced to wear footy pajamas (that episode also features Blake’s creepy new Real Doll). It’s a far cry from season one plots which revolved around things like the guys sabotaging each other for a promotion, going on strike, or trying to beat a drug test.

Some of the broader episodes are funny just from sheer ridiculousness but they’ve lost whatever relatability factor was present in the beginning. The show also felt more cohesive because the plots by and large all revolved around the workplace (playing into the title of the show’s pun). In seasons two and three any given episode could really be about anything.

The first season of Sunny stands out from the rest of that show in that you could really conceive of a group of selfish, ignorant people actually doing those things (i.e. before the show introduced things like casual crack addictions and Rickety Cricket). Buying a gun in self-defense, lying about cancer to get a girl, or trying to make a quick buck selling alcohol to minors are all shitty things to do, but I believe they’re within the realm of possibility for actual people.

With the introduction of Frank and the seemingly endless supply of his wealth and connections (not to mention depravity) the Sunny gang have an easy out for how they get into the absurd messes that they do. This isn’t automatically a bad thing; some of the show’s funniest episodes can be found in later seasons and involve outrageous situations like Dee getting a job as a substitute teacher and taking her class on a field trip to Paddy’s. It’s still a good show, albeit a completely different one than when it started.

And that’s why I’m not sure if I like Workaholics. Sunny has found a way to keep the show entertaining after seven years, I think the wackier elements the show has worked for it (although I’ll be the first to tell you that the earlier seasons are much better). As cartoonish as Sunny itself has gotten, I still really enjoy it even when it has an off episode. I’m not sure I can say the same thing when Workaholics turns out a dud.

Workaholics must find a way to strike a good balance the way Sunny did if it hopes to catch on and have longevity. I have faith that the show will be able to find its footing and do that because when it’s at the top of its game, it can rival Sunny in its prime.

Guest post by Matt Ern, who can be found blogging here.