The notion of a Hollywood production about itself isn’t a new concept, as the supposed “magic of moviemaking” has been celebrated since Singin’ in the Rain and Sullivan’s Travels. Even modern satires like Tropic Thunder or The Disaster Artist, which aimed to lampoon the self-importance of the industry, still came around to the idea that filmmaking is a heroic activity. What’s most notable about memorializations of the art form isn’t that they lack self-awareness about the impact that cinema has on popular culture, but that the focus has only ever been on a tiny aspect of the filmmaking process. As any professional would note, the production and promotion of a film is the result of years of development deals, marketing meetings, and appeasements made to the clueless executives that have the real power over greenlighting.
Apple TV+’s new comedy series The Studio had the ambitious task of being representative of the confusing, contradictory, and often infuriating means that artists go to in order to get their films made. This is a topic that was best examined by the late Robert Altman in 1992’s The Player, which starred Tim Robbins as the murderous studio executive Griffin Mill. Altman’s points about the predatory nature of the industry are still relevant, but to say that the industry has changed radically in the three decades since would be an understatement. When streaming politics, social media discourse, cancel culture, fan campaigns, and award season sensationalism are taken into consideration, the role of a studio head is essentially that of a circus ringmaster.
It’s no coincidence that the name “Griffin Mill” is given to Bryan Cranston’s character on The Studio, who’s the long serving CEO of the fictional Continental Pictures. With a company desperate to retain its relevance, Mill made the decision to elevate Seth Rogen’s Matt Remick, a successful executive, to studio president. On paper, Remick is a dream choice, as his championship of the MK Ultra superhero franchise resulted in nearly $4 billion in worldwide grosses. The issue isn’t with Remick’s skills, but his conscience. Remick doesn’t dream of being the next arbiter of Hollywood slop, but an artist-friendly visionary on the level of Paramount Pictures’ Alan Ruddy in the 1970s.
Rogen may have initially been seen as the next comic oaf in the vein of Chris Farley or Adam Sandler, but the last decade proved that he was a far more savvy, ambitious artist than Neighbors would’ve suggested. In addition to sensitive dramatic performances in Steve Jobs and The Fabelmans, Rogen found himself the producer behind a multitude of films, shows, and streaming ventures. Among those projects was The Interview, the controversial North Korean satire. Rogen has earned perspective on the way in which the industry has operated, which has made him the perfect guide for a behind-the-scenes look at the fraught dynamic between creatives and business types.
What’s most shocking about The Studio is that storylines that would’ve felt like parodies a few years ago are now part of accepted reality. Given that this year will see the release of A Minecraft Movie and a film based on the Gabby’s Dollhouse merchandising line, it’s not a stretch to imagine that Ice Cube could be involved in a Kool-Aid movie, as suggested by The Studio. The twist is that Remick isn’t a cynic, as he’s sought a way to give resources to those he admires. Remick may have been able to grant a hefty budget to Martin Scorsese’s new crime epic, but only if it has a tangential connection to one of the intellectual properties that Continental Studios has the rights to.
Celebrity cameos can often be grating, but The Studio has benefitted from giving each of its guest stars a substantial role. Some appearances are amusingly subversive; having Ron Howard, one of the industry’s “nice guys,” appear as a pompous jerk intent on bullying Remick is a great inside joke. At the same time, Rogen was able to give an entire episode to Academy-Award winning director Sarah Polley, whom he worked with on Take This Waltz. Remick’s earnest attempt to offer advice to a filmmaker he’s admired doesn’t make for an easy shoot, as Polley’s met with continuous setbacks in order to appease her superior; although it's funny to see Rogen act like a goofball, it's also a microcosm of the way that female filmmakers are forced to deal with the self-proclaimed “male progressives” whose voices are dominant.
As with many of the Judd Apatow comedies that Rogen broke out in, The Studio finds comedy in the perpetual humiliation of its protagonist. Between a snub at an award-season speech to a scathing expose by a noted trade reporter, Remick’s often the butt of the joke. Although he’s charismatic in the role, the misery he’s subjected himself to is cathartic; for once, it's nice to see those with power forced to be on edge. Yet, The Studio isn’t blissfully optimistic about the impact that someone like Remick might inspire. Even if Remick’s projects were met with both critical and commercial success, he’d still be considered an industry outlier.
The Studio has momentum that’s related to Remick’s progression, but it doesn’t fall into the chaptered narrative trap that wreaked havoc on so many streaming comedies; individual episodes could focus on the recovery of Olivia Wilde’s new film, or the debut of an insipid trailer for an impending blockbuster release. It’s the grind of a day-to-day job that makes Remick’s perspective so interesting, and why The Studio is groundbreaking. Even if a project is killed or spared on a moment’s notice by Remick, the ripple effect will have years of repercussions. If there’s any justice, then The Studio will be allowed to survive.