I’ve been flirting with Netflix for a while now. Or at least, the very idea of it, as I do most IRL-crushes; allowing me with just enough room to project unrealistic expectations on any oblivious, unsuspecting body. It wasn’t until a close confidant (a godsend!) hooked me up with their familial account that I made the imminent jump.
Naturally, Rick and Morty was my first victim. Despite having revisited that particular program a million times over, I saw it as more of an inaugural move – like a housewarming party, and just like a party I’d be hosting, I was the only one present.
I ultimately progressed onto what soon would be one of my favorite shows currently running. See, BoJack Horseman is about more than just an anthropomorphic has-been sporadically seeing double. Its human portrayal of creatures that… well, mostly aren’t, is so ahead of its time, yet so devastatingly relevant. Not only does it gracefully tackle Hollywood’s treatment of sexual assault allegations and all that is relative to celebrity culture (my favorite twosome are ‘A Ryan Seacrest Type’ and ‘Some Lady’), it challenges what it means to be the antagonist in your own story.
There is no diabolic presence tormenting these characters. Even our central figure’s nemesis, Mr. Peanutbutter, is a vivacious and effervescent spirit – albeit somewhat compulsive, but nonetheless. In Bojack’s absurdist pursuit to fill the yawning gap at his center, he crushes everyone around him, and in any other frame of reference, he’d be the monster. For instance, to Princess Carolyn, he’d be the ex-boyfriend who’d periodically make midnight appearences in her backyard, intoxicated and wailing. To Todd, he’d be the father figure deliberately sabotaging his dreams. What makes you empathize with him so deeply is how, in spite of everything, he does the most damage to himself.
So, at the very heart of it, Bojack Horseman is a brilliant character study under the guise of a dark comedy. It’s shocking, it’s soul crushingly beautiful, it’s viciously witty, and I implore you to invest in that streaming service, solely for the purposes of binge-watching this magic (or, you know, live off others, like yours truly; a great way to combat late-capitalism).
By Kassandra Karlstrom
When she’s not chowing down on dumplings or sleeping for twelve consecutive hours, eighteen year old Kassandra is most likely marathoning Rick and Morty in the comfort of her own abode in Swedenland. That, or swooning over the works of Don Hertzfeldt whose World of Tomorrow is up to par with her other favorite picture, 12 Angry Men. Follow her @krlstrm.
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