Bupkis review: Pete Davidson's semi-autobiographical comedy takes too long to find its footing

Ariana Grande. Kate Beckinsale. Margaret Qualley. Kim Kardashian. These are just some of the women to whom Saturday Night Live comedian Pete Davidson has been attached. Best known for his recurring role as Chad, the irresistible, dead-eyed hunk, the real Davidson is not quite this character … but he isn’t not him either. So, why, with all the options and choices available to them, do these ladies choose Davidson?

It’s a question that can only be answered with another question: Why not? He seems nice enough (hot), with his share of demons (hotter), and some healthy self-awareness to boot (jackpot). “Being mentally ill is not an excuse to act like a jackass,” Davidson proclaimed on a 2022 “Weekend Update” segment, speaking, of course, about Kanye West. It’s not profound, but we take our wisdom where we can get it. Still, the way the internet has tied itself in knots over Davidson’s fame and fortune—a cycle of outrage that, in the process, cemented both—opens his new comedy series Bupkis. Davidson stars as a “heightened, fictionalized” version of himself in the show, which premieres May 4 on Peacock.

In Bupkis’ first episode, Davidson googles himself while wearing a VR headset in his mother’s basement. He follows links with headlines like “Pete Davidson and the Rise of Scumbro,” “The Stupid Life of Pete Davidson,” and “Is it Because He’s Funny?” When he’s done with this masochistic exercise, Davidson switches over to pornography. It is tempting to mark this moment as a metaphor for the show’s masturbatory, navel-gazing impulse—the comparison is right there. But that wouldn’t be a fair assessment of the show’s strengths, which are limited but striking, and its various weaknesses.

All eight episodes of Bupkis begin with a disclaimer voiced by rugged character actor Stacy Keach. After some familiar, legalistic verbiage about this being a work of fiction (albeit one “inspired by real people and events”), he concludes, in his signature growl, “It’s Bupkis.” Bupkis is Yiddish for “nothing,” and for the first five episodes, this is on-point for the show: it’s a whole lot of sound and fury, signifying bupkis. Each installment feels like the pilot for a different—and, frankly, inferior—show. The first episode chases shock value, while the second plays like a melancholy flashback on an FX dramedy. Then there’s the one with Charlie Day, which is the most sitcom-y of the gang, and then there’s the one that’s supposed to be like The Fast And The Furious but is more like Doofus Entourage, which even Simon Rex’s memorable cameo as a Florida dirtbag named Crispy can’t redeem.

A few years after Larry David wrapped on Seinfeld (NBC, 1989-1998), the original show about bupkis—er, nothing—he created Curb Your Enthusiasm (HBO, 2001-), a show that teases glimpses of the “real” Larry David but does more to lay out a comprehensive philosophy of comedy and life. Bupkis has been described by numerous outlets as being in the vein of Curb, but David (whose daughter dated Davidson, it might be noted) has honed his persona for a pretty, pretty, pretty long time. By contrast, Davidson the comedian, much like Davidson the character, looks lost.

Until the sixth episode, that is. It is sad but true that once the show separates Davidson from its top-tier supporting cast—a grumpy but game Joe Pesci, an under-used Edie Falco, an unsurprisingly great Bobby Cannavale—Bupkis becomes a pitch-black show-business satire. In “ISO,” Davidson is hired to play opposite Brad Pitt in a J.J. Abrams movie. He wasn’t originally cast as the young soldier in this Pitt-led platoon and is being brought in for reshoots—in Canada, over Christmas no less. What promises to be a career high point turns out to be anything but, as Davidson faces one humiliation and disappointment after another. “The truth is, I asked my kids, you know, who do they wanna see die in a movie, and they said you,” Abrams admits.

Davidson proceeds to unravel and act out in ways that maybe, probably, resonate with tabloid coverage of the real guy. “Merry Christmas, Pete Davidson,” pronounces the set’s long-suffering production assistant with great warmth, adding, “I give him six months.”