TV Database Community (2009)

“Shirley, since you have clearly failed to grasp the central insipid metaphor of those Twilight books you devour, let me explain it to you. Men are monsters who crave young flesh, the end.”

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Let me start with a story you might have read before in my other reviews—because, frankly, this episode hits that particular nerve just right. Valentine’s Day. Secondary school. I was crushing hard on the kind of girl who had the whole résumé: student prefect, volleyball captain, way out of my league. So, mustering every ounce of courage, I went old-school romantic: flowers, chocolates, the works.

Things went downhill fast. I ended up giving her the gifts in class—a result of escalating events beyond my control. She looked uncomfortable, possibly repulsed (I was somewhat of a delinquent who was held back two grades), my best friend nudged me to push through, and she—clearly under pressure in front of all our classmates—told me to just say whatever I had to say. She turned me down, and the whole thing was a car crash of embarrassment. For both of us. Over time, I realized she was put on the spot. I was humiliated, sure, but she was cornered, pressured by the public setting. Rejecting me made her look like the villain, even if she was just being honest. No right move.

And watching this Community season premiere, I saw that moment play out all over again—but with Britta and Jeff. It's a bold, subversive statement on double standards in our gender roles. Britta becomes the underdog goddess, praised by the entire school for having the courage to confess her feelings, while Jeff gets turned into the villain for saying nah, this isn’t it. But here’s the kicker—Jeff didn’t actually do anything wrong. At least not in that moment. Maybe kissing Annie was inappropriate and ill-advised, but he had enough respect for himself and Britta to turn her down. That was honesty. That was healthy, if anything.

But the narrative doesn’t reward healthy. It rewards performative vulnerability. Britta becomes an icon because the school needs one, and Jeff becomes the antagonist because someone has to be, never mind what actually happened.

It reminded me of what someone once told me after that Valentine’s Day disaster: the cruelest way to reject someone is to be nice about it, as it makes it harder for them to let go. Jeff's direct rejection, though harsh, was perhaps the kinder route. Stringing Britta along would have been more toxic in the long run, potentially dragging both of them along in a mismatched relationship.

Structurally, “Anthropology 101” plays like a spiritual sibling to “Investigative Journalism” and “Romantic Expressionism.” You get the reintroduction tour—each character reestablished in their familiar group dynamics for the benefit of fresh eyes. It has a very endearing warmth of seeing characters you haven't seen in a while, like reuniting with your old classmates. And then just as you're settled in, boom, that sudden pivot into emotional landmine territory around the study table. Old wounds resurface. New barbs get thrown. It’s familiar ground, but that’s kind of the point. These characters don’t grow the way you expect. They repeat, relapse, and clash in ways that feel painfully real. Because that’s what dysfunctional families do—they argue about the same five things for ten years. It feels fresh, thanks to Chris McKenna's writing, and it reflects the group's evolution and lingering tensions, especially between Annie and Britta over their shared history with Vaughn.

But what really locked this episode in for me wasn’t the structure—it was the commentary. The Jeff-Britta showdown becomes a commentary on the commentary. The school’s reaction, the group’s chaos, the performative relationship drama—all of it skewers our obsession with romantic narratives. These two don’t get closer out of affection; they get closer out of spite for having pushed each other into the public spotlight. They’re not reconciling—they’re retaliating. And it’s hilariously depressing, with Dan Harmon highlighting the absurdity of public expectations to the show's shippings.

And yet, I’ll say it—I still ship them. Jeff and Britta are dysfunctional, neurotic, and wildly self-absorbed, but they’re also human. Their relationship isn't a simple "good girl fixes bad boy" narrative. Britta’s not some untouchable moral compass, and Jeff isn’t just a smirking narcissist. They challenge each other in ways that feel honest, even when they’re at their worst. There's an underlying old-school sitcom romance between them but one that's written with more layered personalities, but given that Harmon’s show is all about subverting tropes, this ship was probably doomed from the start. Nevertheless, I still find it more compelling than any safe, sanitized pairing the internet might’ve preferred. And fine, I'll admit that I might have my own silly little crush on spunky, morally righteous heroines with an attitude.

My fanfiction fantasies aside, there’s fun chaos in the rest of the episode—Betty White playing a deranged anthropology professor. She's unhinged yet captivating, delivering one of the episode's most memorable moments. Dino Stamatopoulos as Star-Burns was also repulsively misogynic when he was discussing Jeff's misadventures with Annie and Britta in class, but instead of defending their honor by punching him out, Jeff used it as a moment to reflect upon his own mistakes and lack of respect. It was a nice character moment where Joel McHale didn't need to say much, merely let the story context and his nuanced performance do the work.

Bottom line: I thought this was a solid opener for the season and merely reinforced my belief that Community is a comedy that stands out from your typical American sitcoms by having something more meaningful to say than just clever jokes. And if the show keeps pulling off episodes like this? Yeah, I’m sticking around, season after season.

