Lady Dynamite: Maria Bamford’s Comedy of Recovery

Lady Dynamite lays out the ground rules pretty quickly. In the first two minutes of the series, Maria Bamford—playing, more or less, Maria Bamford—twirls about the streets of Los Angeles in a floral dress, eats spaghetti with a bicycle, flies, drives a convertible with two (adorable) pugs, and learns from an assistant that she is not, in fact, in a shampoo commercial, but rather her own television show. Most of the sequence is brightly lit, scored by a cheery chorus and a jazzy trumpet; occasionally the screen splits into a collage of smaller images, tracking the action from disjointed angles. The world is sunny and joyous, or at least Maria is, which seems roughly equivalent. When the illusion breaks, the palette dulls, the music cuts out. Now in a t-shirt and jeans, she stands outside a bodega, squinting, confused. “I have a show?” she asks, turning to the camera. “I’m a 45 year-old woman who’s clearly sun-damaged. My skin is getting softer yet my bones are jutting out, so I’m half-soft, half-sharp. And I have a show! What a great late-in-life opportunity.” Then she nearly climbs into a stranger’s van.
That’s Lady Dynamite, which starts streaming on Netflix this week, in a nutshell. Beneath every splash of color is the accretion of darker layers, hardened and hidden; what the sun brightens in one moment, it burns in the next. The series, which follows a fictionalized version of Bamford as she attempts to rebuild her life after a psychiatric breakdown, is largely a recovery story. She tries to get back into show business, tries to find love, tries to right wrongs and rebuild friendships. Like all good protagonists, she flails miserably and often makes things worse—in the pilot, she inadvertently commits to holding a fundraiser for a spurned friend’s gun rights group. Sometimes she learns a lesson, as in the fourth episode, a cautionary tale about molding one’s personality to meet external expectations. Other misadventures, such as her attempt to purge Hollywood of racism, end in characteristic anticlimax. Lady Dynamite is structurally loose—animals talk, people break the fourth wall, cars fly—which seems an authentic enactment of Maria’s (and the real-life Bamford’s) continuing struggle with bipolar II disorder. It is also an effective translation of her peculiar brand of stand-up, which defies easy categorization. She is intensely personal, goofily unpredictable, and totally unhinged; so is Lady Dynamite. “That’s what stand-up is to me,” she explained in a recent call with reporters. “It’s a performance, but you can always do whatever you want. You’re not stuck in—you can break out into a dance at any given moment, with no explanation.”
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