Its HBO limited series starring Kathryn Hahn, based on sex, online porn and existential uncertainty, is a fascinating commentary on the subject.
It is a show that is unlikely to engender rabid fanatics.
The HBO miniseries, based on the 2017 Tom Perrotta novel of the same name, is a small show, in the vein of Ramy, Shrill or Fleabag: half-hour series set in one well of a character with a deep, rich character surrounded by a knockout supporting cast. Except, where Shrill launches one millennial woman’sSelf Acceptance (and writing career), and Fleabag shatters, well, everything, Mrs Fletcher is distinctly more subdued, more indecisive, more moody.
Kathryn Hahn charms in thought-provoking comedy, Mrs Fletcher review
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Per its namesake, Eve Fletcher (Kathryn Hahn), a mid-40s single mother in suburbia, spends the first episode of the series trying to bond with and discipline her teenage son, Brendan (Jackson White), to the extent that when he’s not there she’s a shell. The show’s surprisingly refreshing and tricky B plot involves Brendan’s journey from confident lax bro douche to loser isolated by his own outdated expectations of sex and consent in college. And Mrs. Fletcher is to Eve, that is, the wondrous Hahn, as she struggles to make herself after her son or perennially squandered ex (Josh Hamilton).
Both characters’ worldviews have been driven by online porn, and Hahn has been prominently promoted through the show in bed with a laptop: For Brendan (in the first episode of the show, his mom is aghast to hear him call the aforementioned hookup a ‘dirty fucking slut’), it is a limitation, an assumed set of degrading expectations for language and sex. For Eve, however, it promises liberation—the pass into a world of unfettered desire, and a way to let loose parts of the self long stowed away. The show picks up a lot of that process internally; it has an inclination of spewing out what I assume would be interior monologues in the book (which I, like probably most of HBO’s viewing audience, have not read) with very short Hahn studies or dream sequences. Eve stumbles on explicit Milf pictures and slams the laptop shut, to warily reopen once more; a steamy fantasy begins and ends with a free popsicle sample at the store.
Or, rather, Mrs Fletcher relies more on the prospect of sex than she does the act itself. While uneven, at times unsatisfying, a messy misfire, several critics noticed. For me, that messiness is what makes Mrs Fletcher the most underrated show on TV right now. As understated as an overstatement, it’s ambitious in its understatement — about the gravitational pull of the uncensored internet, or IRL fantasy disguised as wooziness. She is halting and unsure, deflecting a potential date with flashbacks of the porn she watched on her couch hours before. It’s fair to say she has all sorts of motivations, but that scatteredness feels more real to the madness of self-discovery than the predictable stuff. (Also, she’s played by Hahn, who gives sloppily sexy and hard-earned resilience than parentheses ever could.)