Bee and PuppyCat Thrives on Vibes and Quirk—Its History Is Just as Strange

At long last, Lazy in Space was here, and we would be graced with more Bee and PuppyCat shenanigans that finally answered the Earth-shattering twist at the end of the first season. What remained to be seen, though, was if we still needed the series. Would the show still be as charming and effective in a harsher, more traumatized world? Would the Millennial humor and gags still work, or would they feel out of touch and immediately date the series?

The answer is more complex than a simple yes and no, but I am pleased to report that Bee and PuppyCat (The NetflixTM remix) mostly succeeds by the sheer virtue of there being nothing quite like it being made anymore. The retelling of the webseries is the weakest part of the season, expanding the original 60 minutes into something more cohesive but less fun and sporadic. Having a direct comparison so easily available (you can watch the original here) does the remake no favors, with the jokes, art style, and retrospective world-building all feeling weaker than their webseries counterparts.

Once you hit the fourth episode, the first of the thirteen created originally for the Lost in Space subtitle, everything opens up. All the plot set-up takes a backseat for doing what Bee and PuppyCat themselves are best at: lounging around. We are introduced to the rest of Deckard and Cass’s family, who are all also named after fictional wizards, sporting an eclectic voice cast with the likes of Kumail Nanjiani (Howell), Arin “EgoRaptor” Hansen (Wesley), and Freddie Wong (Tim). Once again, jokes can just be jokes, taking up a little bit more space than their punch-lines would deem proper to find a home in the middle of funny and awkward, a place only Allegri and her co-writers (which include her friend and former boss, Adventure Time creator Pendleton Ward) know how to conjure.

Episodes are full of background fodder, excuses for silly ideas from the writers’ room to be sent to their animator friends to make them laugh. As such, everything feels haphazardly purposeful, a planned entropy that tugs you along not for the adventure itself but the experience of hanging out with the characters. Major revelations to the viewer are treated with nonchalance and disinterest by the narrative, which focuses more closely on intimate moments of spontaneous motivation over plot desires. It’s such a radical departure from the prominent serialized nature of television and films that, read the wrong way, it could be considered poor quality. Read the right way, it’s endearing, remnants of a mindset that used to pervade online spaces like a positive and lugubrious virus.

Sometimes this style of writing does drag, though, making the 13 episodes feel closer to 30, but that’s not the series’ fault. When Bee and PuppyCat was conceived, serialized animation was far from the norm. Episodes were meant to be 11-minute bites of character moments and memorable plots, something fun that people could throw on and enjoy without any prior context. Many Frederator productions were created in this fashion, but by 2014 even Adventure Time had started shifting focus from scattershot stories to a larger, grander plot. Steven Universe, a contemporary Cartoon Network series created by another Adventure Time alum Rebecca Sugar, wove a cohesive plot after its first season. Dozens of series followed suit, and suddenly it became out of place for an animation directed toward older kids/teenagers to not have a narrative in mind from the jump.

Although it’s far from perfect, Bee and PuppyCat is a loving reminder that once upon a time, people could make stories for fun. That everything that was popular didn’t need to have studio backing or be in the catalog of one of the few conglomerates dominating the industry. Shows could be made without an operatic super-story slowly unfurling in the background, but that’s just not where the audience is anymore. The subdued release by Netflix only increases the fears that Bee and PuppyCat, once a showcase of this style and era of animation, is also its swansong.

It’s hardly unfounded—Netflix themselves canceled countless animated projects during a subscriber fall, including projects from Ava DuVernay and the former Duchess Meghan Markle. Warner Bros. Discovery, the most dangerous merger in history, has not only canceled but removed many of their animated shows, making them impossible to watch by legal means. Call it selfish, tax write-offs, or a mix of the two, it’s clear that the capitalist-driven megacorporation future finds animation to be a waste of time and money, when reality TV and yet another crappy network sitcom/cop show are cheaper and more reliable sources of income.

There is no longer an ecosystem in place for smaller cartoon webseries to find an audience and carve out a niche in the world. Cartoon Hangover hasn’t uploaded a new series in three years, becoming instead a clip channel for their shows that find a home elsewhere, and even Kickstarted web-based animations like The Legend of Vox Machina or Hazbin Hotel need support from Amazon or A24 to go to series. Animation has always required time and money, it’s just become much harder to come by without the backing of a major production company. Put simply: there is no way for a series like Bee and PuppyCat to be made anymore. And that’s a depressing thought. So we might as well enjoy it while we can.

Mik Deitz is a freelance writer and former Paste intern. They inhale stories in videogames, films, TV and books, and have never finished God of War (2018). Yell at or compliment them on Twitter @dietdeitz.

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