Smiling Friends

The Absurdity of Hope

In the landscape of modern adult animation, cynicism has become a cheap currency. Since the dawn of *Family Guy* and the rise of *Rick and Morty*, the genre has often relied on a detached, nihilistic irony—a cool assurance that nothing matters, and caring about things is for fools. *Smiling Friends*, the fever-dream creation of Michael Cusack and Zach Hadel, rejects this premise entirely. While it presents a world that is visually grotesque and terrifyingly chaotic, its beating heart is undeniably, radically earnest. It suggests that in a hellscape of demons, stalkers, and sociopathic frogs, the act of trying to make someone smile is the only rebellion worth attempting.

The series, which began with a pilot in 2020 before launching fully in 2022, follows the employees of a small charity dedicated to bringing happiness to the miserable. The central dynamic lies between Pim, a pink, deludedly optimistic creature who believes in the inherent goodness of the universe, and Charlie, a yellow, phlegmatic realist who just wants to get through his shift. This is a classic odd-couple pairing, but Cusack and Hadel use it to interrogate the very nature of joy.

Visually, *Smiling Friends* is an assault on the senses, a direct descendant of the "Newgrounds" internet animation era from which its creators emerged. It refuses to adhere to a single aesthetic reality. A scene might feature standard 2D animation alongside a rotoscoped human, a stop-motion monster, or a hyper-realistic 3D rendering of a washed-up video game mascot like Gwimbly. This mixed-media approach does more than provide visual gags; it creates a texture of destabilization. The world feels fragile, as if reality itself is barely holding together. When a character moves with the fluid, unsettling smoothness of 60-frames-per-second rotoscoping against a static background, it provokes a visceral unease that heightens the comedy. The show looks exactly how the internet feels: a disjointed collage of clashing realities.

Yet, amidst this visual anarchy, the narrative treats its characters’ emotions with surprising weight. Consider the pilot episode, "Desmond’s Big Day Out," where the client is a man openly discussing his suicide while holding a gun to his head. In a lesser show, this would be played for shock value alone. In *Smiling Friends*, the horror is palpable, but the comedy comes from the characters’ genuine, clumsy attempts to navigate it. The resolution doesn't come from a grand speech, but from the absurd realization of life’s chaotic momentum. Desmond finds purpose not in high philosophy, but in the manic energy of simply existing (and pest control).

The show’s genius lies in its refusal to blink. It stares directly at the ugliest aspects of modern existence—parasocial relationships, corporate burnout, mental health crises—and responds not with a sneer, but with a bewildered shrug and a genuine attempt to help. When Charlie faces down a demon or Pim tries to comfort a man whose life is falling apart, the show acknowledges that the world is broken. However, it argues that the brokenness is no excuse for apathy.

*Smiling Friends* represents a maturation of internet culture. It takes the anarchic, rapid-fire humor of the web and marries it to a surprisingly traditional humanist core. It is a show that understands that happiness is not a default state, but a difficult, often ridiculous job that must be performed every day. In a medium obsessed with the void, *Smiling Friends* dares to fill it with laughter.