And Your Host…
There’s nobody in SNL history truly like Will Ferrell. Every iteration of the show has its breakout stars, their most celebrated qualities sometimes determined by the prevailing tastes, others by sheer force of personality and skill. And then there’s Ferrell.
With the mien of an everyman and the coiled, explosive energy of a silently ticking bomb, Ferrell, from his famous “Get off the shed!” audition piece, hilariously channeled repressed white male frustration better than anybody on Saturday Night Live ever has. (Remember, he drives a Dodge Stratus.) Even in his more benign roles, there’s a lurking jungle cat behind those willfully beady eyes.
So having Ferrell come in for the sixth time to host the Season 51 finale was both a good get and a no-brainer. While this cast’s breakout stars (Ashley Padilla and James Austin Johnson by my count) have enlivened sketches aplenty with a dogged commitment to the acting side of sketch comedy, the show hasn’t really launched a major, can’t-miss phenomenon since the absurdly stacked Wiig-Hader-Samberg-Sudeikis-Forte-Poehler-Rudolph eras.
Having an iconic alum like Ferrell show how its done to close out a season marked more by potential and competence signaled the sort of BIG FINISH Lorne Michaels wanted to end on. Toss in none other than Lorne’s pal Sir Paul McCartney, M.B.E. as musical guest, and the potential for all boats to be raised on the way out of the marina is doubled.
A shame then that this last episode of SNL‘s 51st season seemed to take inspiration from Sir Paul’s unexpected third song, a goodnights-usurping rendition of his bouncy 1980 hit “Coming Up.”
You want a friend you can rely on
One who will never fade away
And if you’re searching for an answer
Stick around, I say.
Season 51 premiered amidst real world turmoil and rampant speculation (by some) that the show was simply unequal to the pressing perils of the moment. Saturday Night Live isn’t really in the bold disruption business if it ever was, and this season ambled along with signature reassurance that, when fascism comes aiming directly at the foreheads of protesting citizens and late-night comedians alike, cheeky, middling sketch comedy will see us through.
Ferrell started out by bringing some of his own signature energy to the proceedings tonight, his ghostly Jeffrey Epstein repeatedly teasing JAJ’s Trump about his supposed suicide (“Wink!”) in the cold open, before Ferrell continued his steadfast refusal to do standard as-himself comedy on any late-night outlet that invites him. It took a full minute for the audience to twig to the fact that the cheerful, salt-and-pepper figure bounding onstage to deliver the monologue was not Ferrell but Red Hot Chili Peppers drummer and Ferrell sort-of lookalike Chad Smith.
Ferrell’s bafflement at this imposter took energy from typical Will Ferrell unease, the actual host’s growing irritation emerging with an unblinking sincerity enough to turn the standard SNL monologue grind on its ear. “Don’t clap for him, he’s a bad guy!,” coming from Ferrell, is akin to one of his many Conan appearances where, for example, he seems genuinely irritated why O’Brien keeps asking about the live cockatoo Ferrell has brought, unremarked-upon, to the standard celebrity sit-down. Ferrell never comes to the party empty-handed.
Sadly, the rest of the show barely made use of the host’s unique potentialities. Ferrell was never anything but engaged and giving his all like it was 1999, but the downside of having a ball of potential energy like Ferrell on the stage is that so-so writing and premises will see him unleash in all directions. Unfocused by a good script and knowing that only his presence can give the people what they came to see, Ferrell can come off as merely loud, as in the revived theater kid sketch midway through the episode. (Him screaming “Meatloaf!” in The Wedding Crashers always smacked of desperation to me.)
The Ferrell/McCartney powerhouse pairing, in practice, came off like reassurance rather than risk. Sure, Lorne’s 81, his show’s 51, and SNL‘s reputation as the safe comedy cruise ship continues to toss overboard anything too risky. But, as Lorne’s 83-year-old pal Sir Paul sends us out for the season with cozy familiarity, don’t worry—Saturday Night Live will always be here. Stick around.
The Best and the Rest
The Best: The first sketch after the monologue saw Ferrell’s doctor patiently explaining to patient Mikey Day and wife Ashley Padilla that he has mistakenly removed gall bladder patient Day’s penis. I’ve sat through more practiced doctor bedside friendliness than I care to recall, and Ferrell nails the slight singsong exposition perfectly. Sure, Day now has no penis, but Ferrell’s doc assures the horrified couple that he just feels sick about it, never dropping that self-exonerating, blank tone.
