I Think You Should Leave is an incredibly straightforward title for this incredibly surreal show. Each sketch features someone that should absolutely shut up and get out of here. Star Tim Robinson is usually that someone: the guy in a hot dog costume who drove his hot dog-shaped car through a window but won’t admit it; the guy trying to stop his date from finishing all of the nachos; the guy everyone hates because he poured water all over his steaks, which is just gross.
But when Robinson’s not screaming and freaking people out, in his overzealous bids for acceptance, he calms down. Those sketches, in which Robinson tones it down to play a gentle dad, manager, or member of a friend group, are among the stand-outs of every season. It’s not that he isn’t amazing at playing those high-key characters; few people perform with such hysterically manic energy as well as Robinson. But when he lets other actors take the reins, it just makes Robinson—and the show—even more shockingly funny.
My favorite Season 3 sketch, which hit Netflix May 31 (but remains in rotation for many of us), is from Episode 4. This sketch is one fans are calling “Shirt Brother”—a term you won’t stop repeating after watching. The “shirt brother” in question is Robinson, whose character is a doting dad who gets into a completely bizarre, escalating situation at his daughter’s choir concert. It’s I Think You Should Leave at its addicting peak: completely unexpected, with exquisitely, intricately drawn characters that are as far away from reality as possible.
Robinson is the shirt brother of Shane, the grandpa of his daughter’s classmate, Flynn. Shane points out that he and Robinson are wearing the same blue-patterned polo shirt—a coincidence that means nothing to Robinson, but apparently everything to Shane.
As Robinson’s daughter (and Shane’s grandson) sings “Meet Me in St. Louis,” Shane sits a few rows away, eyeing Robinson. Robinson is perplexed but nonplussed, until he notices Shane is gone—before suddenly returning and demanding that his shirt brother come with him.
I hate both explaining and giving away a joke, so I advise you to watch the sketch’s crux yourself. (Key to the antics: a very catchy, exclusive song by Turnstile.)
But what makes “Shirt Brother” especially great is how it subverts expectations. When Shane shows Robinson’s character what he was up to, and now expects Robinson to help him with, the possibilities are myriad. Is Robinson going to freak out on Shane, whose frantic demands make less and less sense, with more and more hilarity? Is someone going to break down, and who’s it going to be? Where the hell is this even going to go?
Instead of turning the volume up to 11, Robinson remains a great scene partner, not scene stealer. He slowly buys into the weirdness, which builds to an actually affecting ending. Well, at least for Robinson’s character. Shane? Not so much.
I love seeing Robinson end a sketch with a smile and a win. But I also love that allowing other characters to be the utter weirdos in Robinson’s stead—Connor O’Malley and Patti Harrison often get to do this; there’s a great Season 2 sketch with Bob Odenkirk in this vein—helps reinforce the show’s own boundaries. On I Think You Should Leave, anyone is capable of pivoting into inexplicable absurdity, not just Robinson. There are even sketches where he doesn’t appear at all, like when Sam Richardson plays the host of a nonsensical pageant; these don’t feel like diversions, but reiterations of the show’s intention of breaking down social niceties.
And the other characters’ absurdity is often of a different kind than what Robinson’s characters usually portray. Characters like Shane (who pointedly reminds Robinson’s dad that he’s “Flynn’s grandpa,” as if that means anything to anyone) are madcap, their explosions much more measured than Robinson’s. (That said, if O’Malley is on screen, you should immediately expect there to be an utter collapse of sanity.)
“Shirt Brother” is funny because the writing is so specific and magically bizarre, yes. But it’s also great because Tim Robinson makes for a fantastic straight man, someone who is as capable of blending into a scene as he is wrenching it away from everyone around him. Both modes are great—but the quieter one is my favorite.
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