 with Kevin Fallon Everything we can't stop loving, hating, and thinking about this week in pop culture.
This week:
'Severance' Proves Going to Work Is Worse Than a Horror Film The last time a new Apple TV+ series became a word-of-mouth sensation, it was Ted Lasso, which saw its popularity build at about the same rate as our anxiety and dread during the first harrowing months of the pandemic—which is to say, uh, quite fast. We were stuck at home. Things were bleak. The unflappable optimism, earnest worldview, and Foghorn Leghorn-turned-Everyman witticisms of Ted were both a salve and a guiding light through the darkness.
Another new Apple TV+ series is starting to draw rumblings of that same enthusiasm that the gee-golly soccer coach did, albeit under quite different circumstances—though again with a canny, if entirely unplanned tone to mirror the current cultural mood.
Ted Lasso debuted when we were all adjusting to a new life working from home and needed some cheering up. Now employees are being called back to the office in droves. After two years of recalibrating a different kind of work-life balance, they aren't exactly over the moon about it and need to vent.  Enter Severance, a series in which the act of going into an office and working every day for a corporate entity is portrayed as psychological torture and a real-life manifestation of a dystopian horror film.
I can't imagine why, at this moment, a series like this seems to be resonating. A great mystery. Who could say? (It's also funny, because you have to laugh…)
The series, which is directed by Ben Stiller, premiered its third episode Friday on Apple's streaming service, several days after Gracie Mansion's jester-in-residence, New York City Mayor Eric Adams, urged companies to mandate that workers return to the office, arguing that the remote work is unsustainable.
"You can't stay home in your pajamas all day," he said, as both a challenge to those who have grown accustomed to the khaki-free life—"I can and I will" is one impassioned response to the PJs moratorium—and a gross ignorance of those who have discovered remote work to be a miraculous solution to the burnout and logistical prison that commuting and being tethered to an office desk all day fostered, particularly for working parents.
When they dreamt up the show, the creative team behind Severance could never have imagined that existential musings of "what does working mean today?" would be less heady philosophizing to roll your eyes at than a headline-making, trending question of urgency. It was years before anyone knew what a pandemic was, and the idea of work-life balance was less an equilibrium than a teeter-totter with the "life" half dug into the ground while the "work" part stretched toward the moon. But its arrival at this particular time couldn't be more perfect.
Severance, in the case of this series, refers to a controversial procedure that is becoming normalized and popular. By their own free will, an employee of a major corporation can agree to become a "severed" worker, which means undergoing a brain surgery the result of which completely bifurcates a person's personal life and professional life, including all memories of each. While at work, they have no awareness or recollection of who they are or what happens when they are outside the office, and vice versa.
The solution to trying to maintain a work-life balance: stop trying. Why fail at "having it all" when you can succeed at having half, depending on the time of the day? That famous fawning, "I don't know how she does it!" Well, she doesn't give a shit about work while she's home, and the rest of the world is dead to her while she's working. And it doesn't take any effort to compartmentalize; her brain is now hardwired to do so.
"It doesn't mess with your head?" one character, intrigued by the procedure, asks Mark (Adam Scott; listen to my colleague Matt Wilstein's interview with him here). Mark is a severed worker for a company called Lumon. "I think for some people, that's the point," he replies.
In his "outie" life, which refers to his existence outside of Lumon, his wife has died and he's dealing with depression and an unhealthy alcohol habit. In his "innie" life, he and his colleagues collect data alone as a foursome under the watchful eye of executive overlords who enforce strict, infantilizing protocols. This is just fine for Mark, both the innie and outie version, until things start getting complicated—which is exactly what he got severed to avoid.
If we're being honest, the concept of severance does seem appealing, especially given the state of modern work culture. The show wouldn't work otherwise.
Maybe a 9-to-5 wouldn't feel as mind-numbing if there was no context of an outside world. Maybe the endless pursuit of Inbox Zero wouldn't pummel at your will to live and rob you of trivial things like "relaxing, ever" or "sleeping at night" if an inbox ceased to exist the second you clocked out for the day. (As a person with current inbox: 90,933—that is not an exaggerated number—I'm in. Don't even get me started at the notion of clocking out for the day. What is this, the '50s? In other words: Sever me, daddy.)
And maybe, too, you would be more productive if you weren't preoccupied by a fight with your spouse, figuring out your kids' schedule, or thinking about how to fix The Real Housewives of New York City (speaking hypothetically, of course…) as you try to do work.  The genius of Severance, however, and the reason why everyone who's been watching it has been unable to shake it, is the slow-burn revelation that this isn't an easy fix to a universal crisis. It is, as is everything to do with work culture and corporate incentive, nefarious and disturbing in ways we're perhaps unprepared or unwilling to recognize we're already on the path toward bringing to fruition.
