‘Mo’ Review: Mo Amer and Ramy Youssef’s Netflix Comedy Is an Incisive Portrait of Palestinian-American Life
Late in the first episode of Netflix’s Mo, the title character (played by Mo Amer, who also co-created the series with Ramy Youssef) gets shot while shopping for cat food. Well, grazed — he’ll be fine once he’s treated at the hospital, the paramedics reassure him. Mo panics, as freaked out by the prospect of running up a medical bill without health insurance as he is by the fact of what’s actually happened to him. Meanwhile, the jaded EMTs bicker over his gurney about whether the shooting counts as “mass” if only four people were hit, including the shooter.
The scene feel darkly funny and a touch surreal, in the way the most harrowing moments of real life often do. It’s a distinctive example of what Mo does so well. Over eight half-hour episodes, the dramedy keeps itself afloat through a likable sense of humor and an eye for clever details, even as it frequently wades into deep, heavy waters.
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By the time Mo begins, Mo Najjar and his family — including Yusra (Farah Bsieso), his devoted mother, and Sameer (Omar Elba), his cat-loving big brother who seems to be on the spectrum — have spent 22 years in Houston waiting for their application for asylum to be approved after fleeing first Palestine, then Kuwait. At the moment, life is good enough, though not without its challenges: Mo’s status as what he calls a “refugee free agent” without citizenship in any country has him in limbo, allowed to remain in the U.S. for now but not technically permitted to work, and under constant threat of deportation for one wrong move.
As might be expected from a series that bears his name, centers on a character named after him and is inspired by his own real-life experiences, Mo ultimately lives or dies by Amer’s charisma, and fortunately he has it in spades. The onscreen Mo is a teddy bear of a dude with an easy smile and an admirable (if often misguided) sense of protectiveness toward his friends and family. He’s only reluctantly and occasionally a salesman — he starts shilling fake luxury goods out of his trunk after the threat of an ICE raid pushes him out of a previous job — but it’s clear he’s a natural, able to meet just about anyone at their level. Take it from the old white man who initially dismisses Mo’s counterfeit Yeezys as “alien shoes,” only to walk away minutes later with $300 worth of merch.
Mo is built around that gift of connection. Amer shares a sweetly relaxed chemistry with castmates like Teresa Ruiz, who plays his girlfriend Maria, or Tobe Nwigwe, who plays his childhood BFF Nick; they’re by his side in his most desperate moments, but they’re also around to playfully shove pancakes in his face over brunch. Mo‘s view of these characters is fuller than Mo’s own at times. While Mo is stressing about supporting his family, for instance, Mo is cooking up a subplot about Yusra’s own entrepreneurial ambitions. The downside, if you can call it that, of characters so vivid and likable is that there’s not always enough time to spend with them. In particular, I’m hoping Sameer’s longing for romance, mentioned a few times in season one, might grow into a full-fledged storyline in season two.
In contrast to Mo’s nebulous legal status, or to the confusion that he keeps getting about his heritage — strangers frequently mistake Mo for Mexican, or assume Palestine is the same thing as Pakistan — Mo is nothing if not specific about the cultures that have shaped its lead. Storylines follow Mo as he attends an azza with his family, or sits around a hookah bar arguing about hummus with other Middle Eastern expats (according to Mo, the snack cups sold in American groceries are “a damn war crime”). And they sprawl across recognizable Houston landmarks like the giant president heads or the Funplex, often soundtracked by Houston-based artists like Paul Wall and DJ Screw.
Mo is not prone to sentimentality, but it’s unafraid of emotion — including the darker, sharper ones that take root over the course of the season as Mo develops an addiction to lean, discovers a painful secret about his late father (Mohammad Hindi), unwittingly becomes indebted to a local gangster (Rafael Castillo), and generally struggles to hold it together. Amer captures the subtle expressions of panic or guilt that flash across Mo’s face even as he brusquely reassures others that he’s fine, or tries to deflect from his worries with a strained joke. In the rare moments that the character allows himself to open up, as when he confesses to a Catholic priest that he feels like “a joke” for failing to live up to the standard set by his father, Mo can be downright heartbreaking.
But Mo never loses its namesake character in his troubles. Of his many personal habits, the one that goes most remarked-upon by others is his insistence on carrying a bottle of Palestinian olive oil wherever he goes. Depending on the situation, it can be a punchline or a totem; it can serve as a flavoring, an anointment or a literal taste of Palestinian culture extended to oblivious outsiders. Whatever else it is, that humble glass bottle is a constant on the series. Mo, too, can be many things: a jokester and a provider, a survivor and a victim, just some guy making his way through the world or a rare representation of a hyper-specific culture. Above all else, though, Mo allows him to just be himself — and it’s that self-assured voice that makes the series such a treat to watch.
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