If there were a more convenient algorithm to assess the situation, Tim Robinson would easily be the actor I spent the most time with in 2025. From the moment I stepped into an empty theater to watch Friendship (2025), alone save for a theater attendant doing regular check-ups, there was something that spoke to me about his style of comedy. It didn’t take long for me to believe that he gave the best performance of the year, believing that his vision of the white middle-class man was reflective of layers of angst and desperation that have defined the past decade of American suburbia. He was a man defined by consumerism, and yet it was only in a way that connected him on the surface. By the time he goes on the stereotypical “drug trip” to find deeper meaning, he finds himself at odds with the funniest use of Subway this year (sorry, Mr. Sandler), discovering a truth so ambiguous it would’ve made David Lynch chuckle.
But what was it about this actor who, until May 2025, hadn’t existed on my radar? Why was I suddenly hailing him as the messiah of some new and groundbreaking vision of comedy? His career had been fabled since a short-lived tenure on Saturday Night Live, and I’d argue a lot of his work since has fit that ironic mold of working hard for little gain. In fact, it could be argued that everything I watched since would make his performance in Friendship appear limited in hindsight, and yet it’s still the best comedy of the year. I’m still pulled in by this surreal sense of pathos that showcases how meaningless this man’s life is. He is pitiful, and yet collaborator Andrew DeYoung can’t help but find the sympathies underneath, digging into the loneliness and the self-inflicted setbacks with enough recognition of the humanity.
Maybe my response to Robinson was how antithetical he felt to other comedic counterparts. In an era that’s winking and nudging about how self-referential the world is, he’s delivering something dramatic underneath the cringe humor. As someone who is dissatisfied with the direction that more conventional social structures are going, there is something cathartic to seeing Friendship capture so bluntly the emptiness of the middle-class struggle. The claim to fame for Robinson’s character is that he created an app that, while profitable, is seeking to isolate its users. He becomes ecstatic when he gets his own office, believing that everyone there is annoying. While the story never properly refutes this, there’s still evidence to suggest that he’s the problem, a cancerous cog in the industrial machine that wouldn’t care if he were replaced. Add in his loyalty to a jacket company, and there’s this materialist codependence that overshadows resonance with any human, even ones as charismatic as Paul Rudd’s cornball local weatherman. When Rudd says he’s in a band, Robinson gets drums while hoping it’ll shortcut to a deeper relationship. It never happens, just like it hasn’t for his family or anyone else in his life.
A refrain that I’ve seen echoed elsewhere is that Robinson reflects the plight of the modern man. In an age where everyone is following Manosphere types and taking on quasi-sexist politics in order to feel connected, Robinson is reaching beyond the limitations to find something more genuine. Every character he’s played is a screw-up, and yet they always work because the world is so believably bleak. As someone in the back half of their 30s, I recognize claims of Robinson appealing to Millennials because of how unique their perspective is; of having seen the prosperous 90s as a child while experiencing 9/11 and economic collapses during their formative transition years into adulthood. They are, essentially, the furthest that any generation had been from The American Dream by that point while recognizing the bright-eyed nostalgia of a 50s America, where everyone was nice and could afford a house.
In that respect, Robinson is actually ahead of the curve. No matter where you look, he’s playing people who live a perception of “the ideal life.” Both Friendship and the HBO series The Chair Company find him with his wife and kids in a cozy job. Regardless of other factors, he would be considered a winner who presumably worked hard to achieve his comfortable living. And yet, in both cases, his life falls apart. The Chair Company pushes things further as one embarrassing moment in which people see him fall in a broken chair becomes his whole personality. What would lead many to a few minutes of shame before moving on turns into a journey to take down the manufacturer of said chair. The results borrow heavily from paranoid thriller structure and continue the trend of 2025 feeling like it’s Thomas Pynchon coded. It’s confusing, profane, and heartbreaking, all wrapped into half-hour segments that seem like they’re answering questions that nobody asked without providing any coherence.
In essence, the modus operandi of The Chair Company is about how nothing matters. His life is falling apart, and he’s doing it for inconsequential gain. If he stopped, the only one who would feel guilty was himself. By venturing deeper, he finds many loose strings that tie this closer to a never-ending soap opera than a puzzle box that needs solving. It’s the perfect misdirect, even if it still feels like a variation of his role in Friendship. There’s a barrage of entertaining twists, but as anyone who caught the final two minutes of the finale will recognize, they don’t make sense. There is the compulsory urge to press “Play Next” even while you know this guy’s life isn’t any closer to sweet relief.
