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In final season, 'The Righteous Gemstones' embraces depravity even as it appeals to Christians

In final season, 'The Righteous Gemstones' embraces depravity even as it appeals to Christians

Washington Post01-05-2025

LOS ANGELES — For a show about a Christian megachurch pastor and his nepo baby children — between the sex, violence and full-frontal nudity courtesy of Walton Goggins — the final season of 'The Righteous Gemstones' is rife with its trademark depravity.
But Danny McBride, who stars in and created the HBO series, has always hoped it would speak to people of faith, even as he acknowledged his crude sense of humor might not be for everyone.
'My hope honestly with creating the show was that people who were religious would watch it. That, ultimately, they would understand that this isn't making fun of them, but it's probably making fun of people that they identify and are annoyed by,' he told The Associated Press ahead of the fourth and final season's finale on Sunday. 'A lot of people who come up to me, honestly, their first thing will be like, 'I go to church and I think it's funny.''
McBride grew up in a devout Christian household in the South. His mom even led a puppet ministry when he was a kid. At some point, though, the 48-year-old decided churchgoing wasn't for him. But his interest remained, particularly as he began to learn more about megachurches after moving to Charleston, South Carolina.
'I felt like it kind of was reflective of America in a way that everything is sort of turned into a money game,' he said. 'The idea that like we could take something like religion and ultimately turn it into a corporation.'
McBride's series follows widowed patriarch Eli Gemstone (John Goodman) and his three adult children, the eldest of whom is played by McBride. Although the series is steeped in modern evangelical culture, McBride said, in general, people of faith were not meant to be the target of his satire.
'It was more about hypocrites and people who were saying one thing and living another,' he said.
Celebrity preachers like Joel Osteen and T.D. Jakes have been fixtures of evangelical culture since the early aughts thanks to their massive congregations and strategic media presence, not to mention the Billy Grahams, Jerry Fallwells and Jim Bakkers that preceded them. But a new generation of Instagram-savvy preachers has made its way into pop culture, like Hillsong's now-disgraced Carl Lentz and Justin Bieber's pastor, Judah Smith.
With that fame comes scrutiny and the charge that their celebrity and wealth stand in contrast to the message of Jesus. But that disaffection with religious leaders that McBride exploits isn't new, says Kathryn Lofton, a professor of religious studies and American studies at Yale University.
'There's not a lot of very positive depictions of evangelists in American media in the last 50 years,' Lofton said.
The Christianity of the Gemstone empire is anything but austere. The second episode of this season, for example, closes with Eli's kids hosting their extravagant annual give-a-thon in honor of their late mother's birthday.
'If the line's busy, call back. Somebody's gonna pick up. It might just be God,' implores Uncle Baby Billy (Goggins). And what's a church service without a choir, dancing and, of course, jet packs?
For Deon Gibson, a graphic artist who used to work for pastor Paula White before she became the head of Donald Trump's White House Faith Office, the show is right on the nose.
'I knew those characters while I worked in the megachurches,' he said. 'Aside from the Hollywood theatrics, it is spot on. The conversations they have, the switching around of power and positions.'
McBride did admit it was a difficult subject to satirize considering the viral videos that often surface showing similarly extravagant stunts and rock concerts being performed at church.
One comment on the show's subreddit shares a video clip of James River Church's annual Stronger Men's Conference in Missouri. 'Thought this was a scene from the show at first,' the commenter says of the massive pyrotechnics, monster trucks and acrobats descending from the ceiling.
'My biggest fear would be that we would put stuff in the show and then like months later before the show comes out you would like see a church actually doing something we were doing,' McBride said. 'You're like, 'I just hope people don't think we're ripping them off.''
Adam Devine said he thinks making satire in general is a challenge right now.
'Some of the headlines in the news, you're like, well, that wouldn't even work because people would be like, 'That's too crazy,'' Devine said.
For all its critique and humor though, the series also infuses moments of tenderness and poignancy. One storyline that culminates in the series finale is Kelvin's struggle with his queer identity and his relationship with his partner.
