The worst thing that can happen to a very good television show is when they run out of things to say. Telling a good story and telling what fans and network executives want (more shows) are often at odds with each other, and I’ve seen some of my favorite shows crumble under the pressure to deliver one more.
That’s why I was a little worried Hacks, which stalled his landing for two seasons. In the second season finale, Deborah Vance (Jean Smart) shoots Ava Daniels (Hannah Einbinder), telling Ava that it’s time for her to succeed on her own. The move comes from love, and perhaps from Deborah, a bit selfish, wanting to enjoy her success alone.
As an epilogue for these characters, it was well-acted and well-earned—good for fans, extremely complex for the writing team. The show hinges on the friction created by these two’s strange, petty love for each other. Without the turmoil, there is no show and at the same time, the same rocky road between the two can feel like a repeat of the antagonism.
But it turns out, I had nothing to worry about. Hacks There is still much to say.
The show continues to be a consistent delight. This third chapter focuses on Deborah’s ambition to become a late-night network TV talk show host. Through its journey into what the future of commercial comedy will look like and which comedians can actually take risks, the show asks questions — both cynical and sincere. The answer to the latter is usually the very rich and very famous.
These themes collide in the season’s eighth and final episode of “Yes, and”, where HacksIts antihero is eventually “cancelled”.
It was inevitable—cancellation is one of the most ubiquitous conversations in modern comedy. There are few things less enjoyable than a supposedly funny boomer who is unable to see how unattractive they have become. And as the show has established, Deborah Vance has always been a boomer (expletive).
But as the show makes clear, he’s not the worst boomer. Hacks Deeply self-aware, its edginess balances its optimistic sitcom premise. We follow as Deborah learns how to navigate the modern world with a millennial woman as her guide, and both main characters’ fumbles are framed as miscommunications rather than personal failings. Still, beneath the slapstick of a “Week Mob” coming for Deborah Vance, Hacks makes curious observations about who gets canceled, who stays in power, and what that really means in an industry that revolves around the rich and powerful.
“Yes, And” opens with a seemingly innocuous mistake: Deborah Vance has been double-booked at both the ceremony at UC Berkeley where she will be awarded an honorary degree and an appearance at Palm Springs Pride. It’s a tough call, but Deborah there is to Berkeley because he’s trying to build some momentum and buzz for a late-night hosting gig. A fancy event at a prestigious college will do that, and it turns out that it’s a vaunted one New Yorker writer Deborah will also be there to finish her profiling article. Knock it out of the park and the late night show is his.
But unfortunately for Team Deborah Vance, that plan quickly went south – enough to double-book them in their worries.
While at Berkeley, Deborah appeared to tell a supercut of racist and ableist “jokes” and went viral. It’s generous to call them jokes because they’re blobs of bigotry without anything resembling a punchline (eg, cars shouldn’t be made by Asian people because Asian people aren’t good drivers). As Deborah tells Ava, the clips are sewn from the same material she did decades ago, and she clearly doesn’t feel the same way today. More importantly, though, Deborah needs the New Yorker And network executives know she’s not problematic because she really wants the job.
As the clip unfolds, Deborah and Ava must figure out what to do. Ignore it and hope it goes away? Mana said the words, but will not apologize? Admit the clip and apologize?
Deborah complains about being picked on, and it’s not fair that she’s being targeted. Ava thinks Deborah’s plot is completely lost. “You can be rich and famous for making jokes,” Ava replies, begging Deborah to just say sorry. “People are allowed to give their feedback.”
As Ava makes this very sharp observation of Deborah (at a party no less), it is not difficult to connect her statement to the surrounding contemporary discourse. real-Life comedians are criticized for their jokes or behavior and then call themselves victims of rejection culture. Whether Dave Chappelle is trying to defend his anti-trans humor, Amy Schumer Talking about Middle East politics, Jerry Seinfeld Talking about the comic state of modern times, or Ellen Degeneres Talk about being “kicked out” of the business – it all revolves around not being able to handle criticism.
As Abha points out, there are no victims in the discard culture. No one is ever cancelled. One’s success can never be taken away. No one is actually being censored. This is just a personal misunderstanding of power dynamics. All of the comics I listed above continue to combine some strong deals Streaming services, Appreciation for speaking upAnd Huge stadium show.
Fame reverses the comedy landscape. Famous comedians will always have more power than a non-famous person they’re targeting, which means they can’t help but punch down, a comedy no-no. Now that social media platforms and the Internet have democratized fame and visibility, said famous comedians are being held accountable. Accountability can feel like an injustice to many famous, wealthy people. But at the end of the day they are still very rich and famous.
“No one actually canceled,” Ava says.
The ritual of putting these words in Ava’s mouth is important because she lost her job for a joke. In the first season, Ava makes a tweet about an anti-gay senator that gets her fired and ends the events of the show. Unlike famous comedians, he suffered consequences for what he did (eg, moving to Las Vegas and working for Deborah Vance). She has first-hand experience of what it’s really like to be “failed” professionally. At the same time, his trials and tribulations – being a landlord and having no social life – were extremely convenient problems.
Ava reminds Deborah that she can end the kerfuffle by apologizing. Deborah, ever so stubborn, would rather go through the fresh hell of college improv and bribe the fraternity with booze than say sorry. Comedians don’t apologize for their comedy, he insists. It isn’t until a dean pulls the plug on her show, and apparently damages the New Yorker profile, that Deborah finally agrees to appear at a campus town hall and listen to students offended by her old material.
The ending of the episode is indistinguishable from a fairy tale. Deborah’s New Yorker after her apology Profile is flashing. It’s about his humanity and how he wants to learn and grow into a tough, but brave comedian. With this newly demonstrated ability to listen, the author speculates that Deborah will become a late-night host. Right after Ava reads her article, Deborah finds out she snagged the gig and her dream job.
But while Deborah Vance gets her happy ending, there’s a slyness to it that gets back to the show’s larger point about famous people complaining about canceling culture: It’s all a joke.
Of course, we’re happy when Deborah’s past doesn’t derail her future because she’s the hero of the show, and we know her story and who she is. (It doesn’t hurt that his transgressions are far less serious than their real-life counterparts.) He also apologizes because he seems to have some semblance of remorse and wants to be better. And as he listens to students tell him how wrong he was and shows remorse, he gets a glowing profile in a fancy magazine.
Best minimum gets a handsome prize because the bar is on the floor.
While this is a satisfying story for our fictional hero, it’s a little less enjoyable considering how the episode underlines that Deborah’s job wasn’t really in question. Viral clips and online rage aren’t going to ruin his chances. The network would probably always give him a hosting gig. Between the second and third seasons of Hacks, Deborah reached the level of Seinfeld and DeGeneres, the level of prestige where any consequence can be met with a complaint, and that’s as good as an apology. Ultimately it doesn’t matter if Deborah was truly sorry for the offensive things she said or if she just wanted to be sorry because her dream gig was threatened.
“Yes, and” gets the idea that we all want to believe that people, especially the famously rich, can be held accountable. We want our personal judgments to have any impact on an industry run by the rich and powerful. But it’s all a setup, something we fall for because it feels a little better than being a punchline.
