Regina King, a vision in shades of neon and chartreuse, put on a helluva show. In her first spin as SNL host, the Oscar winner and now Golden Globe-nominated director strode down those steps like the boss that she is.
It’s a 90-minute gig that typically rattles an actor host, or at least exposes his or her needy, timid underbelly. But last night, King was queen. Her monologue was relaxed and crisp, leaning right into the absurd fact that white audiences are just getting around to recognizing her as the star Black audiences have long known her to be. Then Kenan Thompson joined her onstage in a Kangol bucket hat, hyping her up and insisting the audience recognize her worth. “You ain’t making enough noise. She won an Oscar, doc!”
Throughout the night, King was rock steady in her heels. She was as funny as she was sexy as she was full of obvious joy. After the Gorilla Glue sketch, in which she and Thompson played hack lawyers looking to profit off inconceivable missteps like the tragic woman who glued her hair—a sketch the show only could have handled so well because it finally has some real numbers on its side—she fell into Ego Nwodim’s arms, laughing until her dresser pulled her off stage. This was a woman who knew the night was going well.
Circling back to the cold open, the show had gotten off to an auspicious start. Alex Moffat, though he may have benefitted from some more bronzer, brought good manufactured disdain to his Tucker Carlson. “Is AOC hiding in your house right now?” he terrorized his audience. “Pronouns for dogs? Come on, everyone knows their boys.” He interviewed Lindsey Graham, played by Kate McKinnon in one of her evening’s impressive chins, who declared Trump’s impeachment “trell” offensive and absurd. Aidy Bryant, stuffed into Ted Cruz’s suit and beard, weighed in on his own lack of his soul and moral compass. Pete Davidson played Trump’s Philly lawyer Michael Van der Veen, and rolled a spliced together montage of Democrats like Lady Gaga, the Minions, and Jar Jar Binks calling for blood. It was one of the better cold opens of the season, and I still hope never to see Alec Baldwin sticking out Trump’s stubborn bottom lip again.
The sketch of the night was “The Negotiator,” presumably a jump off the deluge of last weekend’s previews for Queen Latifah’s The Equalizer. When Mikey Day has a gun to Andrew Dismuke’s boyish little head, you’re gonna want to call in the Negotiator. And hope that she hasn’t just confused partner Bowen Yang’s candy for a pack of crime scene edibles. It kicked in when Davidson popped up on the roof in full powder blue vinyl, taunting a swirly-eyed King. “I’m going to tell your family. I’m a weed gummy and you’ll be high forever!” Her visions were soon joined by Davidson’s weed gummy partner Bryant and Melissa Villasenor, who was dressed like “Marge Simpson/the devil.” It was sublime, and very conceivably written by folks one hour into their own gummy bear experiences.
King killed in the MTV “What’s Your Type?” dating game show, too. She came out in Valentine’s red, a marketing supervisor looking for love. She was looking for a sure thing who would worship her every centimeter. “That’s why I want a cringey white dude in his early 40s.” God bless Kyle Mooney’s and Alex Moffat’s contenders, who on any other day could’ve walked away a winner. But Mikey Day’s Link, a crumbling white squid of a man in a sweater vest, put on a virtuoso performance of awkward, awful majesty that folks should watch when they worry may have made a goofy first impression on a date. I am here for King’s Urkel impression, and I wish this couple an excruciatingly clumsy night of passion.
The best part of the Fliona! sketch, besides King in that glittering silver dress and her doing the Funky Turtle, was the performative delight Yang’s bad manager took in being slapped. First, King slapped the salad out of his bowl. Then Bryant, as a hairdresser who remembered nothing on Fliona’s rider save a little plastic brush, slapped the papers out of his hand. Bryant breaking is the flash of silliness that is going to uplift us while we wait for news that our parents finally have a vaccination appointment.
Another satisfying break came during Weekend Update, when Beck Bennett did what felt like a Shakespearean turn as drunk Tom Brady. “Ya hear that, Bill!” he slurred in a shout-out to his flat-lipped former coach. “You’re not my dad anymore.” Bennett did a whole wet-lipped arc from loose to self-pitying and depressed and then back on up to cocksure. I could’ve watched another 20 minutes of the man’s avocado tequila ride.
As we creep up on a year of this mess, stuck in the house with our dumb exercise routines and our Pinot Noir, a shout-out to the Pelotaunt sketch in which fussy home athletes need negative voices shit-talking them if they’re going to be moved into any effort. “Really nice t-shirt. Do you wear that to swim?” is quite the devastating sneer. Similarly tapping into a throbbing vein, the suburban birthday sketch in which Bryant’s character was gifted fun, cutesy Is it wine o’clock? signs that degenerated into cursive painted cries for help like Hey barkeep, I want to die tonight. Defensive, Bryant’s birthday girl argued that everyone was drinking hard through this pandemic. “We’re all just Moms having fun, aren’t we?” she said. Aren’t we?!
Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone. Love the one you’re with. (Like you have a choice!) If you’re alone this year, go play with your elbow. Or call up your best Galentine. Imagine you’re hugging her with the same amount of affection as King and Nwodim or McKinnon and Bryant brought to their embraces during the cast goodbyes. If you’re feeling low, rewatch the “What’s Your Type?” sketch. Chemistry and love are mysterious things.
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