Adults Season 1 Review: Gen Z’s Riotous Roommate Romp

Adults drops us straight into the cluttered living room of Samir’s childhood home in Queens, where five twenty-somethings attempt what might be called “affirma-limbo” (that awkward phase of seeking adult validation while clinging to adolescent certainties). From the pilot’s subway scene—equal parts social-justice parody and cringe-comedy—to a dinner-table meltdown worthy of ancient Roman farce, the series stakes its claim as a breezy comedy with absurdist edges.

Ben Kronengold and Rebecca Shaw, whose Yale-era speech went viral in 2018, steer the show for FX and Hulu with a quiet confidence that belies its occasional chaos. Their writing team sprinkles social commentary—healthcare mishaps, whistleblower spectacles—into the day-to-day misadventures of Issa, Paul, Billie, Anton and Samir.

What sets this sitcom apart isn’t merely its setting in less-gentrified Queens but its self-aware Gen Z gaze: the characters wield smartphones like modern-day lances, staging protests on social media as though they were gladiators fighting invisible foes. (Yes, they AirTag potential dates.) The series thus becomes a mirror reflecting a generation that distracts itself from systemic instability by bingeing absurdity—an escapist paradox that may define twenty-first-century humor.

Urban Hearth and Pressure Cooker

Five roommates inhabiting Samir’s childhood home—an aging townhouse in a borough typically bypassed by prestige dramas—creates a pressure-cooker for twenty-somethings facing late-capitalist precarity. Queens here isn’t a backdrop but a character: its unfashionable streets echo lingering student debt, its creaky floorboards whisper cramped parental basements-in-disguise.

Each 20–30-minute episode zeroes in on one tangible struggle (navigating healthcare bureaucracy, rapid job loss, disastrous blind dates), crafting microcosmic morality plays. A single-story focus sharpens the absurdity: the AirTag fiasco or the hospital odyssey. Yet rhythms recur—Samir’s employment roller coaster, Billie’s panic spirals—so that standalone gags accrue into thematic arcs.

Chosen family replaces empty alumni networks or absent kin. Here, Issa’s protest theatrics and Anton’s boundary-less empathy forge solidarity stronger than any blood tie. Traditional support systems feel antiquated—like dial-up in a fiber-optic age.

Guest characters, from the neighborhood “stabber” turned conversationalist to Billie’s school-day ex, function as surreal Greek chorus: they ground the narrative in social commentary even as they heighten its surreal edge.

Absurd? Absolutely. But beneath the chaos lies a reflection of a generation craving connection amid systemic neglect. Under this roof, comedy reveals existential truths.

Architects of Millennial Malaise

Samir (Malik Elassal) embodies what might be called “well-meaning drift”—a principle familiar to anyone who’s watched a classic coming-of-age film like The Graduate. His good intentions often misfire spectacularly. When he champions Billie’s medical needs, he secures endless tests, morphing empathy into chaos.

Later, his quest for gainful employment becomes a bystander’s comedy of errors (from mooning recruiters on Zoom to bungling job offers). Samir’s arc—from passive advocate to inadvertent instigator—mirrors the pitfalls of performative activism and fragile male allyship in an era that equates virtue with virality.

Billie (Lucy Freyer) is an overachiever in free fall. Suddenly unemployed, she grapples with anxiety manifesting as literal panic in her bowels—a grotesque but potent physical metaphor for millennial burnout. Her hospital odyssey (think Kafka without the metamorphosis) underscores how precarious young adulthood can be when basic healthcare feels like Russian roulette.

Billie’s chemistry with Andrew (Charlie Cox) reveals her yearning for stability: she projects every ounce of ambition onto him, only to discover his midlife-crisis detour isn’t the anchor she imagined. This relationship symbolizes the mirage of security in an unstable job market.

Issa (Amita Rao) trades on spectacle. Dramatic proclamations of being “V of our G” echo historical orators who weaponized rhetoric (Napoleon might cringe at her brevity). One moment she’s a protest leader galvanizing allies; the next, she’s teetering between self-absorption and genuine vulnerability. This fluctuation challenges the trope of the monolithic social-media warrior, suggesting that behind every hashtag is a human craving real connection.

Paul Baker (Jack Innanen) operates as the group’s Zen routine—his pansexual coolness offers dry observations that slice through chaos like Occam’s Razor. He insists on his full name, as if distancing himself from inherited identity (a subtle nod to personal reinvention, à la postmodern antiheroes). In episodes of peak absurdity, Paul’s steady presence reminds us that sometimes the sharpest comedy arises from the quietest voices.

Anton (Owen Thiele) introduces what I call “compassion fatigue comedy.” His boundary-less empathy leads him to befriend everyone—even the neighborhood “stabber.” There’s a larger commentary here on social overextension and the dangers of emotional labor in hyperconnected societies. His soul-bonding tendencies (he coined that term) generate both uproarious set-pieces and surprisingly touching moments where genuine concern outshines caricature.

Ensemble chemistry thrives on shifting pairings: Samir and Billie’s neurotic dance, Issa and Paul’s ideological sparring, Anton’s ubiquity. Rapid-fire absurd bits collide with tender pauses—like watching a high-wire act where laughter and poignancy intermingle. The result is a portrait of friendship as ballast in a world that feels perpetually unbalanced.

