Tommy’s guidance leads to a coke-fueled romp of misplaced wisdom and sloppily imparted life lessons on Pete’s childhood self, which is intercut with scenes of the two reconnecting for an afternoon in the present day. In an attempt to empathize and connect with his nephew as best he can, Tommy ( Bobby Cannavale), takes Pete under his wing for the night. Pete makes lewd jokes for posed photos, and interrupts his uncle’s vows. During the ceremony and at the reception, a 7-year-old Pete angers his mother ( Edie Falco) by constantly acting out. In Bupkis’ second episode, “Do As I Say, Not As I Do,” Davidson recalls his uncle Tommy’s wedding, which he went to with his mother, Amy, just weeks after his father, Scott, a firefighter, died on 9/11. And forge on I did, straight into the hornet’s nest that was an introspective, intimate study of Davidson’s own childhood trauma. Still, it was serviceable enough to continue. Not exactly an epilogue in the vein of the great Shakespearean comedies. That first episode essentially concludes with Davidson (who plays a semi-fictionalized version of himself) helping his grandfather’s best friend thrust into an escort, after a bout of mid-fuck hip dysplasia. That was, until I found myself in a ball of tears, when Bupkis hit me right in the goddamn heart.Ĭoming off of Bupkis’ premiere, I certainly did not expect this show to have any kind of emotional effect on me. This vibe envelops the show, and it was almost enough to put me off the series entirely. The other half, Davidson is up to borderline intolerable mischief with his crew of deadbeat pals, gallivanting around Florida with a guy who calls himself “Crispy,” or hotboxing a van, while a child sits in the back seat, on the way to an amusement park. He surrounds himself with a posse of dudes who are similar to him, dates beautiful women, and gets himself into shenanigans that only someone whose unfiltered, fratty confidence could stir up.ĭavidson’s new Peacock original series, Bupkis, spends a good portion of its first season attempting to satirize this image, but only succeeds half the time. The actor, comedian, and Hollywood rebound boy has turned being a bro into his brand a Bro-nd, if you will. (I saw it ahead of Evil Dead Rises, but the only thing rising was my lunch.) Even as someone who enjoys absolute bottom-of-the-barrel holiday content, I could not stomach Will Ferrell and Ryan Reynolds chumming it up all the way through Spirited.ĭespite this aversion to all things “bro,” I find myself immensely charmed by Pete Davidson. The trailer for the upcoming film Strays-which features a cast of male comedians, voicing uncanny valley-adjacent dogs who want to bite a man’s dick off-elicited a reaction so nauseating I nearly had to leave the theater. I will never choose to watch The Hangover, Volumes I, II, or III, when I’ve had a hard week. I’ve got a very firm threshold for how much “bro” content I can withstand before putting my head through a sheetrock wall.
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