‘Hacks’ review: One of the best comedies about comedy
The fourth season of ‘Hacks’ is a rousing return to form, with clever cameos and a new urgency
An immaculate first episode is a thing of rare beauty. It’s uncommon to see a series emerge fully formed, with a voice, a vibe, originality and self-awareness. Even the most loved shows usually can only establish an original premise or protagonists in the first episode, growing into a world over time and seasons. Therefore I remember how delighted I was with the first episode of Hacks back in 2021, compelled to write about the show in this column even when it wasn’t then streaming in India (all four seasons can now be found on JioHotstar, mercifully).
Created by Lucia Aniello, Paul W. Downs and Jen Statsky, the Hacks opener is a marvel. Up and coming comedy writer Ava has been cancelled for making a problematic political joke on Twitter, and the only gig on her immediate horizon is to work with old-school standup comedian Deborah Vance who performs so regularly in Las Vegas that she doesn’t bother changing her rusty, sexist material. The episode immediately sets up the different lenses through which to look at comedy, positions the progressives and the regressives across a generational gap, and then… a knockout punch: Deborah demands to know the joke Ava posted, and dismisses it—not for being political or provocative, but for not being funny enough. She fixes it on the spot, and Ava (along with all of us) is awestruck.
This is a superlative coup de grace, showing how the art of the joke takes us to the heart of the joke. It’s a Sorkinesque flourish—and given how much I revere the glorious first episode of Aaron Sorkin’s The West Wing, there really is no higher praise. The first season builds on this crackling start, with unique and compelling characters and a screwball energy built on comedic contrasts, with leads Hannah Einbinder (who plays Ava) and the majestic Jean Smart (as Deborah Vance) forever talking over each other.
Yet… with great starts come great opportunities to stumble. The second season, where the two leads go on a nationwide comedy tour, is fun but feels stretched out, and decidedly less essential. By the time the third season rolled around—with Ava and Deborah pitted against each other and back together again and again, through easily avoided misunderstandings—the show became too repetitive, and less than worthy of Jean Smart’s bravura performance. Here we go again, I sighed, here’s another The Marvelous Mrs Maisel (Amazon Prime), a show about a comedian where everyone loved the pilot but few could make it to the belaboured series finale.
I am therefore thrilled to report that the fourth season—which wrapped up last week—is a rousing return to form. By crowning Deborah the first female late-night talk show host in America, Hacks found new urgency, not to mention clever cameos from other hosts and comedians. Since no woman has ever been allowed into the US late-night scene, these fictional protagonists break new ground—and the Deborah/Ava contrasts feel exciting all over again because the stakes are real and fresh. Deborah wants to make the most popular show that pleases every demographic, while Ava (who keeps googling the Peabody Awards submission deadlines) wants to push the envelope.
The show has always had smashing characters. Co-creator Paul W. Downs, who plays Jimmy, the harangued manager to these two flawed and fantastic women, is superb this season. Helen Hunt is brutal as a no-nonsense network executive, Kaitlin Olson has a few great bits as Deborah’s long-suffering (and insufferable) daughter, and Poppy Liu sparkles briefly as Deborah’s personal blackjack dealer Kiki. Michaela Watkins, however, delivers too broad a performance as an oblivious HR person, and I do miss seeing more of Carl Clemons-Hopkins as Marcus the adviser, forever shaking his head at Deborah and Ava.
The show really sings whenever the two women are riffing about comedy. Deborah pitches a politically incorrect joke, that Ava—all too quickly—calls out: “I just think it’s fat-shaming." “And I think that’s fat-joke-shaming," retorts Deborah. And then these two women, the first woman to host a late night show and her head writer, giggle awhile.
It’s not all camaraderie, of course. Deborah is written as one of the great roasters in television history—with a Maggie Smith level of disdain—and Smart deploys this snark constantly and cuttingly. Seeing Ava in casuals, for instance, Deborah matter-of-factly points out, “You know, you’re not funny enough to dress like Adam Sandler." There is one episode where it feels telegraphed that Deborah will perform something for Ava, so to speak, yet even this predictability feels appropriate. The biggest fan is the biggest critic is the biggest challenge.
No challenge seems too mighty for Deborah. Smart plays her exceptionally well, creating an immediately iconic character who—miraculously—feels as believable as she is incredible. There’s a lot she’s grappling with, but when the lights come on, we see Deborah—sad and troubled Deborah—hit her teeth with her tongue, put on her brightest smile, and step out, with practiced and photogenic grace.
“You need to make the laughs yours," Deborah says. “If you slip on a banana peel, people will laugh at you. If you tell people you slipped on a banana peel, that laugh’s yours." “That’s beautiful," she’s told. “That’s Nora Ephron," Deborah reveals. This comedic self-awareness gives Hacks its purpose, with Deborah revering the women who came before her—and Ava going a step further by putting Deborah on a pedestal. Hacks shows how funny women have built on funny women who came before them, namedropping Joan Didion and Eve Babitz, with a cameo featuring the great Carol Burnett. Deborah is certainly an icon, but she’s standing on the shoulderpads of giants.
Raja Sen is a screenwriter and critic. He has co-written Chup, a film about killing critics, and is now creating an absurd comedy series. He posts @rajasen.
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