'I hope that some kids who feel like hopeless and they're battling over whether they're gay or not, that this gives them a sense of hope that you can come out and be accepted by your family, by people within your church,' Devine said. 'Not everyone is going to turn their backs on you.'
But Gibson, who still identifies as a believer but is no longer part of a congregation, thinks the show's depictions of the megachurch world might be a tough hurdle for some people to get over.
'I think it would offend some people, the honesty of some of the characters. But I like the show because I saw both sides. I saw that side of the ministry corruption, but at the end of the day, they were people,' he said. 'They were regular people who just got caught up in the fame and the money.'

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‘The Last of Us' has a ‘Bear' problem. The show's biggest Emmys hurdle, explained
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The First Film of the DOGE Era Is Here
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It's late morning on a Monday in March and I am, for reasons I will explain momentarily, in a private bowling alley deep in the bowels of a $65 million mansion in Utah. Jesse Armstrong, the showrunner of HBO's hit series Succession, approaches me, monitor headphones around his neck and a wide grin on his face. 'I take it you've seen the news,' he says, flashing his phone and what appears to be his X feed in my direction. Of course I had. Everyone had: An hour earlier, my boss Jeffrey Goldberg had published a story revealing that U.S. national-security leaders had accidentally added him to a Signal group chat where they discussed their plans to conduct then-upcoming military strikes in Yemen. 'Incredibly fucking depressing,' Armstrong said. 'No notes.' The moment felt a little bit like a glitch in the simulation, though it also pinpointed exactly the kind of challenge facing Armstrong. I had traveled to Park City to meet him on the set of Mountainhead, a film he wrote and directed for HBO (and which premieres this weekend). Mountainhead is an ambitious, extremely timely project about a group of tech billionaires gathering for a snowy poker weekend just as one of them releases AI-powered tools that cause a global crisis. Signalgate was the latest, most outrageous bit of news from the Trump administration that seemed to shift the boundaries of plausibility. How can Armstrong possibly satirize an era where reality feels like it's already cribbing from his scripts? The film was billed to me as an attempt to capture the real power and bumbling hubris of a bunch of arrogant and wealthy men (played by Steve Carell, Cory Michael Smith, Jason Schwartzman, and Ramy Youssef) who try to rewire the world and find themselves in way over their heads. This was an easy premise for me to buy into, not just because of Signalgate, but also because I'd spent the better part of the winter reporting on Elon Musk's takeover of the federal government, during which time DOGE had reportedly made a 19-year-old computer programmer who goes by the online nickname 'Big Balls' a senior adviser to the State Department. In order to keep the film feeling fresh in this breakneck news cycle, Armstrong pushed to complete the project on an extraordinarily short timeline: He pitched the film in December and wrote parts of the script in the back of a car while driving around with location scouts. When we met, Youssef told me that the 'way it was shot naturally simulated Adderall.' By the time I met Armstrong—affable and easygoing both on and off set—he was unfazed by fact seeming stranger than his fiction. 'There's almost something reassuring about it,' he said. 'It's all moving so fast and is so hard to believe that it allows me to just focus on the story I want to tell. I'm not too worried about the news beating me to the punch.' Lots of his work, including Succession and some writing on political satires, such as Veep and The Thick of It, draw loose and sometimes close inspiration from current events. The trick, Armstrong told me, is finding a 'comfortable distance' from what's happening in reality. The goal is to let audiences bring their context to his art but still have a good time and not feel as if they're doomscrolling. For instance, one of the main characters in Mountainhead is an erratic social-media mogul named Venis (played by Smith), who's also the richest man in the world. But the comparisons to our real tech moguls aren't one-to-one. 