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The fictional Toledo Truth Teller, a newspaper at the core of the fresh comedy “The Paper,” exists overshadowed by its history. Fifty years prior, the publication had a payroll exceeding a thousand individuals, comprising a hundred reporters focused strictly on Ohio politics; presently, it takes up less than a single level of the towering Romanesque Revival structure that carries its name. Its most promising staffer, Mare (Chelsea Frei), dedicates her hours populating the following day’s front page with news agency items penned by other journalists concerning different locations. Local news has dwindled to merely high-school sports scores. “I’m not even sure if it’s a genuine newspaper,” Mare admits to the newly appointed editor-in-chief, Ned (Domhnall Gleeson), who, on his initial day, pledges to rescue the Truth Teller from “crumbling like a heavy smoker’s lung.” Naive and unrealistic, Ned imports two cringe-worthy relics into the newsroom: a typewriter and an idealistic viewpoint concerning the future.
“The Paper,” debuting this week on Peacock, was jointly conceived by Greg Daniels, celebrated for tailoring Ricky Gervais’s “The Office” for U.S. audiences. This program, much like its precursor, is presented as a spoof documentary, and the unseen camera team chronicling Ned’s administration is revealed as the same one that taped the previous series. (They also feature a secondary character, the accountant Oscar Martinez—among several allusions that come across as eager attempts to appeal to followers.) The establishment, for all its playfulness, has consistently been imbued with a certain post-industrial sorrow: “The Office” unfolds at a paper-supply firm, and its characters are aware their occupations will soon be antiquated. Subsequent seasons emphasized the shaky finances of the company, which, by the start of “The Paper,” has been absorbed by a larger conglomerate whose leading product is toilet tissue. The Truth Teller, as well, is heading down the tubes.
In contrast to Michael Scott, the atrocious boss on “The Office,” Ned is a caring leader—though one with a tendency for virtue-signalling and overt self-denial. (Actually, Ned shares greater likeness to another Daniels lead: “Parks and Recreation” ’s Leslie Knope, a vivacious, prim reformer who, when under strain, succumbs to the frenzy lurking below the calm exterior.) Even so, reviving the Truth Teller proves to be a steep ascent. Corporate management refuses to bankroll Ned’s renovation of the newspaper, compelling him to enlist reporters from the commercial side of the team: bookkeepers, the advertising rep, the subscriptions chief, even a toilet-paper sales associate—anyone open to giving up a few hours per week. Though Mare flourishes swiftly under his supervision, the remainder linger foolishly behind, employing journalism as a cover to confront a former partner, or being fooled by certain youngsters into composing a gullible report of an absurd teenage fad. Although Ned envisions “cultivating contacts over whisky in a hazy tavern,” his initial big story is the result of a morally questionable trap at a mattress outlet.
“The Paper” surpasses “The Office” in its depictions of decay. But I became diverted from its longing for Watergate-era press by my personal nostalgia for early-2000s network comedies. During that period, the requirements of broadcast television forced strict cadences on comedy writing, generating such present-day classics as “Arrested Development,” “30 Rock,” and “The Office” at its finest—each defined by quick portrayals and incredibly high joke densities. Conversely, “The Paper” ’s sluggishness exemplifies the pacing dilemma of the streaming age. A large portion of the cast remains poorly developed; an unlikely misunderstanding regarding Mare’s sexual orientation is somehow extended into a story arc spanning multiple episodes. After a time, the fact that the Truth Teller’s parent organization is named Enervate begins to register as a bit too obvious.
On occasion, “The Paper” delivers a pleasant reminder of workplace comedies’ turn-of-the-century apex. “The Office” ’s prime attribute was its characters: the program inspired you to want to spend your evenings with the sorts of individuals you would typically happily bid farewell to at five o’clock on the dot. The most vibrant member of the new series’ ensemble is Ned’s second-in-command, the flamboyant, spotlight-craving Esmeralda (Sabrina Impacciatore), who refers to herself in the third person as “a single mother, though you’d never guess because her physique is insane.” Esmeralda, who is genuinely pleased to produce the type of celebrity-focused clickbait that Ned aims to discard, is a former reality-TV participant, and it’s fitting that she, above any of her colleagues, grasps how to play to the cameras: she likens her associates to crustaceans, bugs, and copulating canines, accompanied by all-out physical reenactments. (I would absolutely tune in to see her on “The Real Housewives of Toledo.”) Unsurprisingly, she’s the most disliked person on staff. A midseason subplot wherein a love con artist targets lonely ladies, inclusive of Esmeralda—and wherein an office lottery arises attempting to pinpoint precisely how much money she’s forfeited to the scheme—creates the show’s inaugural noteworthy episode by turning inside out, then enriching, her connection to the remainder of the newsroom.
“The Paper” endeavors to extract humor from the disparity between what journalism is and its potential. It captures aspects of the modern media scene correctly, as when an executive searching for a money maker inquires, “What is our Wirecutter? What is our Wordle?” or when Ned states that composing under pressure is akin to “having homework every day, forever, until the newspaper folds and I’m out of a job.” However, white-collar employment has shifted in other ways in the decade since “The Office” ceased airing. Snags to integrate these shifts, encompassing a feeble early joke concerning how Ned hasn’t been MeToo’d, are awkward at best. Mare’s weak insistence that “A.I. will never supplant me” is similarly challenging to accept as humor. As much as one might aspire to cheer for the underdog, it’s undeniable that the newly revised Truth Teller’s victories are negligible. “The Paper,” akin to the newspaper at its center, is sporadically engaging—and inevitably overshadowed by its predecessor. ♦
Sourse: newyorker.com
