The most dangerous thing a woman can possess is self-worth. Liking her own body, trusting her own instincts, valuing her own time and company, thinking she’s interesting and special, entering business and personal relationships based only on mutual benefit and respect. Sometimes this leads to advertisers having no idea how to corner us. If we don’t hate ourselves, how will we know what to buy? Sometimes self-worth leads to violence against us. Sometimes, though, self-worth sets us free. “Shrill” is a show where that happens, and it’s lovely. Aidy Bryant stars as Annie, a writer in Portland, Ore., who’s stuck — stuck editing calendar listings at an alt-weekly; stuck dating a beardo dingus who treats her shabbily; stuck with the tedious ticker of society constantly running in her mind, telling her she’s bad and gross and lazy and worthless because she is fat. Annie’s not an apology of a human being, which fat people and women and especially fat women are taught to be, nor does she spend every second of the day in despair. But by the time we meet her, she’s just about at the end of her rope. She’s sharp enough to joke that the man she’s sleeping with, Ryan (Luka Jones), is “like a disrespectful baby, but a man who knows better” — but she makes this joke to his mother, whom she meets in his kitchen, when his mom comes over to make breakfast and drop off his laundry.<doc-sep>A week after “Captain Marvel” lit up the box office, fighting off superhero fatigue and online trolls who feel a female superhero isn’t “realistic,” since apparently only men can shoot fire from their hands, there’s another project that is looking to break barriers. On Friday, streaming service Hulu drops all six episodes of “Shrill,” a dramedy starring Aidy Bryant as Annie, a female journalist who is — and the series doesn’t mince words — fat. When advertising for “Shrill” first began popping up a few weeks ago featuring Bryant clad in a maroon bathing suit, the reaction was immediate. Many women, myself included, took to social media to talk about how they never expected to see someone “who looks like me” plastered on 14-foot-tall billboards around Los Angeles. (Also, I really want that suit!) There was the inevitable negativity that comes with, well, anything on the internet, but overall the response seemed to indicate we’ve come a long way since Marie Claire ran its infamous “Should ‘Fatties’ Get a Room? (Even on TV? )” piece. (That article was written in 2010 in response to the first season of CBS’ “Mike and Molly,” in which apparently writer Maura Kelly was forced, “Clockwork Orange”-style, to watch Melissa McCarthy and Billy Gardell kiss. It is no longer available to view on Marie Claire’s website.) Mixed in with all the excitement of a series revolving around a plus-size lead was some caution. Us fat girls have been burned before, often with well-intentioned but clumsy storylines that don’t ring true. It’s not an easy situation: we want to see our issues addressed, but we don’t always want it to be just about the weight. Would “Shrill” be able to walk that fine line of dealing with the indignities of being fat, while also telling stories that everyone can relate to? I had reason to hope. “Shrill” is based on Lindy West’s 2016 memoir, “Shrill: Notes From a Loud Woman,” in which the writer is unapologetic and proud, always ready with an insightful and funny response, even when dealing with daily rape and death threats. (While the TV character is called Annie, many of the storylines spring from events West has written about extensively, including her battles with internet trolls.) It was also encouraging that they cast Bryant, a charismatic, talented performer, rather than putting an actress in a fat suit or asking one to gain weight — always disconcerting as the talking point becomes about how amazing the physical transformation is and how they inevitably shed the weight after filming. (See? Anyone can do it!) West and Bryant are also writers and producers on the series, and co-wrote the pilot with showrunner Ali Rushfield. Also among its producers are Lorne Michaels, Brownstone Productions’ Elizabeth Banks, and Max Handelman, responsible for the girl power “Pitch Perfect” franchise and the upcoming “Charlie’s Angels” reboot. So I watched the first episode with cautious optimism. To be honest, it was jarring for several reasons. One was that it uses the other F-word without reservation, not relying on adjectives like “zaftig” or “curvy.” Not as an insult, just as a statement of fact. It doesn’t shy away from things fat people have heard all their lives: that they’re lazy, that people who criticize are just worried about their health, that their weight is a choice. Then there were the personal parallels: Annie lives in Portland, Ore., is a journalist, has a father dying of cancer, is chasing a pseudo-boyfriend who is more clueless than cruel, and deals daily with the indignities of being a big girl in a world where weight often feels like an acceptable form of discrimination. There were far too many notes that hit close to the bone for this Oregon writer who just lost her father to cancer, some as specific as when Annie is told she’s funny and reminds people of Rosie O’Donnell — I once heard this after performing a gut-wrenching monologue that was not remotely intended to be humorous, although my performance might have had something