Severance exposes the inevitability of something like this, a world in which we are lobotomized in order to better serve a company's bottom line. The series will make you wince at its spot-on send-ups of the tactics employers take to gaslit staff into believing they're satisfied. (One man won't stop talking about the waffle party he could win if his numbers are strong enough.)
When Lumon's newest severed employee, Helly, wakes up in a conference room, realizes she can't remember anything about herself, and asks, "Am I livestock? Did you grow me for food?," you'll be tempted to do a survey of your own work history and how you may have been valued. Helly is trapped. She can't escape and she can't resign, which are one in the same, because resigning has to be signed off on by the "outie" version, and the "outie" version willingly agreed to this cubicle-bound, Groundhog Day hell.
As you watch the series, you're haunted by its inevitability. Watching it unfold is as unsettling as any horror film or series you'll watch this year. Each episode plays out like a darkly comedic thriller, with intense cliffhangers likely to ensure that Apple's weekly release strategy will only continue to grow the show's obsessive audience.
It's a commentary on workplace culture that's clever in its balance of fantasy, brutal realism, and humorous, heady ideology. It's Kafka. It's Kubrick. It's Brené Brown and GOOP. As a whole, it's a helluva bookend for this era of Apple TV+ programming.
Not that long ago we were giddy over Ted Lasso, swooning over a mustachioed soccer/life coach as he slapped his "Believe" sign and urged us to "be a goldfish" when facing life's challenges. Severance offers up a much bleaker outlook: We're screwed, and there may be no escape.
Millennials (As in…Me) Can't Stop Crying About Kids' Shows Of the things that make me cry on a daily basis these days—check the news for five minutes, and take your pick—I didn't expect one would be an aardvark.
An animated aardvark, to be specific. The animated aardvark.
And you know what? He deserves every ounce of that emotion. The PBS series Arthur aired its final episode this week, after 25 years. It was a bittersweet triumph: a beautiful farewell to an influential and progressive TV series, but a jarring reminder of how quickly time passes and times change—and how complicated that change can be.  We've been less humans these last few years than walking, talking, sentient geysers of exploding emotion. With trauma, with fear, with sadness, anger, and dread—the potent cocktail of "being alive in 2022"—comes something equally powerful: nostalgia. Perhaps that's why there's been this unexpectedly vocal and deeply felt sentiment when it comes to developments in children's programming.
What would have been blips of a news cycle gone unnoticed have boomed into seismic cultural events, occasion for reminiscing about how our hearts and minds were shaped by cartoons and kids' shows that seemed so innocuous at the time, but now we can see as foundational for the people we have become. While the world is charging at us with a relentless battalion of reasons to ask things like, "Is this really who we are?," it's a profound exercise to remember back to a more innocent version of one's self—and even more so to recognize the bravery and care with which these series validated and encouraged that fragile person.
When the original Steve from Blue's Clues returned to mark an anniversary last year, directly addressing the hardships that came with the growing up we've done since we last saw him on TV, there was a collective ugly cry among millennials on social media (and, let's be honest, IRL, too.) There's a similar thing happening with Arthur now that it's ending. You don't know what something, or someone, means to you until it's time to say goodbye.
The finale flashed forward 20 years or so to catch us up on what Arthur and his gang were up to as adults—adults who (shudder) are about the same age as we are now.
It was comforting to know they're all OK. That they seemed to have achieved dreams, but on a realistic, moderate scale. It was joyous to see that they've grown comfortable enough to truly be themselves. (Draw your own conclusions about Francine's identity based on how her adult version was stylized.)
Like all news stories these days, you can't separate the headline from the emotion and the context. Arthur, like so many groundbreaking children's programs, is a series that never shied away from real issues and the progressive realities of the world. (Admittedly, this isn't the only time we've recently cried over Arthur. The news of Mr. Ratburn's same-sex wedding, and the show's fortitude in airing it in spite of conservative family groups' protests, did get us misty.)
As I write this, Florida's "Don't Say Gay" bill passed. News quickly spread this week of the introduction of a measure in Texas that would require parents of trans children to be reported for child abuse.
I'm not quite sure I would even be able to summon the words that would articulate how painful this is, how hateful it is, and how dangerous this could be for LGBTQ+ youth and their families. Every time I try, it's not right—not severe enough, not specific enough, not as irrefutable as it needs to be. I start to get too emotional and lose the will to try again. The baffled, distraught "Is this really who we are?" once again applies.
