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A spoof is only a spoof until a character you care about gets hurt. I don't mean slapstick-hurt. Emotionally hurt. After that, everything that happens has weight. You care.
The outcome of the story isn't of purely sporting interest anymore. Suddenly, you care nearly as much as you would if this were a "real" movie. You cheer for the heroes not just to beat the bad guys
Wes Anderson gets this. Sometimes Mel Brooks seemed to get it, too: The moment in Young Frankenstein where the creator embraces his hounded, terrified creature has some of the same melodramatic power as the films it sends up.
That story is essentially Star Trek meets Three Amigos, but when the faux-Enterprise crew realizes that the aliens who asked for their help are victims of genocidal persecution and get a glimpse of suffering so harrowing
It might've been the episode in season one where teenage Morty Smith — by which I mean the One True Morty, a.k.a. the Morty of C-137, grandson and assistant to boozing scientist and interdimensional troublemaker Rick Sanchez
Then again, maybe it was the episode where Morty fathered a child via an alien sex robot and watched it grow to adulthood overnight and embrace its genetic predisposition toward violence and cruelty.
The first half of that episode, "Raising Gazorpazorp," was a queasily effective look at the consequences of cultural and capitalist exploitation (yes, really), filled with sight gags that tightrope-walked the line
The rest of it was a backwards-ass version of a family drama about an intellectual father who loved his brutal mook of a son but was horrified by how different they were
The series is shockingly funny, even when it goes into dark/disturbing mode, but moments like these confirmed that there was more going on than a bawdy, violent, nihilistically hilarious riff on science-fiction clichés and scientific principles
Rick and Morty is executive-produced by Justin Roiland (who voices both title characters) and Dan Harmon; their writing staff has points of crossover with Harmon's live-action sitcom
In season two, Rick and Morty doubled down on serialized storytelling and allowed the consequences of Rick and Morty's misadventures and indulgences to accumulate from week to week, in the manner of a straight-faced
By the end of the season, Rick had to surrender himself to alien jailers and accept punishment for crimes against the universe.
Rick's actions and Morty's complicity in them had consequences for their family as well, deepening tensions between Morty's older sister Summer (Spencer Grammer)
Without giving too much away, I can tell you that the first two episodes of season three push the idea of actions having consequences even further.
Like Futurama, another spoofy, animated, science-fiction comedy that staged episodes as sad as they were funny, Rick and Morty raids countless prior classics for visual and narrative inspiration: The second episode leans pretty hard on Mad Max
But as it delves into Rick's simultaneously liberating and destructive impact on his children and grandchildren, it becomes nearly as melancholy as BoJack Horseman.
The idea of Rick and Morty as a dark fantasia about the collateral damage of substance abuse has never gotten its due. The subject is front-and-center at the start of season three, even when Rick, Morty, and Summer
Rick and Morty has always been one of wildest shows on TV. It's time to admit that it's also one of the best.
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