‘The Studio’ series review: Seth Rogen’s meta-comedy cameo-fest is an absolute riot

Apple TV's The Studio is a riotous Hollywood satire that skewers the industry's self-mythology with savage precision and riotous laughs

Hollywood loves nothing more than making movies about itself, but if we’re being perfectly honest, often more than not, those projects play like self-indulgent fever dreams (not you Babylon, we love you) —  a dozen limp, inside-story, behind-the-scenes snooze fests that assume the audience actually cares about the daily torments of powerful people with infinity pools. But in Apple TV’s latest (and possibly greatest) attempt at industry satire — their saving grace for those rushing to cancel their subscriptions until Severance returns for its third — Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg have built a feverish funhouse mirror of Hollywood that warps reality just enough to make its satire sting without sacrificing its riotous laughs.

The ten-episode comedic odyssey into the eternal push-and-pull between art and commerce, follows Rogen’s Matt Remick, a lifelong cinephile who lands his dream job running Continental Studios, only to find that the job requires him to systematically strangle the thing he loves. That Matt reduces Martin Scorsese to a sobbing wreck in its first 30 minutes tells you everything you need to know about what Rogen and life-long collaborator Evan Goldberg are doing with this show. The Studio is so meta it practically folds in on itself like a self-loathing screenplay about a screenwriter writing a self-loathing screenplay. It’s a Hollywood satire where Hollywood stars play Hollywood types ruining Hollywood, while actual Hollywood implodes in real time. And what makes it so damn funny is how it skewers the film industry with a precise, no-holds-barred savagery, only possible from people who both adore and absolutely loathe the industry they work in.

The Studio is a show about an industry devouring itself as we speak. But its satire takes a different route from the gold standards of lampooning Hollywood’s peculiar brand of self-mythology. Rather than focusing solely on vapid actors or embittered screenwriters, it zeroes in on the corporate mismanagement of creativity itself.

Rogen’s Matt is a neurotic, film-obsessed exec suddenly thrust into the driver’s seat of the embattled Continental Studios, where every decision could result in either a career-defining masterpiece or a box-office implosion. He’s a true believer, a Letterboxd-genre of cinephiles who still speaks reverently about the magic of cinema, even as he greenlights an algorithm-driven blockbuster designed to sell merch. With the pressure of keeping his overlord happy (Bryan Cranston in deliciously terrifying form as CEO Griffin Mill) while wrangling unhinged artists, and fragile egos, Matt finds himself fighting to preserve the very thing he loves, while also actively destroying it in the process. He came into this job wanting to make great movies, but quickly realises his real role is to keep the machine running, even if it means killing Scorsese’s script for a harrowing historical drama about the Jonestown massacre to make way for a family-friendly, CGI-soaked Kool-Aid Man blockbuster à la Barbie. 

The supporting cast is a murderer’s row of dysfunction, each more gloriously unhinged than the last. Ike Barinholtz, as Matt’s coke-fueled, sycophantic second-in-command, operates with the energy of a man who has simultaneously read The Art of War and done an unspeakable amount of Adderall. Kathryn Hahn is an absolute menace as the marketing executive Maya, who treats PR disasters like a form of performance art. Chase Sui Wonders, as the too-cool assistant-turned-executive, delivers every line with a brilliant deadpan detachment. The show knows industry archetypes but it pushes them just far enough into kitsch territory to be both terrifyingly real and endlessly entertaining.

What makes the series so addictively good is that it’s rapid-fire of weapons-grade celebrity cameos. The relentless barrage of self-referential A-listers laughing, weeping, self-immolating, and occasionally foaming at the mouth, honestly makes it feel like all of Hollywood got incredibly shit-faced and crashed on Rogen’s couch. Legally, I can’t name many names without Apple sending a hit squad, but trust me — Rogen and his team haven’t just assembled the most ridiculous guest roster in TV history.

Rogen and Goldberg, who direct every episode, structure the series like a frenzied backstage farce, with long, unbroken tracking shots that make every scene feel like it could collapse at any moment. One of the best episodes, is a feverish single-shot half-hour in which Matt accidentally ruins a meticulously choreographed take on a Sarah Polley film set. The duo trade a languid, voyeuristic camera for something more frenetic and stressful, making us feel every delirious moment, as we watch Matt ping-pong from one disaster to the next.