There’s an unspoken trend brewing in Apple TV+’s original programming slate: a penchant for quirky, retro-infused, visually dazzling dramedies that look expensive and feel like they were brainstormed during a particularly ironic film school seminar. Government Cheese, the newest addition to this growing genre, may be the most exaggerated example of this aesthetic yet. It’s a show that defines style over substance—no, actually, style instead of substance.
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Created by Paul Hunter (best known for music videos) and Aeysha Carr, Government Cheese is not lacking in ambition. It wants to be poetic. It wants to be magical realism. It wants to be commentary. It wants to be satire. But in trying to be everything, it becomes almost nothing.
Starring the ever-excellent David Oyelowo as an ex-con trying to reconnect with his family and peddle a self-invented drill in 1969 San Fernando Valley, the series is packed with brilliant performances, immaculate production design, and a kaleidoscope of strange, offbeat moments. And yet, despite all that promise, it never coalesces into anything meaningful.
On paper, the setup of Government Cheese sounds intriguing. After serving time for fraud and petty theft, Hampton Chambers (David Oyelowo) struts out of prison in a pristine suit, radiating unearned confidence. His time inside hasn’t made him penitent — it’s only sharpened his delusions. He’s invented a self-sharpening drill, the “Bit Magician,” and he’s convinced this gadget will transform his life.
When Hampton returns home unannounced to Chatsworth, a quiet middle-class suburb in California’s San Fernando Valley, he finds his family cold and distant. His wife Astoria (Simone Missick) is not particularly surprised to see him — but she’s also not thrilled. His eldest son Harrison (Jahi Di’Allo Winston) has traded any affection for his father in favor of fascination with Native American spirituality. And his youngest, Einstein (Evan Ellison), is an eccentric genius who has decided that his calling isn’t academics but pole vaulting. Yes, pole vaulting.
The rest of the series follows Hampton as he attempts to sell his drill, repair his family ties, avoid being re-imprisoned or worse, and navigate the strange and whimsical world of Chatsworth — one populated by crime syndicates, mysterious neighbors, metaphysical rabbis, and sitcom housewives who appear from thin air.
Let’s get this out of the way: Government Cheese is gorgeous. The production design is pristine and detailed to the point of obsession. Set in 1969, it lovingly recreates the mid-century suburban aesthetic with a mix of nostalgia and ironic exaggeration.
From the color palettes of the homes and cars to the weighty, tactile feel of the rotary phones and toasters, every frame is a feast. You can practically smell the Aqua Net hairspray and vinyl upholstery. It’s not just set dressing — it’s world-building, and it’s arguably the most successful aspect of the series.
This isn’t surprising given that Paul Hunter cut his teeth directing music videos for the likes of Pharrell and Diddy. The visual language of Government Cheese is more music video than drama: bold, stylized, and visually commanding, even when nothing is happening.
There’s a difference between surrealism and randomness. True surrealism, like that found in the works of David Lynch or Boots Riley’s I’m a Virgo, uses absurdity to reflect emotional or philosophical truths. Government Cheese, however, indulges in randomness for the sake of seeming “different.”
The show is filled with offbeat characters and strange vignettes: a gang of French Canadian mobsters straight out of a Coen brothers fever dream. A pole-vaulting prodigy. A mystic stuck in a wall hatch. A Western film within the show. A robbery subplot that involves a synagogue. A woman from a coffee commercial that materializes in a kitchen to critique Astoria’s life choices.
Let’s be clear: David Oyelowo is spectacular. He elevates everything he touches. His portrayal of Hampton is layered with charm, insecurity, stubbornness, and manic energy. In another series — one with structure and emotional clarity — this could have been a career-defining role. Instead, it feels like he’s shouting into a void.
He does his best to sell Hampton’s schemes and spirals, but the writing fails him. There’s no character progression to speak of. Hampton starts the show as a chaotic, overconfident dreamer, and ends the show as … a chaotic, overconfident dreamer. The lack of growth, and the show’s refusal to dig into what truly drives him, leaves Oyelowo stranded.
Simone Missick plays Astoria with impressive restraint, despite being given little emotional texture to work with. She sips cocktails, offers sardonic quips, and drifts in and out of scenes like a noir femme fatale in a sitcom world. Her episode — where she’s visited by a hallucinated 1960s commercial housewife — is one of the more interesting segments of the show, hinting at what Government Cheese could have been if it had chosen a character-first approach.
Harrison and Einstein are both walking ideas rather than actual people. Harrison is teenage disillusionment in human form, complete with buckskin and feathers. Einstein, the wunderkind pole-vaulter, is the series’ poster child for whimsical weirdness. The actor, Evan Ellison, plays him with charm — but again, charm without purpose grows stale fast.
The show tries to ride the line between whimsy and sincerity but never fully earns either. The tonal whiplash — one scene might feel like a Coen brothers noir, the next like an adult Pee-wee’s Playhouse — becomes exhausting. There’s no emotional grounding. Every potential moment of connection or tension is undercut by a stylistic gag.
Government Cheese is the kind of show that frustrates you because the ingredients are there for something brilliant. The cast is excellent. The setting is rich with dramatic possibility. The visual design is stunning. But all of that is wasted on a script that refuses to engage with its own premise.
