‘A Man On The Inside’ review: The unquiet American

Charles talks too much. The fustily dressed 80 year old prattles on about architectural details — he used to be a professor — and adds footnotes to persuade listeners that what he’s saying is genuinely exciting: talking about a cathedral “designed to look like a conquistador’s hat,” he throws in a “pretty wild.” Not that it works, with most people tuning out when this man — who cuts out newspaper articles and posts them to his daughter — starts going on and on. Someone who has just met Charles describes his personality far too accurately: “He’s like if a podcast wore a suit.”

That does sound cumbersome, but since Charles is played by comedy icon Ted Danson, it is, as ever, hard to look away. On Netflix’s latest smash A Man On The Inside, Danson plays a widower who goes from being a shut-in to being a secret agent — a private investigator hires him to infiltrate an old-age home where things are being stolen. An adaptation of the wondrous Chilean documentary The Mole Agent (2020), this is a soothing and empathetic series about growing old and learning to live with it… for both the elderly and those around them.

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The series is created by Michael Schur — creator of Parks & Recreation, Brooklyn Nine-Nine (Netflix), the American version of The Office (Netflix) and, most recently, The Good Place (Netflix), in which Danson played an almighty being fascinated by the contradictions of human life and morality. Schur is a miraculous optimist, and his sitcom universe is a defiant celebration of goodness, a stubborn embrace of decency that shines like a perpetual dawn in television’s often shadowy terrain.

Even his wittiest, most sardonic characters—Ron Swanson grumbling about meat, or Eleanor Shellstrop snarking through the afterlife—are anchored by empathy. Schur creates a world of inevitable redemption, as unyieldingly good-natured as Leslie Knope’s belief in waffles. This isn’t to say that he makes boring, saccharine, unchallenging work. A Schur show is smart, sly, and sharply self-aware, but always beats with a warm, human heart: it’s television sunshine. (Admirers of Schur’s work would do well to seek out his brilliant, insightful book How To Be Perfect.)

Compared to his other work, A Man On The Inside feels, initially, like soft-serve Schur. It’s predictably sweet and low-stakes and humanist, and the whodunnit blends into the background even as Charles picks out pocket squares to signal that he’s on “spy” duty. The true charm of A Man on the Inside lies far beyond its premise. Charles’ awkwardly endearing attempts to fit in—from fumbled backgammon games to unexpected friendships—anchor the show’s emotional resonance.

Pacific View, the retirement home Charles has infiltrated, brims with personality. “It’s like high school,” explains Charles, “All the people here are cliquey, and they’re rowdy and they’re horny.” Sally Struthers’ Virginia and Margaret Avery’s Florence exude vivacity as inseparable besties, constantly stirring up mischief.

Stephen McKinley Henderson delivers a standout performance as Calbert, infusing every scene with quiet dignity—he describes the aging process beautifully by saying how “one day your knee starts hurting, and instead of getting better, it just hurts forever.” (Charles responds by forgetting the name of a dish — while going on about the increasing perils of forgetting.)

There is a section of the retirement home devoted to Memory Care, for those who find their realities slipping away in real-time. The inevitability of this decline means that residents on their way to ‘The Neighbourhood,’ as that section is called, are socially cut out by other residents fearing that same fate. The show offers a deep, thoughtful exploration of aging and cognitive decline. Instead of treating memory loss as a source of pity, the show invites viewers to sit with the complexities of the condition. It captures everyday struggles of living with cognitive decline as well as the responses of others—often avoidance, born out of fear or discomfort.

Danson shoulders the series with a nimble grace. His has been a career of shattering masculine stereotypes. In Cheers, the show that made him a household name, Danson’s Sam Malone started out as a popular ex-baseball player and legendary skirt-chaser but as the show went on, he confronted his insecurities, his desperate Peter Pan complex, and his lies. In one of the show’s most startling moments, Malone shows that he — self-professed god’s gift to women — wears a wig. Heroism is an act.

In Curb Your Enthusiasm (JioCinema), Danson plays a self-serving version of himself who makes you want to punch him — insinuating how even likable celebrities might be horrid people. In my beloved Bored To Death (JioCinema), Danson is a deluded magazine editor, out of touch and insulated from accountability, his character a satire of privilege and entitlement.

This time, Danson demonstrates the frailty we all will face. He is playful and puzzled, dealing with grief by compartmentalising it — quite literally — and focussing instead on structures (and dossiers). This is an actor television is lucky to have, a silver fox with soft-shoed style. Danson is beautiful when sad, exhilarating when joyful. Watch him react to a new friend forget him and remember him and forget him again, but also watch him giggle when told that something about him says “classic spy.”

Like old age, A Man On The Inside sneaks up on you. It may in fact be a simple comedy that heads in the direction you expect it to head, but Schur layers it with insights — so surreptitiously that John Le Carre would be proud. There are good days and bad days for all of us, not only those with dementia. Danson reminds us that a day without the pocket square, a day meant to go eat ice cream with a friend, may be the very best of them. You only live twice.

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