Cindy Berry

In an era where reviews rival the length of Russian novels, it's remarkable how succinctly one can summarize the complete lack of substance in Seinfeld's latest Netflix venture. One wonders if Jerry Seinfeld, amidst the quiet of retirement, found himself seized by the notion that concocting the most mind-numbing script imaginable, enlisting a cadre of B-listers and semi-humorous acquaintances, and wagering on its commercial success could be a compelling pastime. The incredulity reaches its zenith when considering how any reputable studio or streaming behemoth, including Netflix, could summon the temerity to greenlight such a production, let alone air it. While Seinfeld's mastery on the small screen remains undisputed, his foray into feature-length performance in this instance is akin to watching a virtuoso pianist perform on a toy keyboard. One cannot help but recall the brilliance of Seinfeld's eponymous sitcom, a testament to his ability to curate a comedic ensemble that elevated mundane observations to art. In stark contrast, this latest offering is an exercise in cringe-inducement. Were I in Seinfeld's shoes, I'd sooner adopt a pseudonym and flee to a remote island than claim association with this cheaply-produced, poorly-acted travesty. Even the most precocious tween, possessed of a modicum of discernment, would find little to amuse in this sorry spectacle. A disappointment of cosmic proportions.