It’s depressingly ironic to celebrate the movies—in their classical theatrical-and-celluloid configuration, no less—via a modern streaming TV series, and yet The Studio is such a spot-on tribute to film industry chaos and creativity that it’s difficult not to get swept up in its lovingly absurdist affection.
Seth Rogen’s second straight Apple TV+ triumph following 2023’s Platonic, this cameo-filled 10-part satire, which premieres Mar. 26, is an astute peek behind Hollywood’s studio curtain, revealing the greed, ambition, egos, and fandom that drive the business, and the innumerable social and market forces that complicate its efforts to bring stirring, challenging, and popular entertainment to the silver screen. It’s unlikely that any 2025 show will elicit more laughs.
In its opening scene, The Studio pays homage to Robert Altman’s self-referential The Player with the first of its many elaborate oners—a device that reaches a crescendo in its second installment, which marries form and content by dramatizing, without edits, Sarah Polley’s attempt to shoot an extended centerpiece long take for her prestige picture starring Greta Lee.
Created by Rogen, Evan Goldberg, Peter Huyck, Alex Gregory, and Frida Perez, the series mocks and mimics with glee, and it gets off to a rousing start with Continental Studios executive Matt Remick (Rogen) being promoted by CEO Griffin Mill (Bryan Cranston) to studio chief. For Matt, a lifelong cinephile, this is a dream come true, even though it’s at the expense of his former boss Patty (Catherine O’Hara), who’s none too pleased with being ousted, and his colleague and best friend Sal (Ike Barinholtz), who was angling for the job.
Additionally aided by his assistant-turned-creative-executive Quinn (Chase Sui Wonders) and his marketing guru Maya (Kathryn Hahn), Matt aims to reinvent Continental as a place equally dedicated to auteurist visions and box-office bonanzas. That clash between art and commerce comes to a head from the get-go, as Griffin—who says that they make movies rather than films—orders Matt to spearhead their latest IP-based venture: a blockbuster based on Kool-Aid.
Forced to comply with this wish but unwilling to reverse course on his pronouncement that he cares about backing quality director-driven fare, Matt meets with Martin Scorsese (playing himself), who pitches a $200 million drama about Jonestown. Realizing the links between Jim Jones’ suicidal cult massacre and the popular beverage that he now must turn into a tentpole, Matt agrees to Scorsese’s deal on the condition that the Oscar-winning legend title his project (set to star Steve Buscemi) Kool-Aid.
This situation is, unsurprisingly, destined to result in ruin, and The Studio sets its calamity in motion with a live-wire electricity augmented by Rogen and his castmates’ sharp and hilarious rapport. Everyone in this arena is a cutthroat careerist, be it Barinholtz’s striving wild man Sal, Wonders’ cunning up-and-coming Quinn, or O’Hara’s down-but-not-out bigwig Patty, who negotiates a sweet production deal with Matt that keeps her in the Continental fold.
Selfish, avaricious, and insane, they’re a mad moviemaking collective navigating a 21st-century America that may be losing interest in their big-screen dreams, and their individual and communal desperation infuses their every wacko decision, some stemming from Matt’s own eagerness to be seen as a cool and integral part of the filmmaking process rather than merely a “bean counter.”
Matt’s struggle with this issue peaks with a Golden Globes bathroom chat with none other than Netflix’s Ted Sarandos, whose appearance is all the more shocking (and hilarious) considering that The Studio comes from rival Apple TV+.
Rogen’s comedy has its finger on the pulse of contemporary Hollywood, and its episodes tackle a cornucopia of hot-button issues, from the war between streaming and theatrical and the industry’s obsession with intellectual property-fixated franchises, to the studios’ desire for inclusivity and fear of cancel culture (and the virtue signaling that accompanies both). Even the calculated phoniness of award-season campaigns and gala acceptance speeches prove fertile ground for the show, whose deep knowledge of its subject allows it to lacerate in numerous directions at once.
Rogen’s Matt is a true believer who’s also a bit of a corporate wimp, and his reticence to perform his position’s uglier duties is repeatedly ridiculed, whether he’s working up the courage to tell Ron Howard that the final portion of his new feature is a dreadful misstep, or he’s grappling with the potentially unpleasant optics of casting Ice Cube as Kool-Aid Man.
Every one of The Studio’s celebrity participants hits their brief appearance out of the park, led by Scorsese and Howard, two acclaimed directors with natural gifts in front of the camera. Those walk-ons, however, are still secondary to the amusing chemistry of Rogen, Barinholtz, O’Hara, Hahn, and Wonders, whose simultaneously combative and caring relationships are well developed and grow loopier and funnier with each subsequent chapter.
While The Studio’s handheld cinematography can at times be too conspicuous, the series’ aesthetic agility contributes to its madcap energy, and the inventiveness of its myriad oners is another means by which it salutes its diverse cinematic idols, many of which (whether it’s I Am Cuba or Weekend at Bernie’s) receive verbal or narrative shout-outs. As with its protagonist’s plans for Continental, the show is an ideal union of the serious and the ridiculous, poking fun at Matt and his pretentions—as when he defends himself and the importance of his gig at a charity event populated by condescending cancer doctors—but never losing sight of the fact that he and his compatriots are sincerely devoted to their beloved medium.
Backstabbing, hallucinogenic mushrooms and conniving plots round out this rollicking first season, which concludes at the annual CinemaCon convention where Continental tries to knock the socks off theater owners with their upcoming slate despite a raft of calamities that threaten to derail everything—and perhaps get them “MGM’d” in the process.
Despite overflowing with inside-baseball gags, the series is never inaccessible, keeping its eye firmly trained on Matt as he steers a ship that, due to factors both in and out of his control, is careening wildly toward an uncertain destination. That’s a shrewd tact given that Rogen has never been better, and his performance is ultimately the prime reason that The Studio so richly deserves a renewal—or is that a sequel?
