While I'm not someone who believes criticism is an exercise in objectivity (being upfront about one's subjective viewpoint seems more fruitful to me than faux-detachment), I must confess that I achieved little critical distance from The Studio. To anyone who follows the film industry, this show is catnip. I've seen all ten episodes of this first season, and I spent them either grinning, with my jaw on the floor, or laughing at an almost inconsiderate volume.

Co-creators Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg have gone from writing Superbad together as teenagers to prominent Hollywood figures, and they've chosen to mine their industry experience for a witheringly funny half-hour comedy. At first, it seemed like the suits were their target for mockery. Rogen's Matt, who finds himself put in charge of fictional legacy studio Continental in the first episode, is destructively delusional about his role in this system. His spinelessness in the face of corporate mandates is matched only by his need for validation from the stars and filmmakers he's essentially professionally obligated to upset.

But as the season progresses, The Studio starts looking for other egos to deflate and has no trouble finding them. Every phase of this process is called out for its absurdity, pushed to its extreme until the laughter flows easily, and I'm confident there's plenty here for viewers who aren't as plugged into Hollywood. The show is more than satire – an episode's comedic engine is often Matt being dropped into an embarrassing situation he makes exponentially worse, and that can be appreciated regardless of the setting.

The Studio Isn't Exactly The Show It Looks Like In Episode 1

And That's To Its Benefit

The Studio episode 1, "The Promotion," opens by laying out Matt's low status. He's a studio executive visiting the set of "his" new movie, with the first of the show's many cameos coming from director Peter Berg and actor Paul Dano as themselves. They discuss the scene as artists, and as Matt attempts to inject himself, he's misnamed by Berg, cut off mid-compliment by Dano, and assured that they're "good on ideas." To salt the wound, he then learns about a party being hosted by Charlize Theron that everyone assumes he'd been invited to, but, naturally, he wasn't.

Shortly after this embarrassing exchange, he discovers a shakeup at Continental Studios. CEO Griffin Mill (Bryan Cranston) is unexpectedly on the premises, and word is, he's just fired longtime studio head Patty Leigh (Catherine O'Hara). He's eyeing Matt to replace her, but he's heard Matt's an art-over-commerce guy who cares more about being liked by talent than doing what's necessary for the bottom line. That won't fly; after all, Mill's just secured the rights to the Kool-Aid IP. Matt (who expressed that very sentiment just a scene prior) promises he'll be commerce-first and lands the role.

Projects like this (by and about Hollywood) often make overtures to the magic of movies, but through Matt's film bro recitations, that sentiment is mostly mocked.

One version of this show, and what The Studio might seem like as "The Promotion" progresses, is about a film-loving exec's desire for quality being crushed by the Hollywood system and its corporate overlords. But Matt is not really that guy. His true instincts are self-preservation and self-aggrandizement, and those lead him to pay lip service to artists more often than actually fight for them.

He's also not so unique in this smallness of character – The Studio suggests that the primarily self-serving can be found at every level of this world. Directors who put their exacting visions ahead of their crews or even their movies; stars who let creature comforts distract them from the real work; striving execs who blow up important talent relationships to one-up their colleagues. For a movie to escape the studio lot intact, it has to slip by several layers of greed and pride, any of which could derail the whole enterprise. If anything good gets made at all, it's a miracle.

This is, to my mind, what makes the show so fun. Projects like this (by and about Hollywood) often make overtures to the magic of movies, but through Matt's film bro recitations, that sentiment is mostly mocked. Aside from the infamously overworked assistant class, who we usually end up feeling for (...as we laugh), nothing about this business is serious enough to let slide.

The Studio Is Excellently Cast

And Its Many Cameos Actually Have A Point

This ethos is also the genius of its casting. On the one hand, you have comic talents in the principal roles as send-ups of the people in this machine we're not accustomed to knowing. Alongside Rogen and O'Hara (whose ex-boss transitions to producing), Ike Barinholz's Sal is an established creative exec whose taste skews mainstream and who, to Matt's chagrin, the talent actually likes; Quinn (Chase Sui Wonders), who Matt promotes from his PA to creative exec, is a young striver who actually wants to champion quality films; and Maya (Kathryn Hahn) is Matt's hilariously confrontational head of marketing.

This collection of talent is what holds The Studio together dramatically, and I became easily invested in these characters as individuals, not just the roles they represent. Rogen himself, though, is the lynchpin. Over the years, his image as a comedy star has been "the relatable guy you won't believe gets in this situation," and he's found a way to weaponize that scenario by playing a character who consistently makes the worst choices. Episodes 6 and 8 are really excellent showcases for his talent, and, as a result, two of the best in the season.

On the other hand, you have The Studio's many, many cameos, typically actors or filmmakers as slightly warped versions of themselves (not accidentally, many of the directors have past acting experience). Some appear for just a scene, but most are given at least an episodic arc. They work to sell the reality of this show's presentation of Hollywood, and I don't think what it has to say about fame and the corrosive need for recognition would be as powerful without them. For us to stay aligned with Matt, it helps to be as starstruck as he is.

Rogen and Goldberg direct every episode of The Studio, which are all shot as a series of long takes, the camera moving alongside the actors as if an actual, physical presence.

But they also get in on the fun of skewering Hollywood's legion of egos, even their own. No one really gets away without at least one joke at their expense (typically in their own dialogue), and you'll think better of all of them for it. It's like Rogen and Goldberg sent up a flare, warning their illustrious colleagues what their show was about to say the movie business was like, and the only way not to seem like part of the problem was to come running and in the self-deprecation.

The Show's Signature Style Will Grow On You

It Takes A Few Episodes To See The True Method In The Madness

For a while, the show's style was my one reservation. Rogen and Goldberg direct every episode of The Studio, which are all shot as a series of long takes, the camera moving alongside the actors as if an actual, physical presence. In an episode about trying to film a oner with Matt lingering on set, that choice is logical; in one that's meant to be noir-tinged, it wasn't as natural a fit for me.

Ultimately, however, I came around to it. This approach works best when it traps you in moments when Matt begins to squirm under the pressure of his job, and the awkwardness escalates until it threatens to blow. The benefit of shooting the whole show this way is that any scene could become one of those moments – and they often do. By the (hysterical) finale, I was a true believer.

I don't know if The Studio team plans to make more seasons, or whether what I'd imagine is an expensive production will seem worth the greenlight to Apple TV+. But as someone who tends to prefer the compact experience of a film, it's been some time since I've hoped this strongly that a TV series would make more episodes.