Tommy Davidson, the comedian, is starring in a new multicamera situation comedy, “The Varnell Hill Show,” premiering Tuesday on Paramount+. It’s the latest attempt by a streaming network to colonize a form virtually synonymous with broadcast television, with a shorter season and more (though not too many) bad words.
Indeed, its roots are in 20th century network TV. The series has sprung, somewhat unusually, from Davidson’s guest role in a 33-year-old two-episode arc on Martin Lawrence’s Fox sitcom, “Martin.” “Hollywood Swinging,” Part 1and 2, saw Martin, in the spirit of Lucille Ball, trying to boost his own show business career by shoehorning himself into an appearance on the fictional “Varnell Hill Show,” with Davidson playing an egotistical echo of 1990s Arsenio Hall, clad in a neon yellow jacket (with shoulder pads) and orange shirt.
The shirt and jacket are still there at the beginning of this new “The Varnell Hill Show” (the series and the identically titled show within the show), along with the character’s catch phrase, “Did ya miss me?” — but not for long. Most sitcoms (most series?) begin with a moment of change — a new job, a new town, a homeless parent or unsuspected child showing up on the door. But change is pretty much the whole point of “Varnell Hill.”
After three unexplicated decades, Varnell — self-described “eight-time Soul Train Award … presenter” — is not riding quite as high as he was on “Martin.” His show has come to rest on Mammoth Television (“If you’ve got one of those digital antennas it comes in real nice”), where its future is less than assured. Varnell is surprised with a new executive producer, Rachel (Wendy Raquel Robinson), who, before he knows it, is dismantling his set and remaking his wardrobe. (Rachel: “Even Batman changes costumes.” Varnell: “Well, the Flintstones don’t.”) She wants to fire his band and announcer (it’s “Human Beat Box” Doug E. Fresh), seeing them as old hat. What she doesn’t know is that she’s been hired, by “interim CEO while Dad’s on sabbatical” Jonah (Nick Cafero), specifically to annoy Varnell into quitting (a sort of Ted Lasso situation). There is no especially good reason for this, and it pretty much evaporates for the remainder of the eight-episode series.
Naturally, Varnell, deemed out of touch, is resistant to the characterization and the alterations, and much of the comedy is mined from the contrast between the older and younger characters. (“Our data shows your audience is shrinking,” says Rachel, “and that’s a nice way of saying it’s dying.”) The remade writers room (adding six characters to the large cast) is generationally split and spends most of its time arguing and insulting one another. (They don’t work much.) And a hot young comic, Marshay (Brittney Ayona Clemons, convincing), is being foisted on Varnell to heighten youth appeal.
Created by Kevin G. Boyd, Sherri McGee McCovey and Bentley Kyle Evans (Evans co-created “The Jamie Foxx Show” and wrote for “Martin”), the show can be obvious and exaggerated in that special multicamera way, and some jokes seem to have been pulled from the back of a long-unopened drawer. (References to Kato Kaelin and Rudy Giuliani.) But the characters, ranging from fairly absurd to comparatively natural, are individual and particular; they may represent relationships without ever seeming to actually have them, but most — which is to say, the actors — are entertaining in their own right.
Kym Whitley plays Kim, Varnell’s right hand, who keeps his business, and the show’s (and the series itself), nailed down. Gus (Oscar Miranda), an excitable new production assistant (and ex-con), mugs extravagantly, but it defines the character, and he is rather adorable. Lawrence recurs as an gangsteresque “entrepreneur” (“I have a record label, a funeral home, a soul food sushi bar and the chitlin rolls are off the hook”) to whom Davidson’s slacker nephew A.J. (Emmanuel Hudson) owes money, having given thousands away to strippers. (Minor tension is created.) As “best friend” and errand man, Tre (a “struggling actor,” he introduces himself as Trevon LaSalle Williams III), Chris Williams exists largely outside any plot, but he’s a funny presence.
Davidson, an energetic and athletic performer in his younger, and less young, days, is 62 now, bespectacled, comparatively restrained and quite happy to be the butt of ageist humor, as much as Varnell, who in trying to prove he’s fit as ever will throw out his back, is uncomfortable with the whole idea. (“I’m a damn spring chicken.” “That’s not what your neck says.”) In my favorite line of the series, he’ll defensively say, “I’m a grown-ass man,” adding to prove a point, “with a colonoscopy scheduled.”
As in “The Larry Sanders Show,” the greatest of all shows within a show, there are on-set segments featuring interviews with guests and, often, a musical performance. Varnell will keep confusing Damon Wayans with his brothers; he’ll play pingpong with former basketball star Matt Barnes. He’ll sing a little, dance a iittle. One episode involves a roast of Varnell, featuring Deon Cole, Ms. Pat, Lavell Crawford and Mike Epps, who clearly have written (or are improvising) their own material. The laughs among them are clearly genuine. You can see why someone would want to join that club.
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