In a show that threatens to be too much, he gives just enough.
Photo: Apple TV+

In the second episode of shrinkage In the second season, Jimmy (Jason Segel) – a therapist who sets so few boundaries between his patients and himself that you even live with him – accuses his colleague Paul (Harrison Ford) of being too rigid in his career. “You’re like a mental health robot,” Jimmy says, beginning to imitate Paul during a session. “Be empathetic,” he says in an automaton voice, moving his arms like a tin man who needs oil. “Uh oh, interesting. Time is up. Release.” Jimmy relaxes as if Robot Paul's battery were empty: “Beep-boop. Beep-boop.”

Paul angrily hisses, “I never say 'beep-boop.'” He carefully pronounces every word in that sentence – “I. Never. Say. “Beep. Boop.'” – as if he wanted to make sure a court stenographer captured each one for the record. Rather than adding more silliness to an already intentionally silly line, Ford plays it seriously, giving his character a personality that closely aligns with the public's perception of himself: pragmatic, allergic to bullshit, and kind of grumpy. His “beep-boop” reaction is funnier than it could have been because he's intentionally not trying to make it funny.

His approach is what makes Ford such an essential element of shrinkagewhich, like most dramas created or co-created by Bill Lawrence, alternates between sensitive moments and sitcom-style humor. It's difficult to find the right tonal balance so that the absurdity doesn't undermine the authenticity. There are times when shrinkage wobbles with this effort; His ensemble of comedic actors are tasked with playing people who are a little too much, which means their acting is often a little too much. Segel, a man with a resting Muppet face, screams when caught unprepared, does Cookie Monster impersonations, and turns choking on a grape into a brief one-man farce at some point in the new season. Jimmy's best friend Brian, played by Michael Urie, often talks awkwardly about how uncomfortable he feels in confrontational situations, just in case his fear isn't obvious enough. “I don’t know how to say what I have to say to you,” he says to Jimmy’s daughter Alice in one scene, adopting a voice that wouldn’t sound out of place in a Pixar film. At times both men act as if they fully realize they are starring in a television comedy.

But Ford, more consistently than any other player, knows exactly when and how to bring the company down to earth. In a scene after Alice tells Paul that he sounds like Batman – not the first time someone has done this shrinkage makes this observation – Ford smiles and says, “I do this on purpose. It's called Gravitas.” Ford is the gravity that gives shrinkage just enough weight to keep it from veering too far into schmaltz or self-conscious silliness; He is the fuel that keeps the comedy from rising so high that it collapses.

Ford's default setting in shrinkage is sarcasm. No one understands better that taking the wind out of a phrase is just as fun, and sometimes funnier, than pumping it up with air. When he walks into the break room at work and catches Jimmy and Gaby sleeping together and engaging in a little PDA, he pours himself a cup of coffee and says, “We should put it on our sign out front: Rhodes Cognitive Behavioral.” “Center” – he pauses, puts down the coffee pot and then stares at his colleagues – “Our doctors are fucking.” The words fall out of his mouth dry like dirt in a three month drought. When Jimmy informs Paul that Generation Z considers muttering “My mistake” a sincere form of apology, Paul snarls, “I'm glad we ruined the planet for them.” It's a disgusting comment, but Ford is so offended and so able to convey an underlying sensitivity that ensures he doesn't mean it that the comment elicits a genuine laugh.

The key to Ford's performance is that he allows Paul's softer side to peek out from beneath his crusty exterior. The character is in the early stages of Parkinson's disease, and without exaggerating, Ford reveals his tremors, both physical – his hands shake slightly at various moments, a reminder of how his body is beginning to betray him – and emotionally. He is most vulnerable with his former neurologist and current girlfriend Julie (Wendie Malick), a relationship that is also still in its early stages. Malick, such an endearing, elegant contrast to his grumpy advisor, has great chemistry with Ford. When Paul finally asks her point-blank to move in with him, he says it with such real, unadulterated longing that you can actually feel it heart warms a few degrees as he makes the request. This moment is so effective because Ford is so economical with his emotions. When Derek (the delightful Ted McGinley) asks Paul in episode three if he's in love with Julie, Paul flinches. “You have to go there?” he asks without making eye contact. “Fine. I'm deeply in love.” He sounds angry about the entire concept of romance.

One can't help but hear faint echoes of Harrison Ford in this line The Empire strikes back To Carrie Fisher's “I love you,” she responded with a guarded, “I know.” No matter how much Ford delves into a character, it's impossible to watch him at this point in his career without being reminded of the fearless, tenacious heroes that he represents. This man is Han Solo, Rick Deckard, Jack Ryan and Indiana Jones. We're used to thinking of him as an icon, someone bigger and better than just a regular man. This legacy benefits Ford shrinkage. There's an underlying, unspoken joy in watching him play an average person with normal concerns doing average, normal things. Everyone, no matter who they are, has to deal with pain, guilt, and uncomfortable feelings, even the guy who once melted the Nazis and helped destroy the Death Star. shrinkage just wouldn't be as entertaining or meaningful if Ford didn't literally and metaphorically refuse to be a robot every time he's in the picture.