Shrill

To call it a slice-of-life series wouldn’t do justice to the well-honed commentary--on everything from false perceptions of health to institutionalized exclusion--but part of what makes Shrill so engaging is its diversity of storylines.

Like “Transparent” and “Better Things,” it has the ring of seeming if not true, then true enough. Emotionally true. Part of that sense of genuineness comes from the show’s giddy specificity. ... The main reason Shrill lands is Bryant’s unfussy performance. She radiates the wounded hopefulness of someone who’s ready for the next chapter of her life, and by the end of the six-episode season, she’s there.

An excellent and surprising adaptation of feminist writer Lindy West’s 2016 memoir.

In its first season, Shrill is solidly an adult coming-of-age story, anchored in the fact that for a lot of people confidence does not come ready-baked.

Shrill is a sharp and genuine investigation of what it means to become yourself.

Season 1 only covers enough time to break through the membrane of self-doubt holding her back. That may not be enough for viewers expecting a grand late bloom at the end of these six episodes; its too-short season closes in a place that lets viewers know Annie has just barely sprouted. And this creates the competing sensations of disappointment at Annie’s upswing at a significant turning point, one more suitable for a midseason reversal, and the delighted pang of wanting to see her living out loud, at long last.

Wherever Annie is at in accepting herself, she--and the show--is over misery, even as a way to amass sympathy or identification. The show also has a great supporting cast. ... But mostly the show has Bryant, who even when she’s playing self-obsessed--becoming a self-actualized human being may require a wee bit of egomania--is extremely appealing.

Always at the core of the show is the toxic, twisted relationship between Annie and the people who hate her for existing. ... In counterpoint to that twisted relationship is Annie’s evolving relationship with herself. That’s where the tenderness that is fundamental to this show’s ethos comes into play.

Six is not enough, and the final half-hour of the season arrives too soon. She clearly has more to offer than her excellent “SNL” sketch work. Amy Schumer has covered some of the same territory, but in a broadly comic way. Bryant has a light touch that buoys the humor, and she brings admirable restraint and sweetness to the drama. She’s a treat.

The only real complaint about Shrill is that it’s too short. There are many, many layers to the relationships Annie has with her friends and co-workers, and the show does an admirable job of giving them as much shading as they can in such a short amount of time.

Bryant’s a star, and Shrill lets her shine as brightly as Annie so badly wants to herself. Laugh-out-loud moments are few (often coming from the idiocy of Ryan or the smarm of Gabe), but before long you’ll be smiling as broadly as Annie.

It is a half-hour dramedy that is comfortable in its own skin and doesn’t care if you like it.

It’s a smart, minor-key series.

Even when the series misses a beat or two, Bryant’s mega-watt personality keeps it moving. She’s one of the most winsome performers on SNL, and more than capable of holding down her own series; but Bryant and Shrill push beyond a slice-of-life comedy to set Annie on a compelling and hilarious journey.

There is a full-fledged show here. Right now, though, it remains trapped behind its own message.

Ms. Bryant is not as zany as she’s called to be on “SNL,” instead giving a down-to-earth performance in a grounded roll that’s sometimes searing in its emotional honesty.

There are several pivotal conflicts that would almost definitely land harder with more room to breathe; in fact, the last episode feels more like a penultimate chapter revving up to something bigger than the finale it actually is. But when Shrill warms up, it sparks in exactly the way that has made West’s fiery writing so satisfying over the years.

As a representation of an underserved demographic, and a declaration of war on lazy fat jokes, Shrill is an unquestioned success… but as a comedy series, it falls somewhere short of that.

Bryant's a standout, the show not so much.

Even as Shrill hits its stride by the end of the third episode, it never quite reaches the hilarity levels of concurrent comedies such as PEN15 or Big Mouth, which mine the absurd and meta for laughs. But those quibbles feel beside the point, and increasingly less noticeable the more you invest in Annie’s journey, which is more complicated, rollicky and emotional – that is to say, more human – than a straightforward sitcom.

This is Shrill‘s greatest triumph: it establishes a fat-positive gaze that humanizes rather than humiliates. But its greatest failure, one that works against that radicalism, is its insistence on connecting Annie’s every struggle to her weight.

Saturday Night Live's marvelous Aidy Bryant brings warmth and a zen grace to a role that's still a work in progress after only six episodes. [18-31 Mar 2019, p.13]

You don't get any sense of Annie's gift as a writer here, an issue that magnifies as the six-episode season progresses. Shrill is intended to be a superhero origin story--except we have no sense of what makes her particularly powerful yet.

A rom-com should, by its very nature, be fun and light without sinking too deep into heavy material; a rom-com can tell a satisfying story in just 90 tight minutes. And it’s easier to build a rom-com around a partially formed character than it is to build a TV show around one—because a rom-com seeks only a happy ending.

It’s neither better nor worse than much of its ilk and it’s rescued from oblivion by Bryant’s talent for toggling between the show’s sparkly sense of pride and its wounded moments of outrage.