She’s the worst…I love her
Some of the greatest American television–I think–comes from American idiocy and our awareness of it. Rachel Sennott’s newly premiered I Love LA is a testament to that, a toast to the most shallow and out-of-touch of us. Following a talent manager, influencer, celebrity stylist, and “nepo-baby” navigating the shallow and passive aggressive landscapes of modern Los Angeles, the show presents highly pretentious characters in situations warranting nothing short of an eyeroll–but like, I kinda love it.
I Love LA calls upon the classic American sitcom; a group of twenty-somethings take on a big city, somewhere along the way becoming inseparable. It’s a trope that never seems to tire, with a natural homage to shows like New Girl, Sex and the City, Friends, and Girls.
Like other recent sitcoms, it is an anthropological testament to classic American society. Shows like Adults or Overcompensating, which premiered earlier this year along with I Love LA, feature overzealous caricatures of everyday people–each scene lathered with dry and irony-soaked dialogue. We get to laugh at them, then us, the average American viewer. Landscapes of an exaggerated metropolitan backdrop the Carrie Bradshaws and Nick Millers of the silver screen; they beg you to turn your laptop off–then three seasons in, have you rooting for them.
With what I believe to be a classic and uniquely American tenet of metaphysical largeness, these characters are unafraid to speak their minds, and often they defy typical social etiquette. Often, we would hate to run into them in our day-to-day lives–they’re the worst. On television, we find it in us to love them. Friends just isn’t Friends without Ross.
We cling to the found-family in times of distress, usually portrayed on television with roommates who understand the ever-rocky terrains of finance or love. We find a solace in community and the constant showing-up and meddling that is characteristic of American hospitality. Simultaneously, we want to find places in which we can take up space, be loud and jarring, and still feel comfortable–the very fantasy of the American sitcom.
I have found that this and another facet of American media–that we may forgive those who are caricatures of us–is remarkable. We get the opportunity to laugh at our own flaws, inflated for comedic effect though not entirely offensive. It’s incredible that with every “Stronger,” there is someone out there deciding which of their friends is the Marnie of the group chat. More broadly, there is a faith, at least from studio executives, that viewers can still find relatability in these caricatures.
I Love LA tells us we don’t need to be influencers to know what it feels like to perform–that we can understand Tallulah. There is something unifying about the sitcom in all of its tropey greatness. We relive almost-moments on television, and we get the opportunity to feel our biggest.