to do with that. The first episode is also upsetting because Annie has yet to grow into Lindy — the confident, unapologetic writer I fell in love with in her columns and the book version of “Shrill.” As Variety’s Caroline Framke pointed out in her review, “The early going of the series can be tough to watch as people stomp on Annie over and over again…” She’s demeaned in the office, in bed, and even in her local coffee shop. And while every moment rings true, and is often very funny, it’s uncomfortable to see. She is still apologizing, still believing, as she says at one point, “Maybe if I was just sweet enough, and nice enough, and easy-going enough, with any guy, that that would be enough for someone.” Then something happens. “Shrill” might be the first mainstream entertainment in which a heroine finds empowerment after what (spoiler alert) some will find a controversial decision: Annie has an abortion. By the end of the first episode, we’re starting to see an Annie who stands up for herself, who is embracing the part of her that her boss Gabe (a wonderfully smarmy John Cameron Mitchell) calls a “total bitch” — which we know translates to a woman who values her own worth. That’s when I realized that in many ways, “Shrill” is a superhero origin story of its own. Each of the six episodes only gets better and better as the characters are more developed (the supporting cast is stellar and even the slacker boyfriend Ryan, played by Luka Jones, is surprisingly layered) and the stories take on more of a collective feel. In press, both Bryant and West have said they don’t want the show to be just about Annie’s weight. Even if you haven’t struggled with body image, who can’t relate to feeling unappreciated at work or misunderstood by your parents? And the relationship struggles will probably speak to everyone regardless of gender, age, or size; as Rushfield said in a recent Q&A about the writing process: “Every single person in the room had a Ryan that they talked about.” Best of all, Annie is no saint. She’s shown as a smart, funny, sexual woman who often makes mistakes and bad or selfish choices. Just like the best TV characters do. In short, Bryant and company have achieved the best kind of art; a specific story that manages to feel universal.<doc-sep>As Annie later tells her caddish hookup, Ryan, the pregnancy ostensibly would have ensured a long-term connection between the two of them. “I really thought about having a baby with you and that you would have to take me out to restaurants and treat me like a normal girl,” Annie says. “And then I just started thinking I shouldn’t have to … trap you into treating me like I’m a human being.”<doc-sep>
TV Review: “Shrill” (Hulu) I’ve seen every episode of Hulu’s new half-hour comedy Shrill, which reminded me in many ways of the two episodes of HBO’s Girls I once watched. As a Saturday Night Live fan, I was excited because it’s co-produced by Lorne Michaels and Aidy Bryant, who stars as Annie. But overall, the series is more quirky than funny and it spends its entire run on a character metamorphosis rather than an actual story arc. Annie (Bryant) is a 30-year-old writer in Portland who lives with her best friend and has a man-child FWB. Within the first episode, she begins to take a stand for herself, tearing down anyone who takes issue with her weight and fighting for a chance to prove herself at work. But it will take several opportunities to boost her confidence enough to take a bigger, more meaningful stand. Aidy Bryant brings along her signature charm from SNL, but in a role that’s more subdued than her usual sketch comedy style. She is surrounded by an appealing best friend played by Lolly Adefope and an off putting side piece played by Luka Jones. One of the show’s highlights comes from her parents, played by SNL alumni Julia Sweeney and Daniel Stern. The journey that Shrill takes you on finds Annie transitioning from a meek pushover to a strong ball buster who loves herself, warts and all, and stops settling for anything less than what she deserves. It’s an important message and one that a lot of women are likely to identify with and feel empowered by. But it lacks a compelling story and I was tempted to stop watching before the first episode was over. Shrill works best when Annie is having eye opening experiences. The highlight of the series for me was the episode “Pool” where Annie and her friend go to a plus-size pool party that is so well attended that Annie’s coverage of the event becomes the top read article at the website she writes for. It’s also the most fun episode in the series, without all the drama that the others contain. The show’s biggest detriment is Ryan, Annie’s man-child friend who strings her along and convinces her to “Raw dog,” getting her pregnant in episode one. The skeezy, creepy, disgusting aspects of this character get amplified as the show goes on and you want to scream at your TV for her to just dump him already. His presence underscores her low self esteem, but he’s more drama than comedy. By the end, Shrill left me with a lot of mixed feelings. I wanted to like it a lot more than I did and it’s easy to appreciate the themes and the underrepresented audience the show exists to serve. I hope it finds that audience, but it alienates more than it like intends to. I give Shrill 2 out of 5 titles that reveal nothing about the show