I Watched ‘Golden Girls’ and You, ‘Mid-Century Modern’, are No ‘Golden Girls’!

Mid-Century Modern wants to be a queer reboot of The Golden Girls, but it fails spectacularly.

The Golden Girls wasn’t the most groundbreaking sitcom on television. It didn’t reinvent the genre. But it worked—brilliantly. The writing was tightly stitched and hilarious, and all four actresses were seasoned pros operating at the peak of their game. Together, they functioned like a well-oiled comedy machine. Each character was distinctive, but the magic was in their chemistry. And, crucially, the show had heart. Beneath all the savage one-liners, you could feel a genuine bond. Even more impressive? That bond didn’t exist off-camera. Over the years, cast and crew interviews have confirmed the actresses weren’t especially close. What we saw on screen was pure, unadulterated professionalism—and a deep devotion to craft.

Mid-Century Modern mistakenly assumes that casting three gay men plus Linda Lavin and having them sling zingers at each other will somehow replicate that same lightning-in-a-bottle magic. But there’s no spark. There’s no warmth.

Nathan Lane, Matt Bomer, and Nathan Lee Graham are all competent, talented performers. While some of the dialogue is clever, risqué, and sharply delivered, much of it feels dated or stale. It seems to expect laughs from the sort of shock value that did exist 20 or 30 years ago when a gay character on mainstream television was a rare and treasured thing.

Yet even when the dialogue works, you get the sense these actors aren’t really feeling each other. Lane, who plays Bunny, is the standout star. His timing is flawless. But he never quite gels with the ensemble, and more importantly, Bunny lacks that ineffable quality that makes you want to tune in week after week. I admire Nathan Lane. I appreciate his craft. But I don’t care about Bunny. I don’t care if he gets laid. I don’t care if he reconciles with his mother. He’s not someone I want to spend 22 minutes with.

There’s also a major difference in setup. In The Golden Girls, the women lived together out of necessity. They were older, alone, and facing the economic realities of aging in America without a husband or savings to fall back on. Their modest Miami house reflected their situation. It was tight, slightly dated, and gave the whole show a subtle but ever-present sense of urgency: these women needed each other. They had nowhere else to go.

In Mid-Century Modern, the living arrangement makes no sense. Bunny is the CEO of a lingerie chain and lives in a sprawling Palm Springs estate. He can afford to live alone—and should, frankly—but invites his friends to move in for vague, never-explained reasons. Arthur (Nathan Lee Graham) used to write for Vogue but doesn’t project the intelligence or authority of André Leon Talley, the real-life figure he seems loosely based on. Matt Bomer plays Jerry, a flight attendant who is…the nice one? And the hot one? Which makes him either Betty White or Rue McClanahan. The show hasn’t decided yet.

In the pilot, the group attends a funeral for a mutual friend. By the end of the episode, they’ve decided to move in together because…it would be “nice.” Apparently, they’ve been group FaceTiming every night for years, and they occasionally burst into choreographed dance numbers to prove their longstanding friendship. Meanwhile, it feels like they all just met for the first time at the table read.

The cringiest moment comes near the end of the season, in the ninth episode, when Bunny’s mother, Sybil, dies. This isn’t really the show’s fault—Linda Lavin passed away in real life during production, and the writers had to explain her absence. But the moment still falls flat. There’s so little emotional investment in any of the characters, including Sybil, that her death feels more like a plot obligation than a loss. And let’s be honest—eight episodes isn’t enough time to build the kind of deep attachment that makes a character’s death resonate. Think Coach from Cheers, Finn Hudson from Glee, or Leo McGarry from The West Wing. Those losses hit because we knew them. We cared.

Here, the show goes maudlin, trying to wrench emotion out of thin air. The episode ends up feeling like a disservice to Lavin, who was part of far more iconic and enduring projects. She deserved a better farewell.