Maya Rudolph, radiant queen mother, returned to her roots Saturday night, and all was right in the world. Spring, and the sense that the writers returned rested and rejuvenated after a few weeks off, was in the air.
Refreshingly, the cold open took a break from Washington and hit Miami Beach for a game show called Snatched, Vaxed or Waxed. Rudolph presided over a group of horny dumb-dumbs unconcerned with their “antibody-ody-ody-ody-ody-odies.” Heidi Gardner’s contestant said she didn’t like to wear masks because they irritated her cold sores, which she guessed made her anti-vax and anti-mask. But Chris Redd’s romantic thought she might not mean it: “I think she’s just flirting, so I’m going to say Vaxed.” Nope! Remind yourself that your parents are vaccinated. Maya Rudolph’s parents are vaccinated. Let’s trust that Martin Short is vaccinated. The idiots will not win.
Rudolph’s monologue was charming and silly and perfect. She shouted out her four children in the audience and willed herself not to cry. The sentimentality of their presence had her feeling soft towards the new cast members, so she invited those babies—Andrew Dismukes, Punkie Johnson, and Lauren Holt, who looked like she was going to split open with glee over the fact that this was actually happening in real life—to gather ‘round. She regaled them with memories of back in the day, how Rachel Dratch was a bit of a princess, strutting around on her Sixteen Candles buzz, and Jimmy Fallon was the bad boy in his jean jacket and fingerless gloves. Fists