Crisis of the Couch

The quarter-life crisis of the 2020s feels less like a rite of passage and more like a systemic glitch. Five adults crammed into Samir’s childhood home personify “affordability amnesia” (forgetting the dream of independence because rent is impossible). Couch-surfing rent-free might sound enviable until each shriek of the creaking floorboard reminds us how fragile that arrangement really is.

Healthcare becomes theater of the absurd. Billie’s hospital saga turns anxiety into a physical performance—every panic-induced test reads like Kafka pitched to a sitcom writer. Viewers recognize the punch line: when a basic right resembles a carnival game.

Generational identity emerges as satirical gold. A character’s viral hashtag protest riffs on the arc of twentieth-century manifestos, updated for selfie culture. We see “V of our G” chanted like a rallying cry, yet watched through smartphone viewfinders. Chosen family trumps inherited networks, yet characters grapple with grown-up obligations they can’t ignore.

Absurdism and relatability share equal screen time. An AirTag caper might elicit belly laughs or eye-rolls, depending on whether you’ve ever tracked a friend’s location on impulse. A wheelchair race sequence feels like performance art that teeters between anarchic joy and moral discomfort. The show flirts with nihilism—“LOL nothing matters”—yet stops short of full surrender, preserving a flicker of hope amid the chaos.

Diversity and inclusion flow organically through each scene. Race and sexuality aren’t checklist items but living subplots: Issa’s fierce media posturing clashes with Paul’s unforced pansexual worldview. Neurotic proclivities—Billie’s bleeding panic, Anton’s soul-bonding—become lenses for larger debates about mental health and emotional labor.

Micro-aggressions surface in misplaced jokes about ability or identity, then pivot into moments of allyship, however awkward. A gun-shop clerk’s slur sparks both offense and empathy, inviting viewers to confront the uneasy gap between intent and impact. Through laughter and wince-worthy gags, Adults probes whether comedy can heal social fractures or merely highlight them.

Blueprints of Bedlam

The pilot unfolds like a cinematic hive—characters swarm into view via overlapping chaos: a clandestine protest at a corporate lobby collides with public transit cringe. In one breath, we meet Samir’s earnest naivety, Issa’s performative outrage and Anton’s compulsive friendliness. Early unevenness is intentional (or feels that way), as if the show is calibrating its emotional thermostat.

A handful of episodes crystallize the series’ tonal spectrum. The medical panic installment reads as tragicomedy in microcosm: Billie’s anal-bleeding panic channels postwar health anxieties (think Orwell meets Scrubs), Samir’s overzealous advocacy becomes allegory for unchecked allyship, and Issa’s prayer-room retreat satirizes DIY spirituality in a secular age.

Then comes Anton’s neighborhood stabber arc—a bizarre fusion of crime-comedy and character study that echoes Fargo’s absurd fatalism. His soul-bonding with a suspect probes the limits of empathy in a society that commodifies intimacy.

The dinner-party catastrophe (starring Julia Fox) epitomizes “wheel-on-fire” absurdity. A misplaced roast chicken catalyzes a chain reaction of social misfires so spectacular it borders on performance art.

Pacing acts as both companion and adversary. Rapid-fire jokes accelerate like stock-market tickers, only to be arrested by brief emotional beats (a long close-up of Samir’s existential dread, for instance). The 20–30-minute runtime sustains momentum—never overstaying its welcome—yet occasionally sacrifices depth for velocity.

Recurring setups—Billie’s job-loss spiral, Samir’s occupational yo-yo—offer thematic echoes but sometimes feel like narrative comfort food rather than bold innovation. Are these purposeful refrains or missed chances to remix the formula?

Modern-gadget gags (AirPlay hijinks, AirTag stalking) serve as hallmarks of smartphone-era sitcoms. They riff on surveillance culture while eliciting genuine laughs. In melding tech tropes with timeless roommate foibles, the series stakes its claim as both zeitgeist chronicle and entertainer.

Crafting the Absurd

Cringe-comedy sits at the core of Adults, yet it never feels exploitative. The series alternates between satirical riffs on social-media performatives—think influencers staging “spontaneous” protests—and unexpectedly tender pauses that reveal character vulnerability. Sometimes the humor lands as a knowing wink; other times it misfires in delightful chaos.

Local color fuels many jokes: the labyrinthine dance of Queens bureaucracy becomes punchline and metaphor (parking permits read like Kafka-esque scrolls). Gen Z jargon—“ghosting” upgraded to “AirTag ambushing”—doubles as thematic shorthand for surveillance culture.

Visually, the editing toggles between rapid cuts that mimic scrolling feeds and long, static takes where silences grow thick (a deadpan stare at an empty subway car). The soundtrack toggles likewise: a burst of quirky indie chords gives way to sudden hush, underscoring social awkwardness.

Cameos from Charlie Cox, Ray Nicholson and Julia Fox aren’t mere star cameos; they puncture the domestic bubble, injecting fresh energy (and sometimes discomfort) into the roommates’ microcosm.

Direction favors hand-held cameras, framing disputes and late-night confessions with documentary immediacy. The color palette skews warm yet slightly desaturated—like a photograph left out in the sun—evoking a lived-in world that’s as frayed as its inhabitants.

Full Credits

Creators: Ben Kronengold, Rebecca Shaw

Cast: Malik Elassal, Lucy Freyer, Jack Innanen, Amita Rao