The semi-autobiographical auteur comedy genre has been running on fumes for a while, its sense of self-disclosure giving way to a less interesting self-indulgence. Season 2 of “Mo,” premiering Thursday on Netflix, proves there’s a little more gas in the tank, that the blend of intimacy, specificity and realism that defined the genre are still worthy goals and can be tender treasures.
“Mo,” created by Ramy Youssef (“Ramy”) and Mo Amer, its star, centers on a Texas man and his family, refugees from Palestine via Kuwait who arrived in the United States 20 years ago. The Kafkaesque bureaucratic nightmare of obtaining citizenship or even just work papers has left Mo with few employment options, and he feels extra pressure to provide for his mother, Yusra (Farah Bsieso), and autistic brother, Sameer (Omar Elba). His Christian, Mexican American girlfriend, Maria (Teresa Ruiz), wants to get married but is wary of how much Mo keeps her in the dark. She wants a partner, she says, not a protector.
Mo is stressed. In Season 1, he was grazed by a bullet in a grocery store shooting and developed an addiction to codeine cough syrup, which added to his feeling that he must keep everything secret and not worry his friends and family. The harder he hustles, the worse things get, and the show portrays this molar-grinding, unending precarity with such finesse that you get a contact panic through the screen. Pass that purple drank this-a-way, pal, we could all use a sip.
Season 1 aired all the way back in August 2022, several streaming lifetimes ago. One arc involved a plan by Yusra to make olive oil, which led Mo to strike a deal with an olive farmer. Through a series of mishaps, Mo wound up in Mexico, in the back of a truck full of stolen olive trees, with no clear way to get back into the United States because he is undocumented.
Season 2 picks up six months later, with Mo still in Mexico, caught in yet another ouroboros of immigration-paperwork helplessness. When he finally, arduously makes it back to Texas, he is shocked that everyone is doing just fine without him. His family’s olive oil business is thriving. Maria has a new boyfriend (Simon Rex), which is bad enough, but he’s also Israeli and a chef. Mo’s guy friends have settled into romantic pairings he finds baffling but tries to support.
What was all that hustle for? he wonders. Is there anywhere he really belongs? He has been forced out of everywhere, and now he’s even outside of his own life.
Few comedies set episodes in ICE detention centers, but few comedies have the élan of “Mo.” It moves seamlessly between English, Spanish and Arabic. Most of its characters are Palestinian, and they speak often of their home and culture — and suffering. (Season 2 begins in September 2022, more than a year before the start of the recently halted war in Gaza.)
While the show has fun with shticky secondary characters, the primary ones have a real fullness: The same individual traits that drive their “good” choices drive their “bad” choices, which is often how actual people work but rarely how comic characters do.
The new season includes some high-profile cameos, though most are distracting, popping the bubble of the show without adding much. Because “Mo” generally flows with such ease, its moments of tinniness feel especially hollow. A record-scratch closing moment left me cold. A Thanksgiving episode, one of TV’s most reliably schmaltzy conventions, was regrettably true to form.
“Mo” is to praying what “The Bear” is to cooking: Its most beautiful, indelible scenes are spiritual ones. Mo and his family are faithful Muslims, and when he prays, he is lighter, brighter, more whole. I’ve never stopped thinking about a Season 1 scene in which Mo visits his father’s grave with his brother and sister at the end of a fraught, chaotic day. Bathed in golden sunlight and framed by autumn foliage, they pray together in Arabic, at first haltingly and then fluidly, their eyes down and palms up. When I rewatched it recently, it was even more exquisite than I’d remembered.
Near the end of Season 2, there is another even richer, lovelier scene. I don’t want to spoil the specifics, but Mo delivers the call to prayer at his cousin’s encouragement. “It’s a call from God!” his cousin urges. “Answer it!” With one hand pressed to his ear, Mo sings into the microphone. He is nervous at first, before the warmth of the moment melts his hesitation. By the end, his face and voice convey a subtle ecstasy and wisdom — mournful, hopeful. Holy, even.
The show isn’t all poignancy, and has some fun with Mo’s religion. Often this comes through in cheeky needle drops. In one scene, Mo scuttles an important opportunity with a righteous but disruptive meltdown. As his face falls, we hear the opening of Tobe Nwigwe’s “Lord Forgive Me.”
Netflix said this will be the final season of “Mo.” Amer told Variety last week that he wants to make more. These two seasons fit together as one big story, one that reaches a conclusion but also demands its next chapter.
The post ‘Mo’ Review: An International Hustle appeared first on New York Times.
