Skip to main content

Issa Rae: "Insecure"

 I know I'm not alone in feeling moved and wistful about the final season of Issa Rae's "Insecure." Tributes are popping up.


Walking with my co-fan, Marc, last night, I was floored to consider the changes our leads have gone through. Issa began the show in a bad relationship with a guy who was clinically depressed, and Issa was working for a white-savior group called "We Got Y'all." Meanwhile, Issa's friend Molly was working with lawyers who didn't value her, offering unsolicited advice, dropping a boyfriend because he said he had once hooked up with a guy.

Now, in Season Five, both Issa and Molly seem to enjoy their work, neither is entangled in an intense secretive extracurricular affair (though, yes, Molly is withholding info from colleagues) ..... neither seems to be on the verge of administering a best-friend "stab in the back" ......

I love a story that shows emotional change over time--and this is what "Insecure" has been. It's a story of two people getting their act together. That said, the writing is smart enough to allow for new crises (because life is a progression of crises). Issa seems unsure that she wants to continue with her guy, Nathan, and Molly is a bit wobbly after her mother's health scare. When talking to the NY Times, the writers hinted that the show may avoid certain standard "resolution" moves. The writers said, Life goes on. They may choose to land certain narrative airplanes--while letting others stay up in the sky. I think I'm OK with that.

The thing I admire most about "Insecure" is that the writing still has "teeth," even if the stories have become richer and sadder. A Black family is taken to see the matriarch in the recovery wing; the white doctor says, "She looks different, because a stroke can really age you." Molly says: "White doctor, you don't understand. This person is *literally* different. This person is not my mother." In another scene, a troubled guest visits Issa to thank her for a "Wellness Los Angeles" event sponsored by the BLOCC. Glassy-eyed, the guest stares at Issa. Then the stare becomes intense. In a monotone, the guest says, "You have changed me....I'm so glad I came here in the middle of driving toward that bridge....I can't tell you what might have happened on that bridge...."

Then there's also the goofiness. Classy, grown-up Issa paused to sing the praises of mac-and-cheese balls--last week. In the middle of a fancy party, she pounced on a mac ball--then spat it at the waiter, because it was too hot. Later, Molly, in a pot stupor, gave a little speech: "It's the cheese, yes....But it's also the macaroni.....And the shape! It's shaped like a ball!"

I'll miss these friends. I'm eager to follow Natasha Rothwell and Yvonne Orji, especially--wherever they might choose to go.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...