The Studio is Hollywood’s funhouse mirror — and it’s hilarious Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg—alongside a creative team clearly steeped in the absurdities of showbiz—aim their firehose of satire squarely at the entertainment industry, and the result is gloriously unhinged. The series, streaming to both critical acclaim and audience enthusiasm, follows Matt (Rogen), a neurotic, perpetually foot-in-mouth studio head, as he fumbles his way through every PR crisis, production disaster, and ego-fueled implosion the fictional Continental Studios can throw at him.
Rogen is at his most delightfully cringeworthy, playing Matt as a man too well-intentioned to be evil and too oblivious to be effective. He’s flanked by Ike Barinholtz as Sal Saperstein, his equally deluded but loyal best friend and VP of the studio, and the reliably sharp Kathryn Hahn as Maya Mason, the no-nonsense head of marketing who might be the only adult in the room—when she feels like it. Catherine O’Hara brings her considerable comic stylings as Patty Leigh, Matt’s mentor. Together, they try (and often fail) to keep the wheels from falling off an industry built on spin, spectacle, and self-importance.
No episode better encapsulates the show’s biting brilliance than “The Golden Globes,” which was shot on location at the Beverly Hilton. In it, Matt spirals into a panic over whether Zoe Kravitz will thank him in her acceptance speech. It’s a pitch-perfect send-up of awards season egoism, with the added thrill of real-life celebrities—Charlize Theron, Martin Scorsese, Ice Cube, and Ron Howard among them—playing either exaggerated versions of themselves or hapless guests swept into Matt’s emotional chaos.
With cameos from Paul Dano, Olivia Wilde, Steve Buscemi, Anthony Mackie, Jean Smart, Paul W. Downs, and more, The Studio leverages Hollywood’s own royalty to take aim at its delusions of grandeur. The satire is scalpel-sharp but never mean-spirited, skewering studio culture while acknowledging the deep weirdness—and weird charm—that keeps the whole system afloat.
Visually slick and paced like a runaway golf cart on the Paramount lot, the series is equal parts Veep, Extras, and The Larry Sanders Show, with the distinct Rogen-Goldberg flavor of joyful vulgarity and off-kilter heart. It’s self-aware, star-studded, and surprisingly insightful—a love letter to Hollywood that isn’t afraid to point out its lipstick-smeared flaws.
Already a certified hit, The Studio is the rare satire that manages to punch up, down, and sideways all at once—and makes you laugh the whole time.
The Bear is a fierce, heart-pounding feast of drama disguised as comedy. Created by Christopher Storer and Joanna Calo, The Bear is a raw, tightly wound series that plunges viewers into the chaotic heart of a Chicago sandwich shop—and never lets go. At the center is Carmy Berzatto (Jeremy Allen White, in a stunning Emmy-winning turn), a fine-dining chef forced to return home and take over his late brother’s modest establishment, The Beef, after his brother’s sudden and tragic suicide (played in haunting flashbacks by Jon Bernthal). What unfolds is not just a story about food, but about grief, healing, legacy, and reinvention.
Carmy’s decision to overhaul The Beef—from greasy favorite to serious culinary contender—creates immediate friction among the tight-knit and stubborn staff. His cousin Richie (an electric Ebon Moss-Bachrach), aspiring sous-chef Sidney (the magnetic Ayo Edebiri), baker Marcus (Lionel Boyce), and the skeptical but ultimately loyal Tina (Liza Colón-Zayas) make up a kitchen crew that feels as real, volatile, and deeply human as any on TV. Their battles are waged with saucepans and shouted “Yes, Chef!”s, but the stakes are personal—success or failure here is a matter of soul, not just survival.
The series, while labeled a comedy, leans heavily into drama. Its episodes are often breathless, filmed with a handheld intensity that captures the barely contained panic of the restaurant world. One standout episode—a single-take, 20-minute kitchen meltdown—has already entered modern TV legend. Yet for all its tension, The Bear is also tender, even hopeful. The show’s quieter moments—especially those involving Carmy’s complicated family dynamics with his mother (Jamie Lee Curtis, brilliant in a role equal parts frightening and fragile) and uncle Jimmy (Oliver Platt)—cut just as deep.
With ten Emmy Awards under its belt for its first season, including Best Comedy Series, Lead Actor (White), and both Supporting Actor trophies for Moss-Bachrach and Edebiri, The Bear has been rightfully recognized as one of television’s most innovative and emotionally resonant shows. That it’s still categorized as a comedy says more about awards-season politics than the show itself, which is far more interested in trauma, perfectionism, and the hard-won bonds of community.
The Bear is more than a must-see—it’s a must-feel. It’s about what we owe to those we’ve lost, what we risk for what we believe in, and the people we grow into under pressure. It’s not always pretty, but it’s never less than powerful. Yes, Chef.
Hear Lisa Johnson Mandell and Tandy Culpepper discuss both series in this episode of The Hollywood Beat.
