The new season of Community premieres today. Is it good? Well, sure. Like any sitcom that makes it to a sixth season, hanging out with the characters is fun, situations are predictable, and it’s decently funny. But you can’t really take a moderate stance here, because this isn’t just any old sitcom. This is Community, a show that has survived its showrunner being fired/rehired, losing several of its original cast members, and finally abandoning TV altogether for the friendlier shores of Yahoo of all places—all because of its rabid fanbase.
So rather than asking “is Community good,” a more interesting question might be a variant on something Joel McHale’s Jeff Winger asks in response to apparent change spearheaded by consultant Francesca (Paget Brewster), one of two new additions to the cast: “How much can you improve Greendale before it stops being Greendale?” Put another way: How much does Community have to change before it stops being Community, or at least becomes something more like Community: The Post-Transfer Years?
There’s more than enough grounds to ask the question. Even ignoring the rise of streaming platforms (something that’s changed everything from Arrested Development to The Killing and has had at least one major effect in lengthening running times), there’s the more pressing issue of the stripped-down cast. Half of the original study group is gone: Donald Glover’s Troy is off sailing around the world with Levar Burton, Chevy Chase’s Pierce is unceremoniously dead (but maybe floating around as a hologram), and now Yvette Nicole Brown’s Shirley has moved to Atlanta to take care of her ailing father and join a show that sounds like it should be airing on USA (characters welcome!). By now, Community is essentially a televised thought experiment, a Show of Theseus—or, if you’re focusing on the implications of the change for Britta/Troy/Annie/Jeff pairings, a ‘ship of Thesus.
This isn’t a new question. Cheers, for example, became a noticeably different, goofier show when Shelley Long’s Diane was replaced by Kirstie Alley’s Rebecca, who lacked the explosive, borderline violent sexual chemistry with Ted Danson that led to “Sam and Diane” being shorthand for TV romance. On the other hand, some shows have successfully replaced actors within roles without substantially changing the tenor of the character or the show (the new Aunt Viv from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, Darren on Bewitched). High-profile casting changes tend to feel gross—not that anyone was necessarily in the tank for Two and a Half Men, but the show was almost certainly on its last legs by the time it subbed Ashton Kutcher in for the flailing and erratic Charlie Sheen (who, coincidentally, replaced Michael J. Fox on the last season of the underrated Spin City and turned the show from a lighthearted workplace sitcom into a weird will-they-won’t-they with Heather Locklear).
Besides, Community‘s fourth season, though it was on the original network and had the full cast, was far less Community than this new season, thanks to showrunner Dan Harmon’s absence. The characters weren’t themselves, the pop culture references became punchlines instead of Trojan horses for emotional rabbit punches, and pretty much everything that happened had to be swept under the rug as the result of a “gas leak” at the beginning of season five. Does that mean the showrunner is the most important part of the continued identity of a show? Not quite—the last two seasons of Seinfeld, sans Larry David, are noticeably weirder and more unhinged than the others, but they’re still Seinfeld, finding a surreal take on the material that produced a few classic episodes (“The Little Kicks,” “The Comeback”).
Maybe it makes more sense to think of a sitcom as a vibe, whether that comes primarily from one mind (in this case, Harmon’s, as fleshed out by his lieutenants) or just a general aesthetic. Community in its sixth season might not have Pierce to kick around, or even consistent Troy & Abed in the Morning gags, but it’s still very much taking place in the same Greendale. All of its characters are more or less the same, and its world is deep enough that it could theoretically just lean on its supporting characters. (Just getting to hear Garrett shriek again is fun.)
That’s why these first two episodes are largely about introducing the two new characters and explaining how and why they fit into Community. Paget Brewster’s aggressively boring Francesca and Keith David’s aging ’90s badass Elroy are both slightly adrift misfits who begin to be taught lessons in weirdness by the rest of the gang—just like Jonathan Banks’ sorely missed Buzz Hickey last season. Abed, ever the meta-voice of the viewer, questions whether Francesca’s groundedness spells the end of the misfit version of Community, the one that can ignore continuity concerns like the whereabouts of “that girl I was dating.” Abed’s ability to acknowledge the fictionality of the show has always veered between actual fourth-wall awareness and a sugary depiction of mental illness, but it’s within identifiable bounds here, and even if it’s annoying for some viewers, it’s recognizably Community.
Besides, like Frankie says, “good shows change.” It’s easy to forget how weird and special it was that Community‘s early seasons aired alongside The Office, Parks and Rec, and 30 Rock like it was no big deal. If it’s settled into a goofy hangout sitcom that eschews delving into the nature of reality for easy gags about its own age? Well, that’s the cost of any TV show sticking around. But where most sitcoms would go out of their way to distract their viewers from that aging, as long as Community‘s fans continue to keep it alive, the show will continue shoving its decay in our faces—and it’ll be as sad as it is funny.
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