THENEWYORKER,DECEMBER13, 2021 83
Drop,” a Season 1 episode, is a masterly
satire of sneakerhead fanaticism which
peaks with a risky joke based on “So-
phie’s Choice.” The dig would be nasty
if the writing weren’t so obviously steeped
in insider familiarity. “South Side” is full
of hustlers thirsting for the American
Dream as it has been filtered down to
them. Kareme and Simon engage in sev-
eral get-rich schemes: shilling Viagra to
horny senior citizens; hawking a hair
cream that creates instant waves but also,
inadvertently, attracts bats; selling fla-
vored popcorn outside a local movie the-
atre. “Tuscan pineapple?” a customer
asks, approvingly, after tasting it. “You
an innovator.”
I
n some ways, “South Side” is of a
piece with animated sitcoms. There’s
the controlled sprawl of loony charac-
ters, the granular picture of a city and
its people, the surfeit of meticulously
wrought gags and cultural references,
the interplay of goofy and existential
humor, the razzing of dirty political
princes. The universe of the series is as
dense and as technically adroit as that
of “The Simpsons.” We have the cops,
Officers Goodnight and Turner (Bashir
Salahuddin and Chandra Russell,
Bashir’s wife); the mewling politicians,
Allen Gayle and Adam Bethune (Di-
allo Riddle and Langston Kerman);
Shaw and his bullies; the pissy desk
worker, Stacy (Zuri Salahuddin, Bashir
and Sultan’s sister); and a bunch of child
wiseacres. These characters have inner
lives, but they also behave, and even
look, like cartoons. In one episode, a
crowd of vengeful clowns descends on
the neighborhood, wreaking havoc on
cops and citizens alike; when an armoire
falls on Simon, you almost expect his
eyes to bug out like Wile E. Coyote’s.
The background is thick with the ac-
tivity of lovable freaks—Scary Barry,
Red Cornrows, Trapper (who sells furs,
by the way, not drugs). This wackiness
is fun, but it is also oddly literary, a kind
of translation of the hyperbolic in Black
American humor.
No scene demonstrates this so well
as one in which Officer Turner, a vulture
of sorts, spontaneously buys—using Ven-
mo—a shabby home from an old man
sitting on his stoop. It turns out that
there’s a tenant inside, Miss Dorothy, a
legendary civil-rights leader, who refuses
to pay rent. Turner rips into the old lady,
who hits right back, and their fight es-
calates with the appearance of a gun, and
the funniest line I’ve heard in years: “Fuck
Coretta Scott King! You may know her
as King, but I just know her as Retta.
Always thought she was so-o-o-o funny.
Well, the bitch never made me laugh
once!” Through farce, the show stealth-
ily skewers moralistic discourse.
“South Side” has many complete story
arcs, and yet it retains the spontaneous
energy of a sketch show. Bashir Sala-
huddin and Riddle have assembled a
troupe of lively performers, professional
and amateur, unknown and famous. The
standout is Russell, as Turner. She’s wired
a bit like Olivia Pope—cunning, no-non-
sense, venal, sexually dominant. We meet
her when she’s out on patrol, using her
police siren to flag down a “zaddy.” In
a show that is constantly playing the
Dozens, Turner reigns supreme; there
is a tinge of the sadistic in the way her
serrated tongue comes for Officer Good-
night, an uptight, self-loathing dope.
But the show also gives her a complex
interiority. At a Spades tournament, she
is taunted by her slimy pastor father: “I
don’t even tell nobody my daughter a
po-po. Holdin’ us down, killin’ us, ev-
erything.” Turner visibly shrinks. The
moment is realistic. All the Black cop’s
bombast has obscured her inner tor-
ment: Turner’s hustling, more than any-
one else’s, exacts a human toll.
Sultan and Bashir Salahuddin are
Chicago natives, and “South Side” is shot
on location. No detail is too minor for the
production designers, who arrange tab-
leaux of slightly distended realism. I also
want to praise the costume design—in
particular, the parodic genius of Turner’s
wig-cycling, how rooted it is in diurnal
Black womanness. My favorite cold open
involves Stacy and Turner buying human-
hair extensions from a Vietnamese beau-
ty-supply store. “This is that real uncut
virgin,” Stacy says, licking the fibres.
