74 THENEWYORKER,FEBRUARY8, 2021
ON TELEVISION
DOUBLE AGENT
When work becomes life, in “Call My Agent!” and “The Bureau.”BY ALEXANDRASCHWARTZ
ILLUSTRATION BY YANN KEBBI
T
he fourth season of the French show
“Call My Agent!” (on Netflix) has
just been released, and fans will be dis-
mayed to learn that it is the last. How
can this warm, witty series abandon us
in such an hour of need? It may be less
than dignified to confess such feelings,
I know. A lot of fuss has been made about
the question of relatability in art, whether
we should think of the made-up people
we read about and watch as friends. No,
of course not, and not just on aesthetic
principle. People love to be repelled; that
is why we have “Lolita,” “The Sopranos,”
and the “Real Housewives” franchise.
But there’s no pleasure like experienc-
ing real affinity for fictional characters,
and that is a commodity that “Call My
Agent!,” with its sparkling comic tone
and sincere heart, provides in abundance.
The show has made for excellent com-
pany since it first came to the United
States, four years ago, and though it’s not
a mistake to end it now, before its charm
slackens into cheesiness, it’s going to
make us lonesome when it goes.
That the show is so likable is itself a
joke—a good one. The characters in “Call
My Agent!” are film agents, not exactly
a beloved caste. They are always demand-
ing, haranguing, cajoling, pleading, ma-
nipulating; they live off the talent of oth-
ers. (The show’s French title is “Dix Pour
Cent”: ten per cent, the cut that the agentstake from the clients they represent.)
Some of those others—writers, namely—
have sought revenge by portraying agents
as money-grubbing morons, sleazebags,
and pitiful incompetents. Remember
how Jerry Maguire was shunned by his
colleagues after opting for integrity over
the big bucks? Liz Lemon, on “30 Rock,”
was represented by a small man in a large
suit who looked as if he had yet to grad-
uate from middle school and boasted a
client roster composed primarily of ce-
lebrity dogs. But at A.S.K., the Agence
Samuel Kerr, the agents do what they
do for the sake of art. Like artists, they
are governed by a sense of vocation; they
want to pair the best actors with the
best directors to make the best movies
possible. “We create marriages,” Andréa
Martel (the wonderful Camille Cottin)
says. “Call My Agent!” is a television
show that believes in the mortal neces-
sity of cinema, and that is another rea-
son to love it.
Really, though, much of what the
agents do is try to prevent divorce. They
serve as their clients’ babysitters and
therapists, their ego-massagers, fire-
putter-outers, motivational coaches, and
guard dogs. They lie, steal, and bribe,
neglect their children and risk abandon-
ment by their partners, all in the name
of keeping self-centered actors and ma-
niacal auteurist directors happy. The
show’s inspired conceit is that the fa-
mous people whom A.S.K. represents
play themselves, which they do in fine,
divaesque fettle. Juliette Binoche fends
off a creepy executive at Cannes; Mon-
ica Bellucci, sick of the high life, tries
to become a normal person; the work-
aholic Isabelle Huppert takes on too
many roles and has to be smuggled across
Paris from one set to another like pre-
cious contraband. In the current season,
Sigourney Weaver shows up, speaking
impressive French and insisting that the
love interest in her latest film be switched
out for a younger, hotter man. (The
show, which was created by Fanny Her-
rero, pointedly comments on the film
industry’s retrograde gender politics
while keeping things light.) When
Weaver meets resistance from a sexist
director, she breaks into a big, show-
stopping dance number to get what she
wants. “Call My Agent!” gives hot-shot
actors a way to make fun of themselves
“Call My Agent!” owes much to the broad, antic traditions of boulevard theatre. while celebrating their medium, and