I’m a professional hater. Figuring out why I don’t like something, dwelling on it, and then launching into a monologue on why said thing sucks will always be fulfilling—especially when others give you that nod of silent agreement after you trash something that most people are too afraid to admit is bad. Such is my legacy, I’d like to think: allowing my dinner guests to keep their reputations and their cardigans intact while I mudsling from across the table.
Freeform’s The Come Up, premiering Tuesday, seemed like a great, albeit easy, new target. A "docu-reality" series about other doe-eyed twentysomethings who moved to New York City to “make it”? Except they dress better and can afford to live in Manhattan? Let me at it.
Only problem is, The Come Up might be too boring to properly hate. Much like Gossip Girl—another show about hot, young NYC socialites—it has all the engineered inclusivity of HBO Max’s reboot, but with none of the OMFG factor that made the original series so fun to watch.
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On paper, it looks like Freeform struck gold with this cast. There’s Claude, a trans woman and wannabe actress from Tribeca whose cheekbones could slice prosciutto better than whatever’s in service at your local supermarket. Sophia, an unsure but competent photographer whose work has been featured in Vogue and The New York Times Magazine. Ebon, a Black trans woman and party promoter doing her best to stand upright while a new relationship spawns a kaleidoscope of butterflies in her stomach. Fernando, a stunning, androgynous Brazilian model whose Ibiza wedding to fellow model Jordan Barrett was attended by the likes of Kate Moss and Georgia May Jagger. Taofeek, the Nigerian-American designer behind the label Head of State. (He must be too busy to film much, based on his disappointingly limited appearances.) And Ben, the straight-ish white boy from Texas who’s full of piss and vinegar, ready to do ketamine with anyone who offers.
There are a few moments of this show that are “so cringe,” as our protagonists say more than once over the course of the first four episodes. At one point, Claude assures an awe-struck Ben that he’ll soon be so New York he’ll “develop a coke problem and start drinking Yerba Mate.” And Fernando’s résumé is impressive, until you find out he’s the son of the late John Casablancas, founder of Elite Model Management. He describes Fashion Week as “what downtown kids get out of bed for, babe.” What’s a show about young people frolicking about New York City without a little pedigree?!
Similarly cringe-worthy is episode 2, which is shamelessly titled “Jewels of the Dimes Square Crowd,” in what I can only imagine was a last-ditch effort to cash in on the revived discourse about the tiny block in the Lower East Side. I personally made a pilgrimage all the way from Queens a few weeks ago, and the area looked like a shell of its formerly hyped self. It was less “It girl” and more tourist attraction where Instagram Clean Girls compete with paint-splattered “artists” and skaters from abroad (Brooklyn) for a piece of limited cultural cachet. This show, if it makes any noise at all, might be the final nail in the coffin for the would-be scene.
The producers are incredibly gracious with their cast, letting them muse freely during “confessionals” that reveal little about their daily drama. The guardedness is somewhat understandable; these aren’t out-of-touch housewives with nothing to lose, or desperate strivers who agreed to lock themselves in a bugged house for six weeks. They have actual things they want to do, so they can’t let themselves get too crazy on camera—which is great for them, but sad for us watching at home and craving more spectacle.
Ultimately, though, it’s hard to get mad at people who offer up their real lives for us to dissect. It’s incredibly honest, for instance, when Claude delivers a high-minded rebuke of the “venture capitalists” who gentrified her neighborhood, before sounding off on the mythical appeal of downtown as the onetime playground of Madonna, Basquiat, and Chloë Sevigny. Asked by a producer if she, too, has that fantasy, she replies: “Of course I have that fantasy.” It’s also heartbreaking when Ben, questioning his sexuality after kissing Fernando at a party, shares that his mom once told him that his “effeminate” dancing makes her uncomfortable.
Likewise, a few moments bring the clearly aspirational show back down to earth, like when Sophia, for all her mainstream success at an early age, balks at the $145 price tag on a colorful bathrobe at Coming Soon, unknowingly setting a price ceiling for our modern debutantes. And no big-name spreads can quell her nerves as she decides how to break it to her Harvard-educated mom that she doesn’t want to finish her degree at NYU—a crash course in family expectations and personal fulfillment.
The Come Up is not must-see TV, with a cast that’s self-aware in that Young Millennial/Gen Z way that sucks all the fun out of being young and hot. But they’re quasi-cool. And in 2022, that’s enough to get you a TV show.
