As "GLOW" returns for Round 2, Netflix's audacious wrestling sitcom continues to be a show that sneaks up on viewers. Just when you think it's little more than hilarious fluff, it goes and puts a hammerlock on your heart.
Yes, underneath all the spandex and sequins, "GLOW" manages to pack an emotional wallop _ delivering moments of warmth, redemption and even poignancy as it celebrates kick-butt girl power inside and outside the ring. The result is the summer's most binge-worthy series.
Inspired by the "Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling," a low-budget (and low brow) TV show that aired in the 1980s, "GLOW" tells the story of Ruth Wilder (Alison Brie), a down-and-out actress who takes one last shot at stardom when she joins the fledgling grapplers, despite knowing nothing about the sport. In addition to working with a band of unknown misfits, she also has to exchange suplexes with Debbie Eagan (Betty Gilpin), her former best friend who is struggling to get her life back on track after Ruth had an affair with her husband.
Bolstered by weeks of hard-knocks training under the watchful eye of Sam Sylvia (Marc Maron), a gruff, washed-up, B-movie director, these scrappy novices were finally ready to rumble. And by the end of Season 1, they somehow had scratched out a pilot episode that showcased their outrageous, politically incorrect alter egos.
As Season 2 begins, the show within a show has been given a green light by a San Fernando Valley basic-cable channel. That's a win, of course, but it brings on more stress for the women and Sam who must struggle to crank out 20 episodes of wrestling mayhem.
Also, it means that our motley crew of combatants now have to cope with their first taste of fame, modest as it may be. Being celebrities has its perks, of course, but also brings some discomfort. For example, Tamme (Kia Stevens), an African-American cast member whose ring name is "Welfare Queen," grows ashamed when her son _ a scholarship student at Stanford _ first learns of her offensive moniker.
"I'm not the only offensive character," she says. "Everyone's offensive."
Tamme's kid is leery of her new endeavor _ comparing it to a "minstrel show." On the other hand, when he watches her perform he can't help but be impressed by her newfound tenacity and toughness.
All the women, including Tamme, are broken in some way. Their cartoonish wrestling show thus presents an opportunity to remake themselves, discover their athleticism and gain some traction in their lives.
The desperately ambitious and spunky Ruth, for one, pushes for a bigger creative role, which threatens the chauvanistic Sam. Meanwhile, Debbie, a single mom now on the verge of a divorce, uses her clout as a former soap star to finagle her way into becoming a producer. Along the way, both women encounter workplace sexism, a narrative that gives "GLOW" added resonance in the #MeToo era.
The most compelling aspect of the series continues to be the shaky relationship between Ruth and Debbie. Now forced to work together _ as Zoya the Destroya and the all-American Liberty Belle _ it's clear that they still have feelings for each other, but thanks to Ruth's betrayal, also have issues to work through. As Brie has pointed out in recent interviews, they're the show's "will-they-won't-they" dynamic.
While Ruth, Debbie and Sam remain the core of "GLOW," its encouraging to see other members of the show's offbeat ensemble get fleshed out a little more in Season 2. It's reminiscent of what "Orange Is the New Black," another Netflix series, did with its highly diverse, mostly female cast. (It probably should be no surprise that Jenji Kohan executive produces both shows).
As for the actual wrestling, Season 2 goes bigger, bawdier and badder_with more loopy smackdowns and trashier trash talk. That's the beauty of "GLOW"_you can come for the body slams and stay for the emotionally engaging relationships.
