The Multiverse Is Lazy, and ‘Stuart Fails to Save the Universe’ Proves It
There’s a moment in Stuart Fails to Save the Universe where the titular character, a socially awkward comic book store owner turned accidental multiversal hero, stumbles into a dimension where everyone’s a centaur. It’s a gag that should be delightfully absurd—a chance to riff on mythology, physics, or even existential dread through hooves and horse tails. Instead, it’s treated as a punchline barely worthy of a raised eyebrow. This, in microcosm, is the problem with HBO Max’s latest Chuck Lorre venture: It mistakes randomness for creativity, and chaos for depth. Personally, I think the multiverse trope has become a crutch for writers too scared to build meaningful worlds, and this show is the ultimate indictment of that trend.
Why Do We Keep Rewarding the Lowest Common Denominator?
Let’s get one thing straight: Stuart Bloom was never the point of The Big Bang Theory. He was a punchline—a human embodiment of ‘unlikable nerd’ stereotypes, all cringe and insecurity. Turning him into a protagonist feels less like a redemption arc and more like a cynical math equation: ‘Nostalgia + Multiverse = Profit.’ What many people don’t realize is that spinoffs like this succeed only when they interrogate their source material. Better Call Saul worked because it asked, ‘What makes a lawyer morally flexible?’ Stuart, though, asks nothing but, ‘How many cameos can we cram into 22 minutes?’
The Multiverse as Emotional Black Hole
The show’s core conceit—jumping between dimensions—should be a playground for existential questions. What if your ethics don’t translate across universes? What if saving one world damns another? Instead, the series treats interdimensional travel like a Netflix algorithm: new settings, same tired jokes. One thing that immediately stands out is how little the show cares about consequences. When Stuart’s actions erase entire civilizations, the emotional response is… crickets. It’s as if the writers conflated ‘sci-fi’ with ‘moral bankruptcy.’
Women as Plot Coupons in a Multiversal Treasure Hunt
Here’s the part where I sigh into my coffee. The female characters in Stuart aren’t people—they’re trophies, obstacles, or walking tropes. Denise, the so-called ‘love interest,’ exists to validate Stuart’s self-worth. When he ‘claims’ an alternate Denise after being rejected by his universe’s version, it’s framed as romantic persistence, not stalking. This raises a deeper question: Why do sitcoms still treat relationships like Pokémon battles? The show’s laziest joke is its insistence that misogyny is ‘quirky’ if you add a time machine.
Cameos Aren’t Characters, and Slapstick Isn’t Storytelling
The series leans hard on celebrity appearances to distract from its narrative emptiness—a trick Lorre’s been perfecting since Two and a Half Men. But when every episode hinges on ‘Hey, it’s that guy from Reddit!’ moments, you’re not writing a story; you’re hosting a trivia night. What makes this particularly fascinating is how the show punishes its own cast for this choice. Kevin Sussman tries valiantly to inject pathos into Stuart’s ‘growth,’ but how do you sell ‘hero’s journey’ when the script treats character development like a downloadable update?
The Real Apocalypse: Creative Bankruptcy
By the end of the season, Stuart’s universe remains a post-apocalyptic wasteland—a fitting metaphor for the show itself. It’s a place where ideas go to die, scavenging bits of better shows (the centaur gag owes everything to Rick and Morty) while preaching self-acceptance. From my perspective, the saddest twist is that this could’ve been a fascinating exploration of insecurity. Instead, it’s a microwave burrito of a series: heated up, pre-chewed, and instantly forgettable. If you take a step back and think about it, maybe the real multiversal horror isn’t mutant monsters, but the realization that this version of Stuart is the best Lorre’s universe could offer.
