Brooklyn Nine-Nine

I’ve found another sitcom workplace where I think I’d really fit in.  This time, it’s within the NYPD.  Let’s be clear: I’d be no good at solving crimes.  I would also be unwilling to undertake any duties that put me at risk in any way whatsoever.  Similarly, I couldn’t work in New York as it’s either too hot or too cold (and UK citizens currently can’t go there).  But, Brooklyn Nine-Nine has now joined the ranks of charming comedy shows where I tune in to feel like one of the gang.  I’ve imagined myself really fitting in with the personalities of Parks & Recreation.  I’ve considered where my place would be among the Scranton bods of The Office US (as well as knowing full well which one’s me in The Office…).  Now I can spend time wondering how my own sense of humour would enrich the pleasant chuckling that the activities of this very special police squad create.

Naturally, I am intentionally late to this party.  Having seen countless ads on e4 for the UK broadcast of this programme, I put it in the same category as Hollyoaks: TV shows whose existence I can ignore.  This decision was compounded by my televisual aversion to the emergency services.  However, I was frequently asked if I had seen Brooklyn Nine-Nine, with most people prompted by my own excessive office-based consumption of yoghurt – a trait I share with Sergeant Terry Jeffords (Terry Crews).  Well, with lockdown coming up to its one-year anniversary, we’ve all got through more TV than we ever thought possible.  I’m not sure what happens when you complete Netflix, but let’s start a rumour that you get a telegram from the Queen (The Crown’s Olivia Colman of course).  So, to offset some of the heavier drama boxsets I was wading through (The Fall, The Staircase etc), Brooklyn Nine-Nine seemed like a welcome addition to my rotations.

At first, I’ll admit to seeing nothing special.  It was about crime, but not in a serious way.  Nobody died, jeopardy was only there to serve as plot device against which comedy could play out, the characters were loud and excessive in their behaviour.  Before I got to know them inside out, the humour struck me as obvious and I began to come to terms with the fact this might well be a true background show: something that plays in the background while I cook under the extractor fan, unable really to hear or see it.  Sure, a couple of episodes would get a bit of focus during my weekly bath, but Brooklyn’s fictional 99^th precinct hadn’t yet earned a special place in my heart.  I did however unearth my favourite character early on: Gina Linetti (Chelsea Peretti).  There’s something about a woman who won’t let anything or anyone stop her doing exactly as she pleases that just makes for wonderful entertainment.  Her rudeness to all her colleagues is a constant source of inspiration.

Over time, though, I learned that all our main players have such strong characterisation that the humour’s beauty clearly comes from knowing them well.  Disturbingly, perhaps, there was also a bit of me in all of them.  My lifelong geek side means I see Amy Santiago as a kindred spirit.  My emotionless intellectual snobbery turns Captain Raymond Holt into a hero.  Charles Boyle is all of my insecurities wrapped up in one tiny little man.  I won’t go through them all, but they’re so much more than background artists designed to offer perspective on our central figure: Jake Peralta, played by Andy Samberg.  He is the only one I am not, but he still makes me laugh with his childishness: a great face for silliness.  As series progress, the vibe becomes less about Peralta’s tension with fish-out-of-water new boss Holt, and more about the unit’s ability to support each other through good and bad times.

If that doesn’t sound hilarious, Brooklyn Nine-Nine is also taking on a number of social issues in a matter-of-fact way.  Racism, homophobia and sexism all come under the microscope.  We tread a narrow tightrope between signalling worthiness and, in fact, reflecting the world around us.  A stereotype or stock character is a very rare occurrence throughout the show’s universe.  And it is this, coupled with the cast’s irresistibility, that saw Brooklyn Nine-Nine succeed in commanding my attention.  Somehow, it’s elevated itself well above a background show.  Each instalment of its six series on Netflix (and a seventh out there that aired this year) deserves your full attention.

It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia

I’d never realised how uplifting a musical accompaniment of strings can be.  It has the power to elevate moods.  Whether it’s me reading young adult fiction on my balcony in the sunshine while on lockdown with Spotify shuffling through classical classics in my AirPods because, let’s face it, it’s only a matter of time before a neighbour decides that a rare warm day is best responded to by playing Ed Sheeran at full subwoofer-shattering volume with the windows open, or it’s the opening sequences of It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia (pre-credits set up, reveal of episode title, credits, start of episode itself), it’s a good time I have too often overlooked.  Indeed, It’s Always Sunny itself is something else I hadn’t really registered.  My Netflix algorithm constantly served me this suggestion, but the 14 seasons seemed like an insurmountable challenge.  Going since 2005, it clearly had longevity though.  A work colleague urged me to get into it, and yet I continued to find something about it off-putting.