I'll be honest, I'm not a big fan of comedies. I'm a fan of clever writing. That’s why Seinfeld still slaps—it’s got the kind of cynical detachment that kicks sitcom sentimentality in the teeth. Episodes like “Anthropology 101” or “Contemporary American Poultry” work because they play with structure, subvert expectations, and don’t trip over themselves trying to deliver a moral. “Modern Warfare” was basically peak Community for me—not because it was funny, but because it was clever, stylized chaos. This one? Not so much.

Let’s be fair: getting a peek into Jeff’s old stomping grounds—his “homeworld” of slick legal backchannels and moral compromise—is kinda fun. The episode paints it like the Nar Shaddaa of Community: all suits, smarm, and soul-for-sale energy. Or maybe more like Illium from Mass Effect 2, if you prefer your dystopia with fewer closing arguments and more renegade interrupts. Either way, it’s nice to be reminded that Jeff was once terrifyingly competent, even if he’s buried that under layers of smug apathy. I’ve always had a soft spot for hyper-competent protagonists using sharp minds over brute force, so watching Jeff fall back into his old rhythm didn’t bother me. If anything, I kinda missed it.

But as for Alan Connor (played with the usual Rob Corddry slime-factor)? You can see his whole arc telegraphed five minutes in. And yeah, I accidentally saw a spoiler image in the Community wiki—but it didn’t ruin anything because the episode practically hands you the twist on a silver platter. The plot’s a straight line from Point A to Lesson Learned, with just enough sentimentality baked in to make Larry David hiss through his teeth.

What mildly saves it is the way the legal slime starts infecting the rest of the group. Britta’s self-worth suddenly gets cheapened by beachfront property. Shirley goes full Judge Judy on her marital history. Annie—sweet, innocent Annie—goes full chloroform assassin. It’s ridiculous, but at least it drives home the idea that Greendale, for all its nonsense, somehow keeps these deeply broken weirdos grounded. Or maybe just less broken.

The Ocean’s Eleven-style infiltration sequence should’ve been a home run, but honestly, I found it all a bit too Austin Powers for my taste. It’s that kind of zany-for-the-sake-of-zany energy that Community can sometimes overplay, where the jokes feel like they’re winking at themselves before they’ve even landed.

Also worth noting: Chang. His subplot was another weird delight, even if it barely connects to the A-plot. The man’s desperation to get into the study group is slowly evolving from creepy nuisance to tragic punchline, and I’m here for it. From last episode’s Gollum bit to this week’s fever-dream fantasy of finally belonging, there’s something genuinely funny about watching him flail with that sweaty intensity. If they keep pushing it into full-on deranged territory, it might become my favorite recurring gag.

Overall, this wasn’t the worst episode, just one that played things a little too safe for a show that’s supposed to be about blowing up sitcom conventions. There’s enough character work to keep it from being a total wash, but I’m definitely crossing my fingers for something sharper next week.

"Life is only worth a damn because it's short. It's designed to be used, consumed, spent, lived, felt. We're supposed to fill it with every mistake and miracle we can manage. And then, we're supposed to let go."

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Yup. And then, apparently, we’re supposed to oil-wrestle, emotionally regress, and tack on a finger-wagging message about living life to the fullest before death finds you while pretending it's some revelatory philosophy class. "The Psychology of Letting Go" is probably the safest Dan Harmon has ever played it, which—when you think about what Community usually pulls off—feels like a letdown. For a show that tends to flip sitcom conventions on their smug little heads, this one's practically Hallmark Presents: Death and You, complete with awkward hugging and the inevitable sitcom-patented THE MESSAGE™.

The Jeff Winger arc here is just... baffling. He’s somehow regressed from his more thoughtful, emotionally textured version we saw in “Accounting for Lawyers”, where he grappled with the toxic allure of his old life. Now he’s back to being petty and cartoonishly stubborn, derailing someone else’s grieving process just because his cholesterol levels dared to exist. The lesson he learns about mortality? So heavily foreshadowed it might as well have been subtitled “Important Character Growth Coming in 3… 2… 1…” And I mean, I get it, sitcoms gotta sitcom. But Jeff’s character felt more nuanced even in the second half of season one. It’s honestly more satisfying to swap this episode and “Accounting for Lawyers” in your rewatch (which was probably intended tbh, considering how it's one episode after this one in production code); that way, his development has some semblance of continuity.

Then there’s the Annie/Britta conflict. Or more accurately, the Annie/Britta catfight that's clumsily disguised as a gendered satire. Now, I usually love Britta and her tough-as-nails attitude. She’s insecure, surly, and neurotic in all the best ways that even remind me of my former liberal self. But holy hell, this episode veers into smug self-contradiction. She accuses Annie of “jump-starting date rapists” to make a bigger profit, only to literally do the exact same thing a minute later under the guise of proving a point. And then after the exploitative spectacle they create—played for laughs, mind you—we get the cherry on top: "men are gross(er)." As if that neatly closes the loop on the hypocrisy. Like, lady, you jumped straight to the horrific idea of rape criticizing your friend for using her body to earn money. You don't get to make a sexist remark about my gender being grosser with your tactless projection. It’s frustrating, because the episode wants to have its cake (oily fan service) and eat it too (moral high ground), but all it ends up doing is undercutting its own message.

