Like schoolboys, my friend Charlie and I send each other coded messages. One of these is “Am back on the horse”, which means “Rewatching BoJack Horseman”, which means “Having a mental health crisis”. The recipient knows to go to the other’s house with Danish pastries and some grass to touch. That show changed my life. The Simpsons had redefined what a cartoon could be, Ren & Stimpy and South Park were transgressive thrill-rides. But Raphael Bob-Waksberg’s tale of a washed-up actor chasing redemption wasn’t just adult; it was profound.
So I was worried, approaching the new animated series from that show’s creators. It’s not about celebrity. There are no talking dogs or porcupines, or underwater worlds. No Will Arnett. How could I watch without expectation? It feels unfair yet unavoidable to keep an artist’s previous work in mind. Isn’t that like comparing a current partner with an ex?
