New Zealander KJ Apa stars as Archie Andrews in Riverdale. Photo / Supplied
A crazy show for a crazy moment, it somehow mirrors what America actually feels like right now.
A month ago, in the middle of what would become the fourth season finale of Riverdale, teen mogul Veronica Lodge (played by Camila Mendes) took an informal poll: "Who has experience in getting rid of a dead body?" She and four of her five classmates raised their hands high.
Welcome to Riverdale, a little town with a big, dark heart and a hefty body count. Like the original Archie Comics that inspired it, Riverdale tells the all-American story of Archie Andrews (K.J. Apa), a red-haired high school jock with sensitive, guitar-driven dreams; Jughead Jones (Cole Sprouse), his hamburger-obsessed, wannabe-writer pal; Betty Cooper (Lili Reinhart), the winsome blonde next door; and Veronica, the urbane brunette newcomer.
But the show's relationship to those squeaky-clean comics is roughly that of "The Tell-Tale Heart" to a Hallmark valentine. This is "Our Town" for kids who read Goosebumps under the covers. (The first four seasons stream on Netflix. A fifth season will appear on The CW whenever production resumes.)
Over four seasons, there are abundant breakups, makeups, too many milkshakes at Pop's Chock-Lit Shoppe. And then there are the murders. So many murders. Not since Buffy the Vampire Slayer has a high school suffered such an attrition rate. The in memoriam section of the yearbook must be epic.
Mid-pandemic, my self-soothing has mostly involved half-hour sitcoms that make me feel kind of OK about humanity. But I haven't missed a single episode of Riverdale. A crazy show for a crazy moment, it somehow mirrors what America actually feels like right now — a hot mess with a bunch of high-stakes mysteries that don't make much sense. Did I mention the lead seems miscast?
I also watch Riverdale for its unashamed camp, its kiddie-noir palette, its pat-yourself-on-the-back pop culture references and its casual inclusivity, which argues that anyone, regardless of race, gender, class, creed or ponytail, can help with body disposal. (Then again, Vanessa Morgan, who plays the girl-gang queen Toni Topaz has noted, correctly, that Riverdale relegates most of its black cast to supporting work.) I am probably too old for Riverdale, but then again so are most of the actors playing teens. Fair's fair. Here are three more reasons to see it.
Terrible things happen in Riverdale! Almost every episode! Amid all the usual teen stuff — semiformal dances, college applications, pep rallies — these kids have found another extracurricular activity: untimely death. Which provides a funny kind of consolation. Because as bad as things are right now — and as I write this, in the middle of a global pandemic and an overdue national reckoning, with sirens blaring and police helicopters rotoring overhead, they are very, very bad — I would like to imagine that things are worse in Riverdale.
Its official motto: "The Town With Pep." But I would like to nominate "The Town With Increasingly Baroque Homicides and an Abnormal Amount of Gang Activity" as a somewhat truer encapsulation.
I mean, have you ever hidden the semi-decomposed body of your dead twin somewhere in your home? Or wondered when your serial killer dad's DNA will manifest? Or watched your friend die when a Dungeons & Dragons game (in the Riverdale universe it's Griffins & Gargoyles) goes terribly awry? I thought not. And if you answered yes to any of these, then you will find the show extremely relatable.
In no reasonable world should Jughead Jones become a sex symbol. But who has ever called Riverdale reasonable? Even Jughead's beanie — worn by Sprouse with moody aplomb — has been sexed up. A lot of the younger actors, like Apa, a man with the natural charisma of composite lumber, seem to have been cast for pout and jawline alone. This is not necessarily a complaint.
And they spend a gratuitous amount of time shirtless. Which kind of is. Me, I've developed a deep and not exactly age appropriate affection for Sprouse, and I was genuinely disappointed to learn that he had recently broken up with Reinhart, and not only because (OK, only because) their characters date on the show. Bughead (Betty + Jughead) forever.
But in Riverdale, sexiness is not wasted on the young alone. The dads (Skeet Ulrich, Mark Consuelos, the very much missed Luke Perry) are hot. The moms (Mädchen Amick, Molly Ringwald, Marisol Nichols) are hot. Many of the teachers are hot, and some of them have problematic ideas about appropriate pedagogical relationships.
I once asked the show's creator, Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa, if he had deliberately made the show such a thirst trap. "Big time," he said. "Biiiig time. Big time."
You're welcome.
Aguirre-Sacasa, who has written books for Broadway musicals such as American Psycho and the revised Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark, never met a diegetic number he didn't like. Josie and the Pussycats performed throughout the first three seasons, including a cover of the Archies' Candy Girl. (Ashleigh Murray's Josie has since departed for the sister show Katy Keene. A loss.)
Seasons 2, 3 and 4 have each included an episode devoted to a high school musical. First Carrie, then Heathers, then Hedwig and the Angry Inch. In the third season, Veronica opens La Bonne Nuit, an illegal speak-easy in the basement of Pop's, giving the kids that many more chances to show off their vibrato. Want to see a bunch of ostensible teens dressed in lingerie simpering their way through All That Jazz or Maybe This Time? Wilkommen. Bienvenue.
The plot rarely demands a musical interlude. The songs are instead meant, like so much of the show, as brazen entertainment. Think underscoring a fight scene with Saturday Night's All Right for Fighting is just a little on the nose? Riverdale is all nose, baby. Is having teens sing Milkshake in short shorts on the roof of Pop's or perform a slinky strip to Mad World appropriate? Oh, my God, no. But that's how this town rolls.
I can't defend the music on Riverdale, especially as not all of the cast have pipes. I can't defend much else about it either. I can only sit back, sip my La Bonne Nuit mocktail and enjoy the fast, dumb, beautiful ride.
Written by: Alexis Soloski
© 2020 THE NEW YORK TIMES
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