“I’m from Texas,” says Woody Harrelson to Matthew McConaughey in the Apple TV comedy Brothers, “but you’re like a belt-buckle come to life, man.”
Two boys from Texas walked into Hollywood carrying essentially the same suitcase: a drawl, a grin and a befuddled expression, as if they’d wandered in from somewhere else. Harrelson strolled into Cheers midway through the hit series as a replacement, assistant bartender Woody Boyd, a sweetly dim yokel who laughed without ever knowing what the joke was. McConaughey drifted into Dazed and Confused as Wooderson, a horny, philosophical layabout who regarded adolescence as a lifestyle choice. Both felt like Americans you’d meet at a bar. Neither seemed interested in leaving it.
Their careers bended in different directions. Harrelson made his affability dangerous, becoming a nervy, unpredictable presence in White Men Can’t Jump, Natural Born Killers and my favourite The People Vs Larry Flynt. McConaughey, looking like a walking beer commercial, became Hollywood’s resident Southern heartthrob, luxuriating in the honey-glaze of romantic comedies before meatier work like Mud, Magic Mike and The Dallas Buyers Club.
Both represent a vision of Americana, but from opposite ends of the picnic table. Harrelson is the environmentalist vegan, an anti-establishment flower child in cowboy boots; McConaughey is the shirtless barbecuer, a philosopher of sunshine, football and grilled meat. One might plant a tree after dinner; the other might chop one down. These are movie stars disguised as regular guys, even when their versions of “regular” could hardly be more different.
True Detective turned contrast into chemistry. In the superlative first season of that series — streaming in India on JioHotstar — Harrelson’s earthy and sociable Marty Hart collided hard with McConaughey’s spectral, aphoristic Rust Cohle. One spoke too much, the other swallowed the void. Together these unlikely associates made Texas feel like the edge of the universe.
Could these men be brothers?
Based “on a true rumour” that McConaughey and Harrelson shared the same father — a story they tell on talk-shows instead of getting a DNA test — Brothers allows the actors to roleplay this ridiculous coincidence, while showing off what makes each of them unique. This isn’t the most ambitious storytelling premise, but the show shares the easy, laidback charm of its leading men. True to them, it grows on you, and can never be accused of trying too hard.
In the eight-episode series, Harrelson and his family show up at McConaughey’s ranch, hours before McConaughey impulsively decides to run for Governor of Texas. This leads to chaos, as McConnaughey tries to focus on his campaign, while Harrelson sneakily investigates the scandalous idea McConaughey’s frequently drunk mother — played by the brilliant Holland Taylor — has planted in his shiny head.
The self-referential gags write themselves. “Alright alright alright alright,” says the kid playing McConaughey’s son. “Just three,” McConaughey corrects him, hurriedly. “Remember the copyright.” “Your dad’s the one from Venom?” someone asks one of the kids about Harrelson, knowing him only as a superhero movie baddie. “Your dad’s been in my nightmares.”
“I’m not going to run this campaign based on my celebrity and fame,” says McConaughey, taking his gubernatorial attempt seriously. Lisa Gilroy, fantastic as his condescending campaign manager, shuts down this idea instantly: “That would be like Sydney Sweeney telling her agents she only wants to do voice-work.”
The show frequently digs celebrity relevance and self-importance, even as both actors rib each other. McConaughey begins a sentence with “When I first auditioned for Nolan,” and tells the family that they have “two pretty good actors at your disposal, Oscar-winner, Oscar… what do you call that when you don’t?” “Nominee,” growls Harrelson.
None of these meta-gags feel comedically groundbreaking, but the actors have such an infectious amount of fun that it’s hard not to grin back. Earlier this year, The Invite reminded us how delightful it can be to see Ed Norton actually having fun on the big-screen. Similarly Brothers gives us these two grizzled cowpokes horsing around and having a darned good time.
Are they brothers? The question seems besides the point, though the opening credit montage — featuring pictures of both actors from infancy and boyhood, next to each other — feel uncanny. That visual resemblance may have faded completely as the actors have gotten older, but their distinctive careers somehow resemble each other more now. At one point in Brothers they walk into a coffee shop where one of the baristas says “I call dibs on the old one.” “Which one’s the old one?” her friend asks. “Doesn’t matter,” says the barista, still staring.
This is not your traditional odd couple. These two aren’t chalk and cheese as much as hard cheese and smelly cheese. I prefer Harrelson as a performer to McConaughey, who always seems to be doing an impression of himself, but both men can deliver dialogue in memorable and unique fashion, and have their own place on the charcuterie board of the movies.
Brothers is a side-dish. It isn’t a high-concept series as much as a series possibly conceived when high, and that’s okay too. Despite its limited ambitions, it provides warmth and affability and a double-portion of charm. It’s alright alright alright.
Streaming tip of the week:
The People Vs Larry Flynt, directed by Milos Forman and available to rent on Apple TV/Amazon, stars Woody Harrelson as the pioneering publisher and pornographer behind Penthouse magazine. It’s a powerful performance in an essential film about the nature of censorship.
Raja Sen is a critic, screenwriter and columnist. His first play, a murder mystery called The Simla Affair, recently opened in Delhi. He is currently writing a horror film.