Cue lockdown and, having got through all of The Office US, I needed another show with short episodes to serve as my background viewing while I made food and performed other banal acts in my longed-for new-build flat-cum-isolation prison.  Banished from the office, all food is made and consumed within my apartment, meaning I could devour two episodes with each meal, with further instalments knocked down during more extensive sessions of cooking (my response to the pandemic has been to follow a lot of Mary Berry soup recipes).  Thus I completed It’s Always Sunny in just a few weeks.

But let me warn you, for those beginning at series one, you’ve got a harrowing experience ahead of you.  This fast-paced sitcom tells the tale of four friends running an Irish pub in Philadelphia.  They don’t have dialogue, so much as scream at each other in a high pitch (a bit like the pitch that is boxset-specific to Archer).  My first impression was that the characters were all losers.  Keen on drinking, they existed in that half-drunk, half-hungover frame of mind where anything you do is done badly and unwisely.  This propelled the plots but made me want to shower afterwards.  What’s more, at fifteen years old, the footage looks like it’s been filmed on a pair of glasses.  I don’t mind my comedy on the cheap, but this, combined with some humour that’s now outdated as our sensitivities evolve, I was slightly conflicted about being required to press on for 13 further seasons.

It’s funny when you realise that what was missing all along was Danny DeVito.  He shows up in the second season and everything clicks into place.  Four young adults failing to recognise their responsibilities suddenly takes on another dimension when complemented by a much older divorcé who wants to relive his bacchanalian youth while funding it with the wealth he has had a lifetime to acquire.  As Frank Reynolds, DeVito is at the heart of the humour, whether just looking short, confused and ridiculous, or role-modelling lascivious behaviour while craving pork products.  He completes the gang and suddenly I love the gang, both individually and together.  I want to hang out with them.  I wonder where I will fit in.  And, unable to see anyone during lockdown, they become ersatz-friends who make me laugh out loud every day.

Sure, like any bunch of real friends, the gang has constant conflict (screamed at high pitches).  Frank ditches the others at one point and latches on to some other young bar owners.  But this new clique have no interest in schemes and plans; they’re not impressed when he’s dressed as a cheetah for no reason (even though this still makes me laugh just to think about it).  They cannot forgive him the wrongs he does them.  And that’s the beauty of our Paddy’s Pub gang – they’re terrible people yet they always come back together, no matter what they have done to each other.  Probably because they can’t be arsed to hold grudges.  You can’t help but like them.  With each episode and series, their charm shines through, and awfulness gets mixed up in likeability.

Each is awful in their own way.  Dennis, the occasional leader, has matinee idol looks with sexual predator sensibilities.  His warped view of consent is unacceptable, but it does attract him all the trouble he deserves.  His sister, Dee, is the scapegoat of the group, who like to bond over nothing more than calling her a bird.  A failing-to-failed actress, her delusions of stand-up talent lead her to experiment with racially insensitive character creations, often as part of one of the gang’s schemes.  Mac, played by Rob McElhenney (the show’s creator), displays some of the greatest development across the seasons’ arc – and not just from a character point of view.  While slim at first, he fluctuates between athletic and average before piling on pounds to become truly fat.  Then, by season 13, he is the very picture of 0% body fat ripped-to-shreds physique aesthetic achievement.  It’s like the reverse trajectory of my own body’s quarantine response, which is now limited to a daily burst of rolling on the carpet with resistance bands in an unsuccessful attempt to minimise the damage.  And, finally, there’s Charlie.  He’s the janitor and has the most questionable hygiene habits, mostly ingesting his janitorial equipment for personal pleasure.

Each episode, the five come together in an ambitious set up, often outlining a pastiche of a societal issue, though just as often they pursue slapstick silliness.  Sitcom structure fans will note the alternating pairings into teams for plot and subplot interplay, before it all comes together in the comedic climax.  Swirling around this, a cast of Philadelphia’s supporting characters reoccur like there’s no tomorrow, especially as the gang normally ruin their lives.  Poor old Cricket has me chuckle with every appearance, while Waitress never even gets named.  I think Artemis is my favourite as the amateur actor with an inflated sense of craft, but each one is a triumph.

While the characters’ life plans aren’t ambitious, though, It’s Always Sunny truly is.  I can’t say how accurate it is in its portrayal of the city, as I have only been through Philadelphia on a train once (and it looked a bit like The Wire), but, once it’s established the tropes of its own universe, there is nothing the gang won’t try.  Of particular interest to me is their musicality.  They rehearse Motownphilly for a Boyz II Men concert, they perform in their own production of The Nightman, they ruin a wedding with dancing to George Michael (which is epic nowhere but in their own imagination) and there is even a musical episode (yes!).  We watch Mac interpretative dance.  The experimentation goes beyond music, challenging philosophy, perspective, gender, sexuality, religion, science and morality, but all while making horrible comments to each other, abusing each other and calling Dee a bird.  I’ve gorged on 14 series and now I’ve got that sickening feeling that I want to do all it again in case I’ve missed anything.  Otherwise, I’m going to have to find five depraved, narcissistic friends somewhere else with whom I can see out the rest of lockdown laughing my head off.