Television has drawn from theater plenty in its history – see the sitcoms acted out in front of studio audiences; the filmed stage plays taped for primetime; the live specials that the small-screen could deliver as most media could not – but that relationship has diminished over the past few decades. With the advent of DVRs and streaming services somewhat dismantling the notion of “must-see TV,” and the multi-camera format giving way to the more cinematic single-camera aesthetic, the medium has evolved.
In stature and value, television is a different beast now – so much so that theatrical productions are slowly morphing into a retro ratings machine. Not only has the live musical made an abrupt comeback on broadcast networks, but the multi-camera comedies still around are surviving on the bases of “live broadcast” gimmicks (Undateable) and throwback structures (The Carmichael Show). Audiences have become so accustomed to the on-demand, binge-as-you-like culture of consumption that watching something as it happens is, well, in again. It, ironically, feels like something new.
So leave it to Louis C.K., the medium’s eminent auteur, to take that trend a step further. This past weekend, the comic quietly dropped a 67-minute piece of content entitled Horace and Pete on his website. It is, essentially, a two-act play filmed for the screen – put another way, it’s definitively old-school television, characteristic of the many special productions that had littered the small-screen’s landscape pre-Internet.
And yet, to that point, the show’s delivery method is amusingly contemporary (many have dubbed it “Beyoncé-style”): without a press release or an advertisement or a single indication that this was being made, C.K. announced to his subscribers that, for $5, they could watch his newest project – again, without any kind of description. (Click here for access.) That Horace and Pete has gotten around so fast is, somewhat, a reflection of C.K.’s reputation as a producer of content that demands critical attention. But it’s also demonstrative of a thrilling new model for artists with a sizable fan-base: they can make something without an ounce of outside influence, stick it on the web and let viewers react with their gut. It might not even qualify as television, however that term is being defined now. (It currently functions as a suitable label for ongoing streaming content.) Nobody’s even sure if Horace and Pete is “ongoing” or a one-time event, anyway, though the sense is that more episodes are coming.
All of this is, admittedly, of utmost interest to television historians and analysts. But it’s also part of what makes Horace and Pete so uniquely captivating. This is a work of drama consumed by historical romanticism and our collective present-day malaise. Its barroom-set deliberations and conflicts alternately invoke Eugene O'Neill's The Iceman Cometh and the classic sitcom Cheers; its shifts between political talk and family squabbles recall both theater’s O’Neill and TV’s Norman Lear. Horace and Pete deftly associates with the past in its construction. Its thematic concern with modernity – with legacy and remembrance, both in terms of family and country – is deliberately oppositional, to the point where mentions of Donald Trump or generational patriarchy are rendered startling and provocative.
Horace and Pete is almost entirely set at a bar named after its co-owners, 50-something brothers Horace (C.K.) and Pete (Steve Buscemi). As the production begins, they’re opening at one o’clock for the afternoon regulars – including the drunken girlfriend of the brothers’ late father, played deliciously by Jessica Lange – while also nervously preparing for the arrival of their sister, Sylvia (Edie Falco), and her lawyer. Like any good work of drama, the show lays out several strands of intrigue before setting them on fire in its second half. (A 15-second intermission is labeled to break up the two acts.) We meet Pete as mentally ill and out of medication; Horace as a divorced dad estranged from his daughter (Aidy Bryant) while living with his high-on-life girlfriend (played by Rebecca Hall); and Uncle Pete (Alan Alda), the older man they run the bar with, as a racist, misogynistic and ambiguously bitter man. Also of note: Horace and Pete is so up-to-date that Trump's absence from the pre-Iowa Caucus debate is a topic of conversation – even though it was released just two days after the debate took place.
That’s by design, though, as C.K. revels in juxtaposing the timeless with the current. The aforementioned Trump discussion is followed by a lengthy back-and-forth about liberals and conservatives in 2016 – about how the two camps have developed such dire preconceptions of one another that finding common ground is now inconceivably difficult. It’s a little didactic and stilted, but admirably so. The first act, particularly, is rife with aimlessly deliberate dialogue, as C.K. strains to convey a series of thoughts and messages in a format that allows such pointed rambling. It’s a new mode for the writer-director, but he shows miraculous command – despite the fact that this was likely filmed in a day or two, there’s a profound sense of control over every line and every movement. He skillfully slides the liberal/conservative dichotomy into more distinct terrain. Another bar patron chimes in, lamenting that “America used to be great” with quiet certitude, as if it’s the conventional wisdom. But the only other guy expressing that sentiment is Uncle Pete, and one immediately gets the sense that his perspective is not the most trustworthy.
Pete – a flawed, hateful man clinging onto traditions that have long faded, and a sense of order that was as comforting for some as it was oppressive for others – emerges as a probing metaphor for the country itself. He’s vile and insensitive, but as his family’s history is called into question, we see a man hopelessly at odds with his identity. As a nationalistic representative, think Trump voters: the sixth of the country dedicated to the “Make America Great Again” mantra, with misdirected anger and steadfast obliviousness when it comes to people who aren’t exactly motivated by such a concept. That conflation of prescient political discourse and personal family trauma imbues Horace and Pete with an emotional ambition and an intellectual complexity very rare across contemporary media.
It’s also deep with feeling; C.K.’s stab at filmed theater extends beyond mere experimental intrigue courtesy of his depth as a writer and his cast’s exceptional range. Indeed, while Horace and Pete tends to passingly address a plethora of modern-day topics – hipster culture and the “lazy generation” are also touched on – too bluntly, it builds cohesively and is left exceptionally detailed by the end. And each actor develops their character in alignment with that direct and stagy approach. Alda is phenomenally venomous and crusty, and he commits with brutal efficiency. It’s a tremendous performance that’s only elevated by those around him. When Sylvia challenges her uncle to consider the family’s – and the bar’s – sexist and abusive legacy, Alda and Falco go toe-to-toe in as powerful and rich an acting showcase as an hour of standalone drama can permit. Buscemi elicits enormous sympathy, too, as Uncle Pete cruelly denies his nephew’s condition while simultaneously demanding that he carry on his good name.
And Louis C.K. sticks to his strengths, which he’s made transferrable across a wide spectrum of character types (see: Blue Jasmine, Trumbo, American Hustle and others). He plays Horace wearily, with a stiff sort of melancholy; as a writer, he alternately conceives Horace and Pete as talkative, moody and intermittently melodramatic. As a dramatic distillation of C.K.’s singular voice, it’s an unconventional watch – but that befits its very existence. Through the show’s bracing release model and its ideological intensity, Horace and Pete manages an urgent meditation on our past. In thinking backward, it pushes us forward.
Grade: A-