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The Curious Comforts of a YouTube Show About Group Therapy

Inspired by the psychiatrist Irvin Yalom’s 2005 novel, The Schopenhauer Cure, Group scratches the particular itch caused by months of social distancing: The mere sight of nine humans, sans masks, in proximity to one another was, for me at least, a balm for the psyche. Then, I began to care about the characters’ daddy issues, professional anxieties, loveless marriages, and fears of rejection. The appeal went beyond distraction: The group’s mutual pursuit of understanding and empathy felt refreshing, even potent. Maybe if Group’s participants could raise one another up, the rest of us could, too.

Group, which was written and directed by Alexis Lloyd and filmed by the handheld-camera operator who shot the 2006 improvised comedy Borat, is hardly the first show to offer the voyeuristic pleasures of watching others’ heads get shrunk. HBO’s 2008 scripted series In Treatment revolved mostly around one-on-one interactions between a therapist (Gabriel Byrne) and his patients—at the time, I devoured all three seasons. Even though the therapy wasn’t real, and Byrne’s brooding portrayal sometimes tended toward caricature, I loved hearing strangers’ peccadilloes (and telling myself that I was mentally healthier for it).

During quarantine, I’ve also binged the Showtime docuseries Couples Therapy, which follows the psychologist Orna Guralnik as she has ongoing sessions with real-life twosomes. (I’m not alone; Showtime told me that average weekly viewership of the 2019 show has risen 50 percent since March.) The series, created by the team behind the documentary Weiner, is ostensibly about untangling romantic relationships, but its lessons hold up whether or not you have a mate.

The psychologist Orna Guralnik in Season 1 of Couples Therapy (Showtime)

As Manny does in Group, Guralnik encourages patients to look beyond their own narratives to consider the way other people see things; she urges them not to let “trauma mind” be their prison. Never is this discussion more compelling than with Elaine and DeSean, who have been married for 11 years. Elaine is a tiny Puerto Rican woman; DeSean is a tall black man. Elaine is controlling in their relationship, while DeSean—conscious of how the world too often sees him as threatening—strives not to appear confrontational (but knows his wife wants him to show more backbone). With help from Guralnik, Elaine acknowledges the contradiction: She wants DeSean to be in charge, but she won’t let him be. The couple starts giggling nervously.

“I’m glad the two of you are laughing, but let’s do another piece of work here,” Guralnik presses. “What’s it like,” she asks DeSean, “to be invited to take on a masculine role and then controlled and told ‘No!’?” He looks stunned, mimics his head exploding, and can only say, “Wow.”

At the core of such shows is an acknowledgment that as a society, we’re still better at sharing what frustrates us than talking openly about our vulnerabilities. (Emotional transparency onscreen is as compelling as it is rare in real life.) But in its conceit and execution, Group represents a shift in the micro-genre. Viewers have seen many types of therapists on-screen over the years: foppish (Kelsey Grammer in Frasier), formidable (Lorraine Bracco in The Sopranos), lovable (Robin Williams in Good Will Hunting), hyper-manipulative (Maggie Siff in Billions). Other than grief or PTSD support groups (Dead to Me, Homecoming) and countless AA meetings, though, the group-therapy dynamic has rarely been explored.


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