‘SMILF’ May Have A Terrible Title, But It’s Still Worthwhile [Review]

Let’s get one thing straight: “SMILF“ is a terrible title for a TV show. It also happens to be an especially terrible title for this TV show; it stands for “Single Mother I’d Like to Fuck,” a barely-clever bit of wordplay that conveys nothing about the tone, themes, or narrative of Frankie Shaw’s acclaimed series. Showtime would be wise to follow Netflix’s lead and straight-up re-title the series going into its second season. 

“SMILF” (ugh) is the ostensibly autobiographical story of a single mother living in South Boston. Shaw, who also writes and directs for the show, stars as Bridgette Bird, an aspiring actress raising a young boy with the occasional help of her ex (Miguel Gomez) and his new girlfriend (Samara Weaving). Over the course of the show’s first season, Shaw explores Bridgette’s difficult relationships with food, men, her mother (Rosie O’Donnell), and her estranged, sexually abusive father.

“SMILF” is part of a new wave of distinctly auteur-driven, female-led television dramedies including “Insecure,” “One Mississippi,” and “Better Things.” Of those, “SMILF” has the most in common with Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s brilliant “Fleabag.” Like “Fleabag,” “SMILF” follows the travails of a single woman mixing it up in the big city. Unlike “Fleabag,” “SMILF” doesn’t have a complete handle on its tone, is only occasionally funny, and rarely features an episode under 30 minutes long.

That being said, “SMILF” is far from a dismissible effort from Shaw. The series features stellar central performances from Weaving, O’Donnell, and Shaw herself.  Weaving is an incredible comic actress who should’ve been nominated up and down awards season for her bit part in “Three Billboards Outside Ebbing Missouri” (“Penelope said begets” will never not be great). She’s got this deadpan way about her, which, paired with her Australian accent, makes for comic gold (see also: Claudia O’Doherty on Netflix’s “Love.”) It’s worth watching “SMILF” for this one moment in episode two where Weaving delivers the following line: “lines are heaps good, eh?” Meaningless out of context, sure, but trust me on this. That line is heaps good in context.

Rosie O’Donnell is a bit of a revelation in “SMILF.” It’s flabbergasting how truly great she is; folks who haven’t previously been exposed to “O’Donnell the Actor” are sure to be impressed. O’Donnell plays Bridgette’s mom, a hardened Boston native with traumas and mental health issues of her own. She’s humorous and really effective and will make you cry, or tear up at the very least.

Shaw is wonderful in the series. Hers is, weirdly enough, the least comedic of all the show’s performances. Bridgette deals with food addiction, sexual abuse, harassment, betrayal, and other traumatic life experiences as the season plays itself out. Her story is tragic, and not in that tragicomedy sort of way. It’s just dark. (Makes you wish the show didn’t present itself so aggressively as a comedy—seen through a more dramatic lens, “SMILF” would be a better piece of work.)

There are a few first-season guest stars who deserve a shoutout. The great Connie Britton plays Ally, a rich woman who hires Bridgette to tutor her numerous children. One of her kids, Casey—with whom Frankie develops an inappropriate relationship—is played by emerging talent Austin Abrams. Abrams was so good in last year’s overlooked “Brad’s Status,” and he continues his winning streak here in a very different sort of role. There’s also Jeremy Shamos, in the season’s most intriguing one-off performance as one of many men who earn Bridgette’s trust only to betray her in the most awful way.

The eight-episode first season is a mixed bag. Early installments are fairly simple, following Bridgette’s work and personal lives, with a tight hit-or-miss ratio. The show begins to feel a bit off when things take a more outlandish turn: a tired subplot involving a homosexual priest, for example, is severely contrived. So is the overly convenient season finale, which is built around simple miscommunications and a particularly obvious case of mistaken identity.

Toward the end of the season, Shaw begins to experiment with form: one episode is a parody of “Run Lola Run,” another is a Woody Allen pastiche. The “Run Lola Run” episode is unsuccessful as an episode of TV—the story it tells is confused and a bit all over the place—although it’s certainly a worthwhile attempt at TV experimentation. It’s out of left field and feels out-of-place in the context of the show. The Woody Allen episode, on the other hand, is not only well-done, it’s totally in line with the rest of the show on both formal and thematic levels. Its opening few minutes are genuinely inspired; it’s the sort of thing that you watch once, and go back and watch again, and then spend the next hour-or-so quietly contemplating.

There’s a lot of justified anger, confusion and frustration built into the DNA of this show. “SMILF” feels like its creator actively trying to piece together some sort of coherent philosophy through her creative process; it’s fascinating to experience this vicariously as a viewer. Unfortunately, this lack of cohesion hurts the show as much as it helps it. It’s unfocused, and, as a result, uneven. “SMILF” generates a lot of goodwill, but it’s impossible to be unequivocally effusive about its first season. It’s a mixed bag. [B-]