'I don't think you'd think he's a Musk cipher, nor is he a Zuck, but he takes something from him and probably from Sam Altman and maybe from Sam Bankman-Fried,' Armstrong said. Mountainhead is Armstrong's first project since Succession. That show's acclaim—19 Emmy and nine Golden Globe wins—cemented Armstrong and his team of writers as the preeminent satirists of contemporary power and wealth. His decision to focus on the tech world can feel like a cultural statement of its own. Succession managed to capture the depravity, hilarity, and emptiness of modern politics, media, and moguldom existing parallel to the perpetual real-life crises of its run from 2018 to 2023. But while Mountainhead has plenty of Succession 's DNA—sharing many of the same producers and writers, and some of the crew—it's much more of a targeted strike than the 39-episode HBO show. Rather than a narrative epic of unserious failsons, the film offers a relatively straightforward portrait of buffoonish elites who believe that their runaway entrepreneurial success entitles them to rule over the lower-IQ'd masses. In some ways, Mountainhead picks up where a different HBO series, Silicon Valley, left off, exploring the limits of and poking fun at the myth of tech genius, albeit with a far darker tenor. The tech guys weren't supposed to be the next group up in the blender, Armstrong told me. He was trying to work on a different project when he became interested in the fall of Bankman-Fried and his crypto empire. Armstrong is a voracious reader and something of a media nerd—on set, he joked that he's probably accidentally paying for dozens of niche Substacks—and quickly went down the tech rabbit hole. Reading news articles turned into skimming through biographies. Eventually, he ended up on YouTube, absorbed by the marathon interviews that tech titans did with Joe Rogan and Lex Fridman, and the gab sessions on the All-In podcast, which features prominent investors and Donald Trump's AI and crypto czar, David Sacks. 'In the end, I just couldn't stop thinking about these people,' he told me. 'I was just swimming in the culture and language of these people for long enough that I got a good voice in my head. I got some of the vocabulary, but also the confidence-slash-arrogance.' As with Succession, vocabulary and tone are crucial to Mountainhead 's pacing, humor, and authenticity. Armstrong and his producers have peppered the script with what he described as 'podcast earworms.' At one point, Carell's character, Randall, the elder-statesman venture capitalist, describes Youssef's character as a 'decel with crazy p(doom) and zero risk tolerance.' (Decel stands for a technological decelerationist; p(doom) is the probability of an AI apocalypse.) 'There was a lot of deciphering, a lot of looking up of phrases for all of us—taking notes and watching podcasts,' Carell told me about his rapid preparation process. When we spoke, all of the actors stressed that they didn't model their characters off individual people. But some of the portraits are nonetheless damning. Youssef's character, Jeff, the youngest billionaire of the bunch, has built a powerful AI tool capable of stemming the tide of disinformation unleashed by Venis's social network. He has misgivings about the fallout from his friend's platform, but also sees his company's stock rising because of the chaos. From the April 2025 issue: Growing up Murdoch 'One of the first things I said to Jesse was that I saw my younger, less emotionally developed self in the level of annoyingness, arrogance, and crudeness—mixed with a soft emotional instability—in Jeff,' Youssef told me. 'He reminded me of me in high school. I thought, These are the kind of guys who started coding in high school, and it's probably where their emotions stalled out in favor of that rampant ambition.' This halted adolescence was a running theme. On a Tuesday evening around 9 p.m., I stood on set watching five consecutive takes of a scene (that was later cut from the film) where Youssef jumps onto a chair while calling a honcho at the IMF, and starts vigorously humping Schwartzman's head. The mansion itself is like a character in the film. The production designer Stephen Carter told me it was chosen in part because 'it feels like something that was designed to impress your friends'—an ostentatious glass-and-metal structure with a private ski lift, rock wall, bowling alley, and a full-size basketball court. Carter, who also did production design on Succession, said that it's important to Armstrong that his productions are set in environments that accurately capture and mimic the scale of wealth and power of its characters. 'Taste is fungible,' Carter told me, 'but the amount of square footage is not.' They knew they'd settled on the right property when Marcel Zyskind, the director of photography, visited. 'He almost felt physically ill when he walked into the house,' Carter said. 'Sort of like it was a violation of nature or something.' The costuming choices reflected the banality of the tech elites, with a few flourishes, like the bright Polaris snowmobile jumpsuits and long underwear worn in one early scene. 