“Look, we could Monday morning quarterback this thing to death,” in Ferrell’s delivery, is an entire universe of medical malpractice in one phrase, and even his eventual hostility to “bitch” Padilla comes out in the placid how-dare-you-question-me voice of a guy with bulletproof faith in institutional remove. Trying to distract from Day’s understandable anger by teasing out a happy birthday likewise hints at a character whose professional armor has taken over his being. It’s Will Ferrell’s live wire intensity squeezing through pinholes, and it’s magnetic.
The Worst: I’ll admit to being in the dark over the apparent burbling of resentment that the high school theater sketch was once cut at dress. Seeing Ferrell’s Mr. Koenig finally get his night in the spotlight didn’t really make me want to join the letter-writing campaign. (The sketch is defiantly titled “Cast List 2” despite the original never airing.)
Faculty advisor Koenig’s catty in the hackneyed “frustrated auteur stuck doing drama club Grease yet again” manner. Ferrell can do this sort of preening narcissist weirdo in his sleep, but he doesn’t let the scarf and flyaway hairdo do his acting for him here. It’s more that the sketch presents Koenig’s manipulative inappropriateness with his slavish young hopefuls as if it’s more original than it is. (It wouldn’t have broken any new ground in 2019, either.)
Molly Shannon is another inimitable SNL icon whose talents could tip over into effortful stridency without the right vehicle, and, as Koenig’s partner in student-abusing faculty diva-ship, she, like Ferrell just isn’t all that funny amidst their self-impressed condescension. Shannon, on hand since she’s playing Ferrell’s wife in upcoming streamer golf comedy The Hawk, is typically committed playing someone who should probably be committed (for adjusting teen Tommy Brennan’s high C with a crotch-grab of for nothing else).
Saturday Night Live‘s cast of former theater kids is always up for a bit of “take that, theater kids” comedy and here every member of the ensemble gets to do a bit as the anxious would-be thespians. I especially liked Jane Wickline’s student realizing to her horror that she will once again be playing a tree, and Kenan can get a laugh just with a sly little look. Otherwise, this one didn’t live up to the legend I wasn’t aware of.
The Rest:
I like Dan Bulla’s “Midnight Matinee” shorts as a rule, their clash of irreverence and high production value producing the occasional, stellar “Beppo.” “Bobbin’s Sacrifice” let the production value take over, making this LOTR parody my least favorite of the bunch.
It sure looks expensive, with the faux Fellowship’s practical effects vying with a less-impressive CGI orc army in the short’s version of the siege of Helm’s Deep. The buildup to Ferrell’s humble halfling offering himself up for a suicide mission is suitably reverent in tone, complete with the wee Bobbin’s song—which shifts predictably into a mid-mission betrayal of his friends.
Bulla’s style is puncturing pomp with offhand asides, and it’s amusing here. But the air is let out by the rote nature of the gag, albeit with Ferrell’s li’l turncoat crooning his own asides about making his new allies laugh with his tiny hobbit penis and dreaming of “an orc life with an orc wife” before things inevitably go bad.
It’s not SNL‘s fault that I’m the sort of sketch nerd that can compare a new sketch unfavorably to one on a similar theme from another country, from 35 years ago. But if I’ve seen the “silly terms for hardware parts” premise done better elsewhere, that’s not on me.
Regardless, it’s an amusing enough idea, with bewildered marrieds Padilla and Day (again, although different characters) greeting each explanation of what’s wrong with their car with understandable bewilderment. As mechanics Ferrell and Marcello Hernandez rattle off bilingual gibberish (apparently, the couple’s auto has a bad dong rod gasket and their scrung belt is real tree-trunky), the escalating nonsense gets laughs in fits and starts. And if we didn’t know we needed the comedy stylings of Sir Paul McCartney as the third grease monkey telling the couple their car’s gone all “tipsy-wipsy,” well, we didn’t.
As an aside to that unnamed better sketch, the structural difference is instructive. While A Bit of Fry and Laurie (oops) dropped us into a bananas situation and let us sink or swim with the bit, SNL needs to spoon feed us opening narration that what we’re about to see represents what we hear when a mechanic is talking. You know, in case anybody feels lost.
“Weekend Update” Update
There was the usual speculation about possible final episodes for various cast members leading up to this finale. And Jost and Che, now the longest-serving “Update” anchors, may or may not be back. But like the rest of tonight’s finale, the “Update” duo played along like nothing will ever change. It was joke swap time again (after the usual hit-or-miss topical zingers), a once outrageous and original concept that’s been necessarily neutered as an ongoing institution.
