Netflix Monday: 'Harmontown'

Community’s sixth season finale on June 2nd may very well have also been its last episode ever. Probably not the end of Greendale, sure, but likely their final televised (or now computerized) moments if creator Dan Harmon has any say. But the NBC/Yahoo program’s never had a predictable path — even if it had a clear plan (#sixseasonsandamovie) — but less mysterious is its executive producer.

Beyond Community, my familiarity with Harmon is admittedly pretty limited. I've seen three or four episodes of Rick & Morty — which I certainly liked, if not on the same level. I also saw Monster House many moons ago, which he apparently co-wrote. Honestly, though, that’s about it. Even as a big fan of his program, for whatever reason he’s also a distant figure to me, one I've known solely for his one sitcom and Chevy Chase complaints. I didn’t watch The Sarah Silverman Program. I didn’t check his Twitter. And I only had a faint idea what his speaking voice sounded like, having barely listened to podcast, Harmontown.

I’m hope change this, however, for director Neil Berkeley does an impeccable job displaying Harmon’s raw kinetic energy and likably spontaneous charm with his documentary, also titled Harmontown. Particularly from his weekly podcast, co-hosted Jeff B. Davis, known best from guest star stints on Whose Line Is It Anyway? He’s the one with the killer Christopher Walken impression. Described as Harmon's venue to vent when he didn't want to go to therapy, Harmontown quickly grew a following after Community’s third season. So when Harmon famously was booted from his own show, he and Davis — along with their official DungeonMaster Spencer Crittenden, Harmon’s girlfriend Erin McGathy and a few others — hit the road for 20 days in early 2013 to interact with fans and spout random asides and personal feelings to anywhere from 50 to 350 strangers across the country.

What proceeded were several nights where Harmon got drunk in public and did everything from crowd surfing, both with and without pants, to getting blackout drunk off moonshine. Berkeley begins his movie with a recently awoken Harmon on the edge of his bed, hair disarray as he asks himself and the audience what he learned on his mini-road trip adventure. The answer is pretty straightforward, revealed as Harmontown progresses, for Harmon isn’t afraid to speak his mind, give stark revelations and reveal past struggles or current dilemmas, including his troubles writing new pilots for CBS and Fox in-between performances.

Much like Community, Harmontown is a very meta and self-aware documentary, with Harmon serving as the film's Abed-like figurehead. It knows what it wants to be, and it does so with ease through a relaxed production. Attempts are made to also bring Crittenden’s story into the mix, as something of a personalized visual metaphor for Harmon’s fandom. But this only ends up feeling half-baked. There’s even a brief moment to reflect on McGathy’s side, but this is all about Harmon, as the title suggests. Berkeley knows this enough, thankfully, and doesn’t let his movie get narratively cluttered.

And like Harmon himself, Harmontown is a surprisingly charming, continuously funny, introspective, honest, self-depreciating and often crass movie. But unlike the subject, it’s also fairly conventional. Comparisons to 2011's Conan O'Brien Can't Stop, the documentary exploring O’Brien’s road trip reflections after being fired from NBC, are pretty much impossible and appear cut from some the same bearded cloth. They also share similar strengths and weaknesses.

Harmon, of course, is a distinctive creative voice. His pop culture whiz and eye for talent is why Community is far better than most shows NBC, or any big four network, aired in the past decade. Community is nothing without him — as apparent from season four. Although he can seem overly mean and obnoxious in the public eye, as seen here he’s a lot like a giant cartoon bear. On the outside, he's hairy, sweaty, stinky and primitive. But on the inside, he's filled with love, and food. Beer and liquor too, which somewhat defeats the metaphor, but oh well.

He just aims to please, and he and Harmontown do that just fine, although that doesn’t stop his internal struggles, especially within this transitional moment. But even though he always lets these frustrations out, these disturbed emotions doesn’t hinder your enjoyment of the film. If you listen to his podcast, you're not going to discover any big reveals. But for those, like me, relatively unfamiliar with Harmon it’s a refreshingly candid look into his personal life.

But Berkeley often lets Harmon tell instead of show his darkest side, but it’s not as though he pries it out of him. For as open as he is, there’s always a side of him which is only unleashed to those who love him the most, which makes it more painful to them and especially him. Sarah Silverman at one point notes how she’s his biggest fan and she even fires him, and even though we only hear about this worst side you can still understand where she’s coming from.

While Harmontown’s sentimental towards its main figure, it still portrays Harmon as the flawed creative individual he is, greatly talented but sometimes a bit of a brute, a little too personal and too inclined to have a drink or seven. What Berkeley learns from Harmon is, for as outgoing as he is, he needs to distance himself somewhat to become lovable. When he becomes too inclined for perfection or to be the stronger person, that’s when his ugliest comes out. So, like Harmon himself, Berkeley decides it’s best to portray him at his most down-to-earth but sincere, even when plastered. Some troublesome matters, like Harmon's violent family upbringing, are brought up very briefly, as some explanation for Dan and why he is who he is today. Enough is said to get the idea, and we get to know Harmon enough here and like him as his fans and friends have for years.

All in all, Harmontown is a compassionately handled look at man both narcissistic and generous, fearless and also very, very afraid, either of himself or what he can do when his inhibitions overcome him. Affectionate yet diligent, tightly edited but still emotionally honest, it’s a captivating tribute to Harmon and the fans that love him wholeheartedly for teaching them to love themselves for being who they are: nerdy, weird or whatever. Berkeley does a noble job showing this, so now that I think I understand its mayor and namesake, I’m going to try to become a proud citizen of Harmontown.

Image courtesy of Amazon