Idealizing one’s love object is a cow-
ardly way to love—“South Side” is a
teasing ode to the place for which it’s
named. Occasionally, the series portrays
TV news segments, in order to detour
away from its viewpoint and ventriloquize
sensationalist perspectives of the city.
These are the show’s version of a righ-
teous rant. In a Season 2 episode, a char-
acter reads a fictionalized autobiogra-
phy by the controversial Lori Lightfoot,
titled “If I Did It: How I Became Mayor.”
After Gayle, an arriviste alderman, strikes
an environmentally disastrous deal with
the mafia running the city, his hype men
visit a local school: “Hey, kids, do you
like oil? Let’s play some drill music!”
The kids roar. The writers brilliantly blur
the line between stereotype and reality;
“South Side” may be naughty, but it’s
got a strong moral core.
THE NEW YORKER IS A REGISTERED TRADEMARK OF ADVANCE MAGAZINE PUBLISHERS INC. COPYRIGHT ©2021 CONDÉ NAST. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
VOLUME XCVII, NO. 41, December 13, 2021. THE NEW YORKER (ISSN 0028792X) is published weekly (except for four planned combined issues, as indicated on the issue’s cover, and other
combined or extra issues) by Condé Nast, a division of Advance Magazine Publishers Inc. PRINCIPAL OFFICE: Condé Nast, 1 World Trade Center, New York, NY 10007. Eric Gillin, chief business
officer; Lauren Kamen Macri, vice-president of sales; Rob Novick, vice-president of finance; Fabio B. Bertoni, general counsel. Condé Nast Global: Roger Lynch, chief executive officer;
Pamela Drucker Mann, global chief revenue officer and president, U.S. revenue; Anna Wintour, chief content officer; Jackie Marks, chief financial officer; Elizabeth Minshaw, chief of staff;
Sanjay Bhakta, chief product and technology officer. Periodicals postage paid at New York, NY, and at additional mailing offices. Canadian Goods and Services Tax Registration No. 123242885-RT0001.
POSTMASTER: SEND ADDRESS CHANGES TO THE NEW YORKER, P.O. Box 37617, Boone, IA 50037. FOR SUBSCRIPTIONS, ADDRESS CHANGES, ADJUSTMENTS, OR BACK ISSUE
INQUIRIES: Write to The New Yorker, P.O. Box 37617, Boone, IA 50037, call (800) 825-2510, or e-mail [email protected]. Give both new and old addresses as printed on most recent
label. Subscribers: If the Post Office alerts us that your magazine is undeliverable, we have no further obligation unless we receive a corrected address within one year. If during your
subscription term or up to one year after the magazine becomes undeliverable you are dissatisfied with your subscription, you may receive a full refund on all unmailed issues. First copy
of new subscription will be mailed within four weeks after receipt of order. Address all editorial, business, and production correspondence to The New Yorker, 1 World Trade Center, New
York, NY 10007. For advertising inquiries, e-mail [email protected]. For submission guidelines, visit http://www.newyorker.com. For cover reprints, call (800) 897-8666, or e-mail
[email protected]. For permissions and reprint requests, call (212) 630-5656, or e-mail [email protected]. No part of this periodical may be reproduced without
the consent of The New Yorker. The New Yorker’s name and logo, and the various titles and headings herein, are trademarks of Advance Magazine Publishers Inc. To subscribe to other
Condé Nast magazines, visit http://www.condenast.com. Occasionally, we make our subscriber list available to carefully screened companies that offer products and services that we believe would
interest our readers. If you do not want to receive these offers and/or information, advise us at P.O. Box 37617, Boone, IA 50037, or call (800) 825-2510.
THE NEW YORKER IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE RETURN OR LOSS OF, OR FOR DAMAGE OR ANY OTHER INJURY TO, UNSOLICITED MANUSCRIPTS,
UNSOLICITED ART WORK (INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO, DRAWINGS, PHOTOGRAPHS, AND TRANSPARENCIES), OR ANY OTHER UNSOLICITED
MATERIALS. THOSE SUBMITTING MANUSCRIPTS, ART WORK, OR OTHER MATERIALS FOR CONSIDERATION SHOULD NOT SEND ORIGINALS, UNLESS
SPECIFICALLY REQUESTED TO DO SO BY THE NEW YORKER IN WRITING.
