Bob's Burgers

Medium Rare: The Miraculous Warmth of Bob's Burgers

Adult animation in America has a cynicism problem. We've spent decades marinating in the radioactive dysfunction of *The Simpsons*, the sneering shock-jock nihilism of *Family Guy*, and the sociopolitical blowtorches of *South Park*. (Not that I'm complaining; I love a good sociopolitical blowtorch.) But when Loren Bouchard's *Bob's Burgers* premiered on Fox in 2011, it felt like an anomaly. It still does, 15 seasons later. This is a show about a family that actually, genuinely, fiercely loves one another. A radical act of affection. As *The New York Times* noted during the show's early days, it was a relief to find it was "not another grating half-hour from the mind of Seth MacFarlane." Instead, it's a blue-collar poem about the exhausting, beautiful absurdity of just trying to get by.



Bouchard, who honed his distinctively loose, improvisational style on *Home Movies*, understands that setting is character. The Belchers live above their perpetually struggling seaside burger joint. They don't have a yard or a driveway, and the family of five shares a single, cramped bathroom. There is a tactile reality to their poverty that animated sitcoms usually ignore in favor of elastic reset buttons. The grease traps need cleaning. Rent is always late. Bob's great tragedy is that he happens to be a genuine culinary artist trapped in a failing business model. Whether that particular friction is a flaw or a feature depends on your patience for slow-burn comedy, but I find it deeply moving. The humor doesn't come from cruelty; it bubbles up from the manic, frantic energy required simply to keep the lights on.



At the center of the storm is Bob, voiced by H. Jon Benjamin. It's a miracle of a performance. After years of playing the loudly narcissistic superspy in *Archer*, Benjamin uses the exact same gravelly, deadpan baritone here to entirely different effect. His voice droops. You can hear the bad posture. Bob is a man whose spine is composed entirely of sighs. But then there's Linda. Voiced by John Roberts, who famously developed the character by doing YouTube impressions of his own Brooklyn-born mother, Linda is the engine of the family's survival. Roberts gives her a relentless, singsong optimism ("Alriiiight!") that borders on delusion, yet she never tips into the nagging sitcom wife cliché. She is Bob's anchor. They are true partners. When the kids—hormonal zombie Tina, chaotic mastermind Louise, and joyful noise-machine Gene—cook up some catastrophic scheme, Linda usually wants to help them hide the bodies.



I'm still thinking about the way the show handles Thanksgiving. In almost every season, Bob treats the roasting of the turkey with a level of reverence usually reserved for religious sacraments. Pick any of these holiday episodes, and watch the physical animation of Bob when he is alone in the kitchen. He talks to his ingredients, often giving the poultry a squeaky little voice to imagine it thanking him for his flawless basting technique. It feels entirely absurd, yes, but look closer at the slump of his shoulders and the gentle grip of his spatula. This is a man trying to exert control over one beautiful, perfect thing in a life where the bank is constantly threatening foreclosure. *Bob's Burgers* understands that dignity isn't found in financial success. True grace is found in the grease, in the noise, and in the people who stand next to the fry vat with you.