'Jesse has them casually decide the fate of the world while wearing their long johns,' the costume designer, Susan Lyall, recounted. True sickos like myself, who've followed the source material and news reports closely, can play the parlor game of trying to decode inspirations ripped from the headlines. Carell's character has the distinct nihilistic vibes of a Peter Thiel, but also utters pseudophilosophic phrases like 'in terms of Aurelian stoicism and legal simplicity' that read like a Marc Andreessen tweetstorm of old. Schwartzman's character, Souper—the poorest of the group, whose nickname is short for soup kitchen —gives off an insecure, sycophantic vibe that reminds me of an acolyte from Musk's text messages. But Armstrong insists he's after something more than a roast. What made tech billionaires so appealing to him as a subject matter is their obsession with scale. To him, their extraordinary ambitions and egos, and the speed with which they move through the world, makes their potential to flame out as epic as their potential to rewire our world. And his characters, while eminently unlikable, all have flashes of tragic humanity. Venis seems unable to connect with his son; Jeff is wracked with a guilty conscience; Randall is terrified of his looming mortality; and Souper just wants to be loved. 'I think where clever and stupid meet is quite an interesting place for comedy,' Armstrong told me when I asked him about capturing the tone of the tech world. 'And I think you can hear those two things clashing quite a lot in the discussions of really smart people. You know, the first-principles thinking, which they're so keen on, is great. But once you throw away all the guardrails, you can crash, right?' By his own admission, Armstrong has respect for the intellects of some of the founders he's satirizing. Perhaps because he's written from their perspective, he's empathetic enough that he sees an impulse to help buried deep among the egos and the paternalism. 'It's like how the politician always thinks they've got the answer,' he said. But he contends that Silicon Valley's scions could have more influence than those lawmakers. They can move faster than Washington's sclerotic politicians. There's less oversight too. The innovators don't ask for permission. Congress needs to pass laws; the tech overlords just need to push code to screw things up. 'In this world where unimaginable waves of money are involved, the forces that are brought to bear on someone trying to do the right thing are pretty much impossible for a human to resist,' he said. 'You'd need a sort of world-historical figure to withstand those blandishments. And I don't think the people who are at the top are world-historical figures, at least in terms of their oral capabilities.' For Armstrong, capturing the humanity of these men paints a more unsettling portrait than pure billionaire-trolling might. For example, these men feel superhuman, but are also struggling with their own mortality and trying to build technologies that will let them live forever in the cloud. They are hyperconfident and also deeply insecure about their precise spots on the Forbes list. They spout pop philosophy but are selling nihilism. 'We're gonna show users as much shit as possible until everyone realizes nothing's that fucking serious,' Venis says at one point in the film. 'Nothing means anything. And everything's funny and cool.' In Mountainhead, as the global, tech-fueled chaos begins, Randall leads the billionaires in an 'intellectual salon' where the group imagine the ways they could rescue the world from the disaster they helped cause. They bandy about ideas about 'couping out' the United States or trying to go 'post-human' by ushering in artificial general intelligence. At one point, not long after standing over a literal map of the world from the board game Risk, one billionaire asks, 'Are we the Bolsheviks of a new techno world order that starts tonight?' Another quips: 'I would seriously rather fix sub-Saharan Africa than launch a Sweetgreen challenger in the current market.' The paternalistic overconfidence of Armstrong's tech bros delivers the bulk of both the dark humor and the sobering cultural relevance in Mountainhead. Armstrong doesn't hold the viewers' hand, but asks them to lean into the performance. If they do, they'll see a portrayal that might very well give necessary context to the current moment: a group of unelected, self-proclaimed kings who view the world as a thought experiment or a seven-dimensional chess match. The problem is that the rest of us are the pawns. 'The scary thing is that usually—normally—democracy provides some guardrails for who has the power,' Armstrong said near the end of our conversation. 'But things are moving too fast for that to work in this case, right?' Mountainhead will certainly scratch the itch for Succession fans. But unlike his last hit, which revolved around blundering siblings who are desperate to acquire the power that their father wields, Armstrong's latest is about people who already have power and feel ordained to wield it. It's a dark, at times absurdist, comedy—but with the context of our reality, it sometimes feels closer to documentary horror.

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