If nothing else, the swap is a jolting reminder that Saturday Night Live is, you know, live, with all the usually avoided opportunity for chaos and uneasy laughs that entails. Jost and Che give each other previously unseen cue card jokes designed to make each other squirm in the telling, dialing their signature odd couple dynamic up to 11.
As time’s gone on, the surprise has dulled (Jost makes Che into a sex creep with a small dick; Che makes Jost admit to being a racist inexplicably married to someone out of his league), with the format yet eliciting the expected audience gasp or two. (Tonight, Che’s defense of the sanitized Michael Jackson biopic also sees Jost making him a pedophile and a victim of Jackson.) It’s performative bad taste with an elbow in the ribs, and the people sure love it.
The only times the formula has fizzed in its later years have been through creative framing, as when Che brought on a noted Civil Rights Movement octogenarian (actually an actress, not that Jost knew that) to sit right beside Jost as he read out jokes about shipping Barack Obama back to Africa.
Here, the real juice comes when Jost reads Che’s promise that he, Jost, will shave his head live on the air, with a barber named Jerome appearing, clippers at the ready, to see just how far Jost will go for the bit. Pretty far, as it turns out, with Che halting Jerome just as he was about to get down to work. Wrestling fans may ask if this is a work or a shoot, but I choose to believe that these two are into their franchise enough to play it straight.
Oh, the fake news stuff was the usual shades-down cruise past the horrors. Kash Patel is a drunk. RFK’s a nutcase obsessed with teen sperm. The only well constructed line of “Update” proper was Che’s about the guy who allegedly bum-rushed the Correspondent’s Dinner: “Cole Thomas Allen has pleaded not guilty to attempting to assassinate the president, a crime which carries a maximum penalty of life in prison. He could also be charged with trying to kill the vice president, which carries a maximum penalty of a full pardon.” [Shot of Jan. 6 insurrectionists scaling the Capitol.]
I’m on record, ad nauseam, of wishing “Update” (and SNL generally) would take the opportunity afforded them. Things are dark. Hypocrisy and open corruption vie with gutter bigotry and looming authoritarianism to gnaw away at the body politic. All the most fertile breeding ground for real satirical courage and originality. Some of the greatest political comedy emerges under peril, and we’re in peril up to our non-fascist necks over here.
Jost and Che worked best when a smirk and some clever zingers didn’t feel like whistling past democracy’s graveyard. If they stay, nothing will change on “Update.”
Recurring Sketch Report
I’m happy for Jeremy Culhane. Starting out, the Season 51 featured player looked wan and overmatched, but Culhane has quietly emerged through the season, scoring more than a few full cast members and outpacing colleagues Kam Patterson and Tommy Brennan by miles.
On paper, Mr. On Blast should be the sort of one-joke desk piece to make me roll my cynical eyes. After all, the bit is just an excuse for Culhane to make funny faces and do silly hand gestures synchronized to music stings. But damned if I didn’t get my patented “stupid grin in spite of myself” look. Again! For someone so outwardly unassuming, Culhane’s got confidence, and that goes a long way on SNL.
I suppose there’s a satirical edge here about influencer dudes whose self-importance far outpaces their insight. And I enjoyed Mr. OB’s introduction of backup “blast boys,” and Jost’s confusion at Culhane throwing to himself in “the place where they put the pictures.” Still, let’s find a new character, Jeremy.
Political Comedy Report
I was noodling over how the cold open would incorporate Will Ferrell’s menagerie of characters tonight. A George W. visit? Eh, what would be the hook—an idiot vs. different sort of idiot showdown over illegal Middle East wars waged on false pretenses? So having Ferrell kick off the show as the ghost of Jeffrey Epstein was a surprise at least.
After a quick hot on Trump’s laughingstock China trip (“What did you give him?” “Taiwan”), James Austin Johnson’s Trump takes another Oval Office nap only to be awakened by his former wingman in underage child trafficking and rape. I’d say “allegedly” but at this point the ubiquity of people from all political quarters simply accepting it as read that Donald Trump is engaged in a sweaty coverup of unthinkable crimes makes it largely unnecessary. (Trump has never sued that former Apprentice staffer who violated his NDA to tell graphic stories of Trump’s Adderall-fueled incontinence, either, for what it’s worth.)
