Judd Apatow’s ‘Love’ Is An Accidental Parable About Gentrification

The Judd Apatow-sponsored sitcom Love features a master class in acting from Gillian Jacobs, some really catchy songs, and great supporting work from a huge supporting cast that includes David Spade, Daniel Stern, and Apatow’s own daughter Iris, who plays a delightfully bratty child film star. The Australian comedian Claudia O’Doherty, who’s so much funnier than everyone else on screen that it almost seems unfair, dominates all her scenes, and she’s in a lot of scenes. It’s a sweetly affecting romance, not to mention a realistic story about addiction.

That said, Love’s emotional truths still ring hollow. Because this is an Apatow project, it exists in a kind of class tunnel. Apatow co-developed the show with up-and-comers Paul Rust and Lesley Arfin, so it doesn’t stoop quite to the level of offensiveness of This Is 40, where we were meant to believe that the protagonists can afford a Sherman Oaks McMansion while running a crummy indie record label and a Ventura Boulevard clothing boutique. Rust and Arfin haven’t been as wealthy as Apatow for as long. Still, even though the show’s characters aren’t remotely rich, they don’t ever seem to worry about money at all.

Instead, Love is an accidental parable about gentrification. Most of the show’s action takes place in and around the traditionally Hispanic Los Angeles neighborhood of Echo Park, which is portrayed as a gauzy and romanticized hipster playground. The show’s star-crossed lovers, Mickey and Gus, frolic on a sparkling Echo Park Lake, wander around the Echo Park Farmer’s Market, and enjoy movies at the Highland Theater on Figueroa Street (which, until recently, was a dollar theater that catered to poor people, not cineastes). They eat late-night at 7 Mares Seafood as a prelude to fucking in the front seat of a vintage Mercedes. Apatow has managed the nifty feat of portraying a Los Angeles full of Mexican culture, but devoid of actual Mexicans.

The show’s depiction of Echo Park exists in stark contrast to the Echo Park of another Netflix sitcom, the corny but charming One Day At A Time reboot. The family in the show is Cuban, and their Echo Park still has Hispanic overtones, or at least undertones. In the pilot, they lament that a legendary Cuban bakery has been discovered by the cool kids, making the lines longer and the pastries colder. On One Day At A Time, the protagonist is an Army veteran and a widowed nurse who lives with her mother and two teenagers, supporting them on $25 an hour. Money concerns are always hovering around; a subplot in the pilot revolves around the stressful cost of a pair of sneakers.

Love fills its margins with plenty of black, brown, and Asian characters, all of whom have bought into the cool-kids dance. But none of them are sweating being able to afford great kicks. The mostly employed characters in Love, obsessed with genitalia and cool parties and pop-culture ephemera, don’t seem to worry about money at all in modern Echo Park.

In Apatow’s Knocked Up, when Seth Rogen’s loser protagonist finally gets a job, it guarantees him a prosperous life pushing a baby on the swing with Katherine Heigl. Gillian Jacobs’ Mickey, who also has a job, lives in a nifty bungalow that probably costs her a cool $3K. Rust’s mostly-employed Gus has a furnished apartment in a complex that offers exercise classes and a pool worthy of the Fountainbleu, a sort of retirement home for both old people and millennials. In the show’s most ludicrous episode, he house-sits at a vintage mansion that his friends can afford because they “invested well.” He and Mickey have sex outside, try on expensive jewelry, and generally saunter around like they belong. They aren’t fish out of water, they’re just waiting their turn to dip into the nice tank.

The show displays endless real-estate snobbery. Mickey’s former boyfriend lives in a chill bachelor pad that has a Cooking Channel-ready kitchen and topiaried backyard. He snidely refers to the days, at least five years past, when he lived in an “unairconditioned studio in the Valley.” Mickey’s coworker Truman lives in the only realistic housing in the whole show — a disgusting, garbage-filled apartment — but it turns out he mostly crashes with his hot boxer girlfriend who has a sweet high-rise condo.

Love’s most wretched character, Gus’ friend Randy, offends everyone around him not because he’s obese, but because he’s poor. He mooches $800 off O’Doherty’s character Bertie so he can pay his rent, while revealing that he’s never had a job. This left me wondering: How did he pay his rent the rest of the months of his life? And when we finally see Randy’s apartment, previously painted as some dank hole, it’s small and unglamorous, but it’s also brightly lit and full of top-end electronics. In the real world, Randy would be either homeless or living in his parents’ spare room, but here, he’s just the butt of a joke about “having to sell my Nintendo 64.”

Love is basically La La Land, but with indie rock instead of jazz (and with protagonists who actually have some sexual chemistry). But they have the same noblesse attitude toward Los Angeles. It’s a playground for their deep feelings and special ambitions, often catered by Craft Services. In Judd Apatow’s L.A., every meal is brunch, every day is Sunday Funday, every officer is friendly, and the rent always gets paid.

Neal Pollack (@nealpollack) is the author of ten bestselling books of fiction and nonfiction. His latest novel is the sci-fi satire Keep Mars Weird. He lives in Austin, Texas.