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Hollywood has been in a long-running downturn. Good news has become a rare commodity in the film and TV industry, giving way to original stories as the pandemic, writers’ and actors’ strikes, and the wildfires that devastated Los Angeles in January have disrupted the industry. “Survive until 2025” was the motto the city espoused last year, but this year has brought little relief. Production is down, jobs are disappearing, and morale is sagging; entertainment formats are losing ground to video games, YouTube, and social media. (Over the weekend, Trump himself weighed in, writing in Truth Social that “the film industry in America is DIETING a very fast death” while also proposing tariffs that could hasten its demise.) In a recent profile of David Zaslav, perhaps the most hated executive in Los Angeles, in New York Magazine, writer Michael Wolff noted that the industry’s “gradual decline” “may have reached the point of total collapse.”
If Hollywood still can’t shake its doom narrative, it can at least strive for honesty about its failed era. That’s the spirit that permeates two insider shows about show business that debuted this spring: the current season of Max’s dramedy Hacks and the new Apple TV+ comedy The Studio. In Hacks, acclaimed comedian Deborah Vance (Jean Smart) finally achieves her dream of hosting a late-night show, only to find herself crowned queen of a sandcastle. And in The Studio, Seth Rogen plays Matt Remick, a newly minted producer who soon realizes that his new job involves “disrupting” the medium he loves in pursuit of profit.
For the first three seasons, much of the fun of Hacks was exploring life on the D-list. We saw Deborah through the eyes of Ava (Hannah Einbinder), a wunderkind comedy writer who was canceled after tweeting a bad joke and ended up in Las Vegas, where Deborah has a fading residency. Ava helps Deborah revamp her act, and Deborah introduces her to the many, often shady, money-making opportunities available to those who no longer seek prestige: QVC clothing lines, a supplement business, cruise-going gigs. At the end of season three, after successfully remaking her image and rebuilding her career, Deborah lands the late-night show of her dreams and promises to make Ava the head writer, only to renege on her promise at the last minute, blackmailing Ava into securing the position for herself instead.
Season four, the first to be set in Los Angeles, unravels the fallout. In the press, the two women have become symbols of feminist solidarity. Deborah is the first woman at eleven-thirty; Ava is the youngest head writer in the history of late-night television. But behind the scenes, their mutual resentments threaten to destroy the entire enterprise. (When Ava tries to convince Deborah to let her take over the writers’ room by declaring, “I’m trying to make your life easier,” Deborah replies, “Then kill yourself.”) Neither can afford dysfunction. Their job is not just to create a successful show, but to redeem all of late-night television. “This wasn’t a choice between you and someone else running it,” a network executive (Helen Hunt) informs them. “This was a choice between you and no one.” To be considered successful, they must emulate James Corden’s Carpool Karaoke, which has inspired not only viral clips but a five-season spinoff. These days, a show isn't worth making unless it can spawn a franchise.
This dystopian vision of Hollywood provides a compelling backdrop. Deborah and Ava’s mandate reflects real-life concerns about retaining an audience. The portrait is deepened by the parallel struggles of Deborah’s manager, Jimmy (Paul W. Downs), and his own mentee-turned-partner, Kayla (Meg Stalter). One subplot involves their struggle with another difficult client: Collie, a biter who stars in a TV remake of Lassie. Crazy but insightful, Kayla quickly demonstrates her ability to navigate this scaled-down version of the industry, a half-hour series greenlit at a time when “nobody’s buying.” (The line is also an indirect acknowledgement of a painful reality: Streaming companies, many of whose subscribers are based outside the country, favor content that can “travel,” so comedies, which tend to be more culturally specific, have become a hard sell in this city.) Perhaps the surest sign of the business’s growing irrelevance is its reliance on the power of social media stars that its gatekeepers still don’t fully understand. Deborah, ever willing to suspend her own judgment if it gets her the reaction she wants, brings on a TikToker named Dance Mom (Julianne Nicholson, in comic relief). Dance Mom becomes a hit, but the show’s version
Sourse: newyorker.com
