I adored Fantasmas and can say with a similar level of confidence that it will absolutely not be for everyone. A good test might be to consider your tolerance for anthropomorphic robots, toys and animals. If the existence of an emotional, soap-esque storyline about a queer nightclub for hamsters and the impact of gentrification sounds as if it might be a touch too whimsical, then this comedy may be worth a swerve. But even then, I would suggest pushing through, because Fantasmas is a fantastically creative and theatrical little diamond – and more pensive than an initial sense of gimmick-reliance might suggest.
It comes from the incomparable brain of comedian Julio Torres, former Saturday Night Live writer and creator of the vastly underrated two-season wonder Los Espookys. Here, he has conjured up another series that constructs its own bright world and messily splashes around in it. It presents itself as a narrative series, but really, it is more of a sketch show, with a series of mini film-like interludes bound together by the loosest of threads. These mini films are outstanding; the idea of weaving them all together with a semi-connected quest works fine, but requires more of an effort to sustain.
The central narrative takes the form of a lost earring, in the shape of an oyster, which Torres’ character, Julio, must find in order to get his life and health back on an even keel. It is only loosely relevant, but there is a sense that Julio’s life as an artist is only loosely hanging together, so the vagueness of it feels apt. The series begins with a dream, about a windowless room and a black padded jacket, and ends with a gentle reminder that this is going to be about grand, often melancholy themes, such as art in the era of late capitalism, and whether commodification has any limits at all, especially when it comes to personal trauma.
Torres’ debut film, Problemista, which came out earlier this year, starring Tilda Swinton, covered similar ground to Fantasmas. In that film, Torres played Alejandro, an aspiring toymaker faced with deportation to El Salvador unless he can find someone to sponsor his US visa. Fantasmas opens with Julio pitching a clear crayon to the bosses at the Crayola factory, then finding he needs a generic identification document called Proof of Existence, without which he cannot get a job, healthcare, or move to a new apartment.
He is guided, sort of, by his AI assistant Bibo (voiced by Joe Rumrill), who aspires to be an actor, and his performance artist/agent Vanesja (regular Torres collaborator Martine Gutierrez), who keeps trying to find Julio work. The work, when it comes, is demeaning. Does he want to star in a credit card commercial, wearing a rainbow Pride suit and a sombrero? Will he get involved in a series about a “Latinx” superhero, just so that the credits aren’t filled with Kevins? Will he mine the depths of his own life and sell every square inch of personal pain he has ever experienced, just to get his TV show made?
Torres’ contact list is clearly stuffed to bursting. Fans of US comedy, and particularly a certain type of playfully surreal US comedy, will be delighted to find appearances from Kate Berlant, Amy Sedaris and Rachel Dratch. Paul Dano appears as a sitcom dad whose family is visited by an alien called Melf; his entire dramatic arc plays out over just six minutes or so, on a TV in the back of a cab, but it crams in more heart and comedy than most prestige series can fit into 13 episodes. SNL alumni to spot include Bowen Yang and Aidy Bryant. Natasha Lyonne plays a ruthless TV boss. Julia Fox is Mrs Claus. Emma Stone plays one of the cast of an excessive reality show called The True Women of New York. Euphoria’s Alexa Demie and celebrity interviewer Ziwe play helpline operators who get off on sticking to the call-centre script. Steve Buscemi plays the letter Q, obviously.
Though different in terms of style and tone, Fantasmas reminds me of The Curse, another expansive and inventive TV series that often made me wonder how it got made in the first place. Much like The Curse, it offers a glimmer of hope for non-generic television that writes its own rules. And if the portrait of the artist as a baffled man doesn’t appeal, then Torres has made it much more relatable than that. It portrays an increasingly online, increasingly disconnected precariat, and everyone here is lonely, in some way. That Proof of Existence is more than just an ID card. I loved it.
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