Being Black in the workplace is hard enough. Imagine being Black, arrogant, female, gorgeous, and horny. Harper Stern gangbanged her way into appointment viewing, an HBO Sunday tradition I wish we’d gotten back to sooner. Although, like an expert once said, she’s definitely giving “my friends are white and I let them say the n-word.” Her Racial Chat Rooms Showing Feet aesthetic is trumped by her relentless screen presence. All of five feet, Myha’la’s title character shows the intemperate spirit needed to conquer the world of bullshit to stand atop grift mountain.
Once a little brother show to titans like Succession and Big Little Lies, the financier’s Randian wet dream prestige series now clocks our greedy, post-morality selves through Harper’s naked betrayals. Except the show won’t depend on slack-jawed viewers or pedestrian wannabes. No. You come to Industry to be a temp insider, to know you are witty, indiscreet, insecure, and attention-cashed like any other decent, terminally online peer in this hive. And unlike the short-form video burning out the rest of your day, immersion is required.
There’s the restrained Britishness of Conservative versus Labour fights, the resurgence of anti-woke, the (dying) ethical press and, reasonably, a strap-on scene because it wouldn’t be box office without a strap-on scene.
In the opening episode, Harper is me, fighting against every boss who wants to profit from her Black brilliance while also, innately, feeling they need to stifle her Black brilliance. Her first few moments are basically verbatim emails I’ve drafted when I need to get steam out.
To whom it may concern: Please let me do the job you hired me for. No, you are not smarter just because you out-rank. And yes, you do need me to look smarter for the time being.
Of course, Harper’s power works within gender confines, and she has to chop all necks equally. She romances her muscular Black male subordinate before ordering typist duties from him, faces off with her Asian male mentor (obsessive fan of the day-trading Frankenstein he helped spawn), and stares down her white socialite ex-BFF as they battle in chambers of power. The character sweats American know-how and precocity, while rerouting her fate toward the raunchiest, richest heaven Europe can offer.
This wouldn’t be a money-and-family drama if its protagonist wasn’t always behind the 8-ball. Harper seems to suffer from her untamable intelligence even more than her demographic pigeonholing. When she succeeds, it’s because an older whiter man gave her a shot. When she fails, that old guard raisin decries giving her a shot in the first place. She can’t win for losing.
Whew, been there, Harper.
Still, I cannot see this show going much further than it’s gone to develop her character. She’s had many precipitous falls from grace, some you celebrated, some you lamented. She’s bounced back harder than Lazarus at the trampoline park. How much remains now that Myha’la/Harper has bared her body, consumed the runtime with one-liners like a 90s action pro, and cut off any chance at love or loyalty?
Like most gifted Black corporate liars, all that’s left is a trip to the guillotine.