​A Very funny, very Maria Bamford look at mental illness.

By Alex Huntsberger

ahuntsberger@gmail.com

Comedian Maria Bamford isn’t shy about her mental illness; she’s talked openly in her act and in interviews about being diagnosed with Bipolar II (hypomanic episodes) and OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder). In fact, Bamford is quite the opposite of shy. She’s upfront and forthright and working to destigmatize mental illness in society-at-large.

But this doesn’t mean that Bamford’s new show, Lady Dynamite, which dropped on Netflix last week, is a sober, reflective mental health PSA (public service announcement). It’s something far better: a drop-dead funny tour of duty through Bamford’s brilliant, unsettled mindscape.

Like many other comedian-centered sitcoms before it, “Lady Dynamite” is based loosely on its creator’s, with Bamford starring as a fictionalized version of herself. The show jumps back and forth between three different time periods: “The Past”, “The Present”, and “Duluth”.

“The Past” sees Bamford as a rising comedy star and newly-minted spokesperson for the megastore-chain, Checklist. (The IRL [in real life] Bamford starred in a series of ad campaigns for Target.) Seduced by the incredibly profane siren song of super-agent Karen Grisham (a hilarious Ana Gasteyer), Bamford eventually has a complete breakdown that lands her back home in Duluth.

Tinted a wintery blue, the “Duluth” sections chronicle Bamford’s experience in treatment, her interactions with her parents (Mary Place and Ed Begley Jr) and old friend/quasi-sister Susan (Mo Collins), and her attempts to get her life back together.

The final section, “The Present”, chronicles Bamford’s return to L.A. and jumpstart her career with the help---some of it less than helpful—of her old manager Bruce, played Fred by Melamed with equal parts obsequiousness, desperation and gentle haplessness.

In terms of pure formal experimentation, it’s closest kindred is probably Louis C.K.’s show “Louie” on FX Networks, which often seems more like a series of short films—some funny, some weird, some just kind of sad—than an actual sitcom. And while Lady Dynamite definitely feels like a TV show, with a cast of regular side characters and revolving plots and hijinks and misunderstandings, it also feels unlike anything else on TV.

In fact, it’s fitting that “Lady Dynamite” is on Netflix, because its rhythm and energy feel far closer to a concatenation of surrealist Vines than to a traditional sitcom. Not only does the show feature such sights as talking (and singing) pugs, spaceship cars, Japanese noodle commercials featuring a dancing penis, and a malevolent guinea pig, but it’s early episodes constantly break character to comment on themselves.

When Bamford puts up a park bench outside her house to foster a sense of community a cop played by Patton Oswalt shows up to inform her that she doesn’t have the proper permit. However, upon hearing that Bamford plans on doing a stand-up set later that evening, Oswalt breaks character to caution the real Bamford against such a tired trope.

There’s a jittery nervousness hardwired into the show’s DNA—one very similar to Bamford’s onstage persona. The show will call itself out for being clichéd one moment, then follow-up with a choice so-out-of-left-field that it feels like a kind of overcorrection—if it weren’t clear that the show knows exactly what it’s doing.

Like Bamford, “Lady Dynamite” is a show that can’t help but outthink itself, questioning every small decision and opting instead for bursts of surreal gibberish. It’s not the first show to get meta, but it’s one of the first in memory where the constant outing of its own devices feels totally honest. It isn’t questioning itself because it’s clever; it’s questioning itself because its genuinely unsure of the answer.

Of course, the show wouldn’t work so well if it wasn’t so damn funny, and if Bamford wasn’t so winning in the lead role. Produced by “Arrested Development” creator Mitchell Hurwitz, Lady Dynamite can go laugh-for-laugh with any other comedy out there. Even its fart joke is outstanding. And Bamford is simply fantastic, mixing small-town Minnesota naiveté with the scarred weariness of a show biz vet and her own brand of oddball fearlessness.

Back in 2009, Bamford produced a web series called “The Maria Bamford Show” about her recovery in Minnesota. With an assist from her loyal pug, Bert, Bamford played every role in that show—one whose budget could best be described as “whatever was at hand plus maybe $5.” It was funny and strange and unsettling and, at times, even heartbreaking. It was a work that seemed to come from a place of great pain and little hope.

With “Lady Dynamite”, that pain is still there--and it always will be. With mental illness, as with any chronic condition, the symptoms can only be managed, never cured. And while the language of treatment is occasionally ridiculous, something the show readily acknowledges, the show is very a portrait of mental illness being managed. It’s honest about the struggle, but this time there’s hope.