An agreeable record-shop comedy with a less convincing central story, High Fidelity benefits from Zoë Kravitz’s vulnerability and a lively supporting cast. We would stay for the friendship, while wishing Rob would make room for it sooner.
Creators Veronica West and Sarah Kucserka make High Fidelity most persuasive when they let the people in the record shop spend time together. We recommend it for that company, with reservations about the story keeping them there. The series wants to make Rob’s uncertainty interesting without sacrificing her appeal, and Zoë Kravitz is well suited to the task. She suggests hurt without asking us to stop noticing how carefully Rob presents herself. Across ten episodes, though, that tension does not develop enough to sustain the attention it receives.
The performance gives us reasons to remain sympathetic. Rob’s coolness can look like a protective habit, and the vulnerability beneath it prevents her from becoming merely someone pleased with her own taste. There is humour in that self-presentation, too, which helps when her behaviour becomes frustrating. The trouble is how often the writing treats our continued interest as a settled matter. We can enjoy spending time with her and still want the series to examine her more closely.
Da’Vine Joy Randolph gives Cherise the energy to interrupt that complacency. Her presence makes the record-shop scenes feel like encounters between people with competing priorities, rather than opportunities for Rob to occupy everybody’s attention. The comedy becomes livelier because someone else has a claim on the conversation. Crucially, Cherise feels worth following beyond her usefulness to the lead. The friendship gives the series a reason to expand, and it is frustrating when Rob’s concerns narrow it again.
We were unexpectedly moved by the episode that gives Simon the focus. David H. Holmes makes him feel like someone whose concerns continue when Rob is not looking, and the change of attention matters. Giving this friend sustained attention allows his own troubles to acquire weight. It also makes us notice how often Rob’s central story circles the same uncertainty without deepening our understanding of her.
With Carmen Cabana on cinematography, the record-shop world is inviting enough that we understand the temptation to linger. The images help establish Rob’s coolness, although the programme sometimes seems too satisfied with having established it. Nathan Larson has the music credit, and the series’ eclectic listening is a consistent pleasure. The range of musical choices makes these people seem curious about something beyond their immediate problems. The music sustains our interest through stretches when the story begins to drift.
As a reinvention, the series makes its strongest case through the friendship of Rob, Simon and Cherise. They seem capable of sustaining a comedy that does not continually need Rob to be its most interesting person. The middle episodes wander, however, and not all that extra time produces a fuller understanding of her. The writing is sympathetic to her confusion but insufficiently demanding about what might follow from it. That leaves some scenes feeling like another visit to a problem we already understand.
There is enough warmth and humour here to make those reservations worth accommodating, particularly if musical taste and difficult friendships are subjects we already enjoy. The supporting cast repeatedly rewards the time spent with them. Give it an evening for the record-shop company, rather than expecting Rob’s story to provide much urgency.
