My wife heard a podcast interview or something with Jamie Foxx, and was interested to see the new sitcom he co-created and co-wrote, premiering today on Netflix. I didn’t know anything about it, but she seemed enthusiastic, so I said sure, let it play.
It’s one of the worst TV things I’ve seen in years.
It’s lazy. It’s obvious. It’s slapdash. It’s offensive. It’s cheap. It’s incoherent. It’s thoroughly, comprehensively terrible.
It’s unbelievably bad, and I mean literally unbelievable, in that you stare at it in confusion, unable to accept that a major star like Foxx, with a pretty good creative track record, conceived this thing and contributed to its scripts and is now proudly showing it off to millions of people.
It barely looks like a professional sitcom. What it looks like, actually, is if a TV weatherman in a middling market got bit by the ego bug and decided it was his destiny to be a comedy star, so he spent his own money to create a vanity sitcom on the local public-access channel where he can clown around as much as he likes, except somehow the weatherman is an award-winning movie star and the public-access station is the world’s leading streaming service.
It’s utterly wretched. It defies explanation. It’s a fever dream of ineptitude and hubris.
If there’s a Hell, this is what’s playing.