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Thomas Lennon released some of his unaired pilots, including Reno 911!

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As he recently discussed on the Nerdist podcast, Thomas Lennon and fellow The State alumni Robert Ben Garant and Kerri Kenney-Silver made a lot of failed TV pilots in the period between Viva Variety and the success of Reno 911! Now Lennon has made some of those pilots available to watch online through Nerdist, including the original pitch for Reno, which was thrown together in a month after Fox abruptly cancelled another show Lennon was developing. (The network rejected the Reno pilot, too, but Comedy Central eventually picked it up.) Along with Reno, Lennon also released two other pilots that Fox passed on: Hey Neighbor, a sitcom starring Michael Ian Black, and U.S.S. Alabama, a debauched space opera that Lennon pitched to FX in 2011 and that featured Natasha Leggero and Eddie Izzard.

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The Reno 911! pilot makes it clear that the improvised Cops parody was fully formed from day one, with all of the show’s basic elements on full display: dumb cops, dumb criminals, and a lot of gags about hapless camera operators. Most of the cast was there, too, with Wendi McLendon-Covey’s Clementine the only missing officer (replaced by Amy Brassette as Katie the meter maid). Plenty of the pilot’s gags made it into the series, as well, including the bit where Garcia and Jones get harassed by a mime, and Lennon’s monologue about why Jim Dangle is never seen without his signature bike shorts. The biggest difference, really, is Kenney-Silver’s Trudy Wiegel, who shows up in the pilot with the same character beats but covered in make-up and giant grandma glasses, a long way from the aggressively plain appearance Wiegel rocked on the show.

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Meanwhile, Hey Neighbor is a good demonstration of why you don’t see most of The State crew working much in traditional sitcoms. Starring Michael Ian Black and Julia Campbell as an affluent married couple forced to move to Illinois by the Witness Protection Program, the show attempts to marry its cast’s highly developed ironic sensibilities with the beats of a laugh-track-driven sitcom, to very mixed effect. It gets better when the pilot follows various characters (including Lennon and Kenney-Silver as the couple’s boorish neighbors) into more sketch-like vignettes, but nobody seems to be operating in very comfortable waters.

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U.S.S. Alabama, on the other hand, feels like a natural outgrowth of Reno, taken to its weirdest extremes. The Star Trek parody takes the undercurrents of perversion and sexual frustration that run through the Reno Sheriff’s Department and brings them to the forefront, stuffing everyone into fetish gear and setting the whole thing in space. The pilot sees the crew of the titular starship, including Lennon as Acting Captain Glen Frenchman and Rob Huebel as unhinged sniper Briggs, facing off against a classic Trek-type villain: a God-like alien, played with blithering perfection by Eddie Izzard, who grows increasingly disgusted as the crew fails every test of humanity laid before them. It’s wholly unsurprising that FX didn’t bite on this one, given all the gratuitous nudity, casual racism, and graphic, man-on-man interspecies sex in the pilot. Which is a shame, really, because Alabama is damn funny, and the cast is all top-notch, with stand-outs including Alex Fernie as a rule-minded information office and Natasha Leggero as the ship’s blankly cheerful “sex robot.”

Ricky Gervais isn’t David Brent from The Office. He’s worse

Ricky Gervais' latest Netflix special finds a new low for the once-revolutionary comedian

Ricky Gervais
Ricky Gervais
Image: Netflix

Ricky Gervais no longer does comedy. He does grievance. Two minutes into his latest, hourlong outrage bait for Netflix, Armageddon, he’s talking about the backlash he generates and how he’s putting “woke” in his Twitter bio. Later, amid adlibbing about Chinese people eating dogs, taking an applause break for saying that white people invented the N-word, and bragging about his nine bathrooms, he cries out, “Fuck my legacy.”

With Armageddon once again putting Ricky Gervais’ name in headlines alongside the words “offensive” and “boring,” it’s worth confirming that, yes, Ricky Gervais did, in fact, fuck his legacy. Along with Stephen Merchant, Ricky Gervais revolutionized sitcoms with the 2001 mockumentary series The Office. Playing the witless and tactless boss David Brent, Gervais explored the social norms of the workplace with a boss that reveled in the inappropriate. He wasn’t exactly a villain; he didn’t make crass and racist jokes because he was ideologically driven. David Brent tells jokes because he just wants people to like him, and he often knows when he’s crossing a line. The brilliance and catharsis of the series are that people often have to deal with those in positions of power who act like this.

When Gareth tells David a racist joke in the series two premiere, “Merger,” Gareth’s assurance that the joke isn’t racist gives David the greenlight to repeat it later. However, the context changes when a Black co-worker is present and David clams up. There’s a knowingness to his character that understands right and wrong, allowing us to judge the character but also delight in his recognition of the infraction. It doesn’t give the moral high ground to the viewer. It lets the comedy play out objectively and realistically because David wouldn’t repeat a joke he knows is racist in front of a Black colleague.

On The Office, Gervais established a comedic persona in the vein of All In The Family’s Archie Bunker. Neither insufferable ignoramus was all malice. Just like how Archie had Edith, David had people around him to reflect and react to his transgressions, allowing viewers to feel some catharsis in the generational and socio-political divides that haunt dinner and breakroom tables worldwide. This offered grace to the bigot, a chance to learn, laugh, or cry. More importantly, it reflected an actual world that real people lived in.

Today, Gervais starts jokes with “in my day” and ends them with “two genders.” Alone on stage in his latest thoroughly depressing hour of comedy, it’s hard to imagine the types of people Gervais targets. A parade of strawmen, -women, and -children populate Gervais’ flights of fancy but offer no truth. These are just jokes, Gervais reiterates, and therefore don’t have to make sense or, in the case  of his musty Michael Jackson material, even be relevant. They simply have to garner a wave of laughter and applause at the idea that white, able-bodied people are really the victims in all this “treat people with respect” nonsense.

A lot has been made about not punching down, and part of that is because there’s joy in watching powerful people receive their comeuppance. That schadenfreude is harder to elicit when someone is dealing with issues outside their control. There’s catharsis in seeing an authority figure who doesn’t deserve nor respect their position cower under the weight of regret and fear. There are layers of truth to his performance as David Brent and those around him, the downcast eyes that often follow another’s embarrassment. Gervais himself is powerful and arguably an authority figure, but there is no one to check these impulses. The closest thing we get to self-reflection in Armageddon is learning that his wife, Jane, asked him not to do the voice of a fictional quadriplegic child. He feigns regret as he admits that he promised her he wouldn’t. Maybe that’s always been the downside to The Office: Allowing Gervais to indulge in offensive comedy while treating his character with grace and dignity lets him have his cake and eat it, too. On Netflix, Gervais is there to eat cake. Just don’t expect to laugh.

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