The Chair Company Is a Rich Text for Tim Robinson Sickos

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Tim Robinson, known for playing characters driven by small obsessions and extreme reactions, has recurring themes in his work. In his sketch show, *I Think You Should Leave*, and earlier in the sitcom *Detroiters*, you’ll notice patterns like odd older people, sudden outbursts, a refusal to admit fault, unusual clothing, and the denial of reality – often set in bland office environments. His recent film, *Friendship*, and his new HBO series, *The Chair Company*, explore similar territory, particularly the idea of a man struggling to maintain a normal life while falling apart. Like many artists, such as Spielberg who consistently explores family dynamics, Robinson seems to be working through personal anxieties in his work, repeatedly examining the same underlying issues.

In the film, Steve Robinson plays Ron Trosper, a recently promoted employee at Fisher Robay, a company that builds shopping malls (their slogan is: ‘Integrating Mother Nature With Centers of Commerce’). The story kicks off with a typical Robinson character moment: a public embarrassment. Ron gives a presentation for a new project in Canton, Ohio, and while he tries to be inspiring, things don’t go as planned, leading to a slightly awkward moment in front of his coworkers and boss, Jeff (Lou Diamond Phillips). Most people would brush it off, but Ron fixates on it. This embarrassment quickly spirals into an obsession, and he becomes convinced it’s part of something bigger. He starts investigating, and surprisingly, his paranoia seems to be confirmed, leading him down a strange path of questionable situations and false clues, all while his personal life begins to fall apart.

While the show’s description might suggest a typical sitcom, *The Chair Company* actually feels like a series of *I Think You Should Leave* sketches stretched into a longer story. The connections between scenes can be surprisingly unpredictable, sometimes exciting and other times confusing. One storyline follows Douglas, a coworker of Ron’s (played by Jim Downey), who’s still upset about not getting the promotion Ron received and is now trying to find new purpose in life. It’s uncertain how his story will connect to the main plot, but the show doesn’t seem to prioritize that. Another thread involves Ron following a strange clue – a uniquely patterned shirt that might be a reference to a previous sketch – which leads him to a bizarre encounter with a peculiar store employee who tries to get him to join a secret club. In one memorable scene, Ron enters a diner completely consumed by chaos: food is flying, plates are breaking, and everything feels like a dream. The scene offers no explanations or resolutions, and life simply goes on as if nothing unusual happened after Ron gets what he needs.

Against all odds, the show remarkably works. *The Chair Company* feels complete and cohesive, becoming something more than just a collection of its oddball moments. It’s a stronger, more developed expression of the creator’s style compared to *Friendship*, which sometimes felt repetitive. This improvement is largely due to the show’s structure: *The Chair Company* uses the format of a conspiracy thriller, providing a framework to manage its increasingly complex and bizarre storylines. The series feels dreamlike and hazy, where the plot bends and shifts, but the emotional core remains strong, creating a strangely captivating and almost Lynchian experience. Each scene has its own unique pace, but together they build a single, powerfully felt world.

Like David Lynch, Robinson creates a world filled with subtle, unsettling dread – a feeling that something bad is hidden just beneath the surface of everyday life. His comedy often comes from awkwardness, powerlessness, and the thin line between confidence and fear. One character, Ron, perfectly captures this frustration, saying, “People make terrible things and you can’t even say anything about it.” But *The Chair Company* goes further, revealing a hidden horror that has always been present in Robinson’s work, even in earlier sketches. This unease was also noticeable in *Friendship*, particularly when a character’s wife mysteriously vanishes in the city’s underground tunnels. In *The Chair Company*, this unsettling feeling is much stronger. One episode ends on a truly frightening note, making you feel unsafe even in your own home, and another features a disturbing discovery that recalls the movie *Seven*.

The show’s unreal quality makes you wonder what the creators are trying to achieve. Why is the character repeatedly portrayed as an unlikely, loving husband and father? This time, Lake Bell plays his wife, and their two children (Will Price and Sophia Lillis) seem to adore him, almost to an exaggerated degree, despite his strange behavior and social missteps. These scenes of family life feel jarring and out of place, as if they’re from a completely different world. They don’t align with how the character acts or even how Tim Robinson looks in the role. It’s like we’re watching a fantasy of what a normal adult life should be. This raises an even stranger question: when other characters look at him, do they see Tim Robinson, the actor? Or are we seeing the character as *he* perceives himself – a flawed, eccentric person who embodies the persona we’ve come to associate with Robinson? And how does knowing that Tim Robinson is actually a family man with children add another layer of complexity to all of this?

What’s fascinating about *The Chair Company* is how it makes you, the viewer, constantly question what’s happening. Like the show’s central character, Ron, you’ll find yourself drawn into a maze of theories about the work and the comedian, Tim Robinson, himself. Whether this appeal extends beyond devoted fans of Robinson’s previous work remains to be seen. *The Chair Company* operates on a unique level of awkwardness that won’t resonate with everyone, but for those who appreciate his style, it’s a deeply rewarding experience. The series sees Robinson and his collaborator pushing their comedic sensibilities to the limit, exploring if the frantic energy of *I Think You Should Leave* can sustain itself in a longer, more complex format. It largely succeeds, and even when it falters, those moments feel intentional, part of a larger experiment. While not every joke hits, the humor often feels secondary to the overall exploration. Ultimately, the show feels less like a satire of male anxiety and more like a genuine portrayal of what it’s like to be consumed by it. Every strange encounter, dull setting, and unexpectedly supportive wife simply reinforces this central theme, suggesting it’s a loop Robinson intends to revisit throughout his career.

Correction: This review originally misattributed Friendship to Kanin. It has been updated.

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2025-10-09 19:55