And it's funny because my first thought seeing that catfight in the episode was not even how hot it was, but that maybe they shouldn't do that sort of thing in front of a bunch of men specifically because of the eroticism you're trying to criticize, but hey, I'm the gross one when you ended up using said sexual exploitation to make money anyway.

Even the theme itself on living life to fullest instead of focusing on death feels shallow in its execution and generic in its point made. It's perhaps a coincidence, but it's kinda funny how some of the other shows I'm watching this month (including the visual novel I'm playing) have similar themes of death and how we deal with it. "Mad Men" had Don Draper going through spiritual death (and then actual death) in "The Doorway" two-parter season 6 premiere; The Sopranos' season 6 premiere, "Members Only", literally opens with William S. Burroughs talking about the seven souls from death; and of course, "Kara no Shoujo 3," the visual novel I'm playing that's littered with Dante's Inferno poems, opening with a memorial grieving over a prominent character (to say the least). People can sometimes connect patterns in all the most random and non-related manner, but what is related is that their thesis on the inevitability of death and how we deal with it and moving on from it is still undoubtedly far more compelling than the weak writing of this episode, period, with its cliched message on how we should embrace living before death - yeah, thanks, Seneca, real armchair philosophy there.

Ironically, the most grounded character in this mess is Pierce, of all people. His spiritual coping mechanism—Scientology-coded and lava-lamp-adjacent as it is—becomes the emotional centerpiece, and you know what? I actually kind of respect how the group, Jeff notwithstanding, makes an effort to honor his beliefs. Say what you will about Pierce and his religion's blatant allegory for Scientology, this was the man who in season one called failure "living," so I think he doesn't really need lessons in embracing life. I don't think he's dumb enough to really think that his mom's soul was trapped in a lava lamp as particles and whatnot; just let the man deal with his mom's passing in his own way. Even if he’s being swindled by some pseudo-cult, at least he’s finding comfort. And considering how often sitcoms default to “religion = punchline,” it’s nice to see that taken just seriously enough.

And speaking of subtlety (or the lack thereof), there's Abed's clever little side plot—completely invisible unless you’re looking for it—where he helps a pregnant woman, ultimately delivering her baby in the background of everyone else's angsty drama, Hilary Winston's own not-so-subtle commentary on how we're so focused on death we missed life happening in the background. Clever, but a little pretentious, like someone patting themselves on the back in the writer’s room: “See what we did there?” Still, credit where it’s due—it’s probably the episode’s most quietly profound idea, even if it's buried behind lava lamps and forced sitcom tropes.

In the end, this episode isn’t terrible, but it is a letdown. For a show that usually takes pride in skewering convention and elevating tropes into art, “The Psychology of Letting Go” feels weirdly safe, superficial, and more than a little smug. It preaches life over death, but forgets to live a little itself.

Jeff: Can we stop walking in slo-mo now?
Abed: 20 more yards.
Pierce: You guys are walking in slo-mo?

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Sometimes a gag's all you need. Community's “Basic Rocket Science” leans into that mentality hard — all visual punchlines, big genre winks, and a thick slathering of parody sauce courtesy of the Kentucky Fried Chicken branding that somehow powers this whole space simulator farce. Yes, KFC. And no, I’m not impressed. As someone who swears by McDonald’s here in Singapore — where the fries actually taste like they were made by functioning adults — this whole KFC-in-space setup felt more greasy than clever. Undercooked chicken in real life, undercooked story here.

There’s a joke a minute, and I won't lie: a good chunk of them land. The fake space tech lingo, the mission control banter, Abed going full Apollo 13 ground control nerd while Troy fails upward into a captain’s chair — it's silly in the right way. And despite never having seen Apollo 13, even I could tell exactly which clichés the episode was riffing on. The inspirational “bring her home” tone, the over-the-top mission jargon, the ragtag crew trapped in a shuttle (or, you know, a glorified KFC Winnebago)... it’s all familiar even without the source material.

But here’s the thing: while the laughs are solid, the emotional core is nowhere near Community’s usual high bar. It tries to wedge in some Annie drama, a half-baked redemption arc, and a too-familiar Jeff softening moment, but none of it really sticks. There's no real character growth, no inner journey to mirror the external chaos. This one’s running on novelty and production design, not heart.

Still, I get it — not every episode has to be a genre-redefining masterstroke. Sometimes, it’s enough to slap together some biscuit thrusters and gravy throttles and let Pierce develop full-blown space madness in a corner. For all its hollowness, “Basic Rocket Science” is breezy and fun. A harmless gag-based episode, it's messy, fast, funny, and gone before it outstays its welcome.