âCrazy Ex-Girlfriend is, all at once, a darkly comic musical satire, a thoughtful exploration of mental illness, a subversion of the still-ubiquitous Prince Charming fantasy, a love letter to female friendship, and a deconstruction of â to risk overstating it â the entire female experience. For a lot of women, myself included, watching Crazy Ex-Girlfriend â the show, not just Bloomâs character â is like looking in a mirror. The show speaks to a Venn-diagrammable portion of the population â depressives, dramatics, anxious Jewish girls, irritatingly expressive theater kids, morbid nerds, people who cry at condiment ads â whoâve been consistently accused of too-much-ness, whoâve been commanded to rein it in since birth. Crazy Ex-Girlfriend rips off those reins, lights them on fire, and cackles wildly as the smoke rises. The first time I watched Bloomâs Rebecca negotiate a panic attack induced by a butter ad, I was hit with a greasy wave of self-recognition. Appropriately, then, Bloom says that the template for the show isnât, say, Felicity or Sex and the City â Bloom hasnât seen the former, and she still thinks it was âvery socially irresponsibleâ for Carrie to end up with Big â but the moral crumbling of the blue-meth boys of Breaking Bad. âThe showâs not called âSane Lady Who Has It All Figured Out.â We really loved the idea of exploring a person whoâs never really sought happiness, only what other people have wanted from her. Thereâs a certain amount of evolving that needs to happen in order for her to get at the core of whatâs making her unhappy,â she says. âThatâs what the showâs always been: Someone having a complete breakdown, understanding why thatâs happening â and only when she really has that breakdown can she build herself up.â
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