That has always been the plight of Robinson’s comedy. It’s done in vignettes on the insanely rewatchable masterpiece I Think You Should Leave, where he finds another corner of the male psyche in bite-sized allegories. In most cases, there’s a quest to be liked while discovering that there’s some tragic roadblock, often in the protagonist’s head, that causes them to be self-involved, overwhelmed with deranged visions of societal norms that never make sense to everyone else. In a time when social media has led everyone to have their own curated experience, it’s hard not to imagine these damaged figures going so quickly off the deep end, detaching themselves from niceties to the point that his skits are nonstop yelling. The everyday becomes a cult, forming its own language that is alien to anyone without the time to read the prompts. Even when a protagonist seems genuine, he’s still at risk of being hated over his passions, such as in a skit where he’s kicked off a dating show when he fixates on a zipline.
I’d argue it’s even there in the Comedy Central series Detroiters, which has all the hallmarks of a Mad Men parody without being one. With the help of co-star Sam Richardson, they run a marketing firm where they pitch local businesses ads. Compared to what would follow, it’s relatively relaxed. There’s no insane jump into the deep end, and his friendship with Richardson is arguably the closest he comes to projecting a character that has a regular sense of empathy. Most episodes end with the typical morality tale crevassed into the wacky humor and misunderstandings that fuel their career. It’s a miracle that they’re still in business after the pilot, let alone 20 episodes, where they continually pitch ideas that are charming in their lo-fi aesthetic, but wouldn’t be mistaken as a great selling point.
His sincerity exists within a world that is actively working against him. No matter how much he fails to get ahead, he keeps trying to find his place in the world. In a time when the economy is declining, and the president is changing the parameters of the law by the day, it’s hard to not relate to Robinson’s manic yelling. A.I. is replacing jobs that people have worked their lives to achieve. People could go home and spend hours now talking to someone online who doesn’t exist. There is this desire to connect, yet the irony is that nobody knows how anymore. Even so, the sweetness in Robinson’s take is that he genuinely believes he can find answers. Everyone believes they can. The issue is that too much has been set up to work against a convenient answer that doesn’t involve radical sacrifices.
This read explains why Detroiters feels quaint despite having typical Comedy Central gags such as a man innocently checking his stove with a lighter that blows up the house. It may be that it came out in a more innocent time politically, but it could also be that there was more optimism back then. By the time of The Chair Company, meaning has left the chat. Animosity is subtextual to everyday life now, and the job market is nowhere as good as the president says it is. There’s nothing to hold onto, which is devastating given how crucial it is to survive. And yet, as the world pushes him further down, Robinson gets back up and nervously looks around for back-up. The small triumphs become momentous, even if they’re fleeting.
It's something we can all relate to. While it can be mistaken as one homogenous role, I’d argue his study of the different sides of the modern ennui is essential to understanding where America stands in the 2020s. Friendship best captures a rejection of detachment while finding comfort in materialism with little comfort value. Why does he believe in buying that jacket? Why does he want to learn drums? The only thing that might bridge the gap is his desire to see the new Marvel movie, though nobody wants in. Credit must be given to DeYoung for writing those in his orbit to have more nature-based fascinations, whether it be Rudd’s weatherman or his wife Kate Mara’s floral company, i.e., services that others benefit from. It helps paint the irony of how the tech world is letting everybody down, and nobody thinks to find a more permanent alternative to the maladies.
There’s a pantheon of great comedians currently working, and yet I don’t think embody the moment as much as this. Sure, Seth Rogen making a TV series about Hollywood may be fun, but is it challenging perceptions of the modern world? For as much as Robinson feels removed from a middle class that I recognize down to the finest detail, he still captures a world that is stuck in this uncertainty. They have accomplished a lot that’s worth celebrating, but what permanence does any of it create? What emotional fulfillment do these toiling hours provide? Robinson works as an archetype because he’s always fighting to get into the next bracket without ever standing a chance. We laugh at him because, amid his occasional irrationality, there is something everyone who was sold The American Dream is currently facing. Stability isn’t what it used to be, and it’s driving us insane. What are friends if we’re always working, removed from time to properly socialize and experience life?
Ideally, none of us has given up looking for the day when everything falls into place. We all have our own visions of what that means. However, there are usually years before that happens where people believed to be less deserving find that breakthrough. It’s a moment to be jealous, to question whether our life goals were not the right ones. When thinking of The Chair Company, it’s an example of feeling like the truth is about to be revealed and set everything straight. Even so, what will it have all been for? The guy fell over in a chair. What should’ve been a quickly forgotten moment is now likely to define the rest of his life. He is surreal yet real. Irrational yet hopeful. Ironic yet sincere. It would be classified under post-modernism if it didn’t feel so commonplace. I’m unsure how long it will be until Robinson loses his magic, but until that day I’m happy to see what he has to say, even when I’m the only one.
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