But that's why, I think, we get so overwhelmed thinking about these kids' shows from our past. We were lucky enough to be guided by entertainment that grew with us, our emotional needs, and a changing culture that needed their influence to help move it forward. I can only hope there's going to be more Arthurs for these children who, especially now, are going to need it.
Children's programming has historically been amongst the most provocative and, facing backlash, courageous there is in entertainment. (My good friend just pointed me toward a groundswell of backlash against Thomas the Tank Engine because the locomotives are, evidently, "fEeLiNg" too much…)
The smallest amount of comfort is to be taken in the certainty that, at the very least, similar shows with similar missions will continue. Your move, Paw Patrol.
When We're All Past Our Last F*ckable Days… Well, I see we're doing this shit again.
What should have been an unmemorable casting notice this week ended up being the lighting rod for a social media thunderstorm of outrage, exhaustion, and, frankly, disgust.
Tom Holland is going to star in a new Apple TV+ series called The Crowded Room. Fantastic. I can't think of a more likable major star right now than Tom Holland. Emmy Rossum is joining him in a major role. Well, yippee. There are few actresses more talented and deserving of major showcases than the perennially undervalued Shameless star, who should have at least one Emmy Award and multiple nominations under her belt.
Then, the kicker: Rossum is playing Holland's mother, despite being just 10 years older.
You would have thought that by now we would have dismantled, discontinued, and buried in the center of the earth this ridiculous casting pattern: Male actors are virile leading men until they croak on set; women are ingenues until their thirties, after which they reach, as Amy Schumer brilliantly dubbed it, their "last fuckable day" and become dowdy mothers—often to actors who are their age-appropriate peers. (My favorite example: Sally Field played Tom Hanks' love interest in the film Punchline. Six years later, she was his mother in Forrest Gump.)  Listen, I haven't seen the scripts for this show. Maybe there are flashbacks in which it makes sense to have a younger actress play the mother to a younger version of Holland's character. Sure. Or maybe I'm being generous and this is just absolutely ridiculous.
In any case, I'm still thrilled about my planned Hollywood star vehicle: Portraying Harry Styles' great-grandfather in a searing family drama about a great-grandfather making out with Harry Styles.
I'm Disinterested in Everything But the Adele Disinterested Meme I don't often feel bad for celebrities. An invasion of privacy must be terrible in ways that I can't even imagine. The extent to which you're unable to do normal things must be destabilizing. But you're also so fucking rich, so… [shrug emoji].
In any case, I both had deep empathy for Adele and also laughed my ass off as footage of her trying to ignore an obtrusive camera in her face at the NBA All-Star Game became a meme. Captions ran the gamut of "me ignoring my responsibilities" and "me pretending not to see my enemy across the room."  For me, it might as well be "me seeing the warning signs that this newsletter is going to go egregiously over length," and then typing another 500 words anyway. Whoops.
And speaking of newsletters, you're a damn fool if you don't sign up for Source Material, a new newsletter spearheaded by my Daily Beast friend and colleague Lachlan Cartwright and our tenacious media desk. It's a juicy, mischievous needling into the drama, intrigue, and utter bullshit puppeteered by the biggest power players in politics, media, and our own little vacation home of tone-deaf bad actors: entertainment. Subscribe here! (Do it!)
Horny for Daniel Radcliffe as Weird Al There was a very artsy preview of Daniel Radcliffe in costume as "Weird Al" Yankovic, the most delightfully "huh?" casting decision in as long as I can remember. Anyway, here he is in the Hawaiian shirt. I am aroused and I am confused. I'll need a moment with this. 
What to watch this week: Better Things: This has been a magical jewel of a show, spinning ordinary life into Big Feelings. It's the final season! (Mon. on FX) Top Chef: Roughly 474 seasons in, this is still the best reality TV competition there is. If you don't agree you can pack your damn knives and go. (Thurs. on Bravo) Vikings: Valhalla: Hell yeah! (Fri. on Netflix)
What to skip this week: Chappelle's Home Team: [Sigh] Remember when he was "canceled?" Lololol (Mon. on Netflix) Killing Eve: [Sigh] Remember when this was, like, the best? (Sun. on BBC America) The Problem With Jon Stewart: [Sigh] Remember when this was gonna save us all? (Thurs. on Apple TV+)
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‘Severance’ Proves Going to Work Is Worse Than a Horror Film
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