As ever, there’s a rote old fashioned nature to the presidential cold open, no matter how good JAJ’s impression remains. When a president flouts even the pretense of innocence (on myriad fronts) so openly and wantonly, the old tricks bounce off like crumpled paper. If you’re asking what I’d do differently, I’ll refer you to me not being on the SNL writing staff with the added suggestion that a guaranteed presidential hate-watcher, a world-class impressionist, and a full writers room most likely has a lot of stronger material SNL‘s octogenarian millionaire boss passes on.
Ferrell’s chipper Epstein seems unfazed by both his time in Hell (“What’s Heaven like?” “It’s hot!”), and his former molesting buddy’s thinly disguised murder of him in his jail cell. Again, that (white) America can go through its motions while this is so openly assumed to be at least 100 percent plausible suggests a deep, fetid flaw in the national character.
Anyway, the main joke is Epstein’s shared visions of what various disgraced Trump figures will be up to six months from now. Noem’s selling QVC and doing schtick about shooting dogs and her husband’s closeted sex life (even Trump’s shocked we moved on from that one). Hegseth and Patel are doing beer bongs. You get it. The kicker, with old pallies Trump and Epstein crooning “Just the Two of Us” while mooning into each others’ eyes is the sort of non-ending that’d be infuriating without two masterful pros doing the singing. It’s still pretty infuriating.
Not Ready for Prime Time Power Rankings
I am lousy at predicting the future when it comes to who’s staying and who’s gone. But since we’re at the end of Season r51, here goes:
Out: Tommy Brennan, Kam Patterson, Ben Marshall, Chloe Fineman, Jost and Che.
In (no brainers): Padilla, Johnson, Dismukes, Marcello, Culhane, Sherman, Kenan’s not going anyplace.
Likely staying: Day (congrats on show #200 tonight), Slowikowska, Wickline.
With Padilla and JAJ up top, that’s an intriguing lineup with a need for some new heavy hitters. I have no idea if he even wants it, but since Carl Tart’s on the writing staff, I’d love to see the talented and experienced improviser get a shot. After that, the show desperately needs to get over its sheltered casting rut and make room for a Black woman or two. For all SNL‘s perceived entrenchment, it still attracts exciting comic actors from all over and it’s time to take some chances.
10-To-Oneland Report
Look, Ferrell’s always going to be watchable. That said, the family meeting sketch partakes of the aforementioned willingness of Will to go for belly laughs without sufficient structure. SNL loves a “new boy/girlfriend meets the weird family” premise, and the reveal that Ferrell’s normal-seeming suburban dad wears stockings and garters lingerie under his backless chinos and button-down gets the guffaws its going for.
Ferrell’s never been shy about showing off his defiantly hairy and untoned dad-bod for a laugh. He’s basically “vanity is the death of comedy” writ in pale, ungainly man-flesh. When deployed strategically (tummy emerging from under too-tight short in “Cowbell;” patriotic post-9/11 office thong), the display is explosive. When it’s sent out to carry a flabby sketch, it’s a little trying.
And that’s all there is to it. Sarah Sherman’s mom also shares the same sartorial kink (complete with “enter here” tattoo pointing to her butt, while son Marcello Hernandez wears a wrestling singlet under his front-cut jeans. Suitor Andrew Dismukes has never been less assured than when having to deliver the exhausted “Thanks so much for having ass—us!!” panic lines in response, and this last 10-to-one sketch of the season smacks of effortful outrageousness without the art.
Stray Observations
- It’s no “Cast List” or anything, but tonight’s cut for time pre-tape, “Hormuz Jeff” gave Ferrell’s manic madness a proper vehicle. (A 22-foot party pontoon smuggling whatever through Iran’s waters via six illegally-welded outboard motors.)
- When McCartney’s first song, the melancholy “Days We Left Behind” only projected images of the young Paul, John, and George, I thought we might get a Ringo appearance playing their new duet, “Home to Us.” We got Chad Smith on drums for “Band on the Run” instead.
- I love McCartney. (I was a Beatles freak kid—shocker, I know.) And his new album is getting good reviews. I guess hearing his cracked but still melodic voice adapt to songs old and new tonight made me a little sad.
- “Is the Pope Catholic?” “Not enough for me!”
- Episode Grade: B-Minus.
- Season Grade: B-Minus. Another shocker, I know.
- And that does it for Latenighter‘s reviews of Season 51. I remain awed and delighted (in spite of myself) that I get paid to write about a show I’ve watched my entire life, so thanks to Jed and all the fine folks there. And to all of you. Here’s hoping Season 52 has some more promising things to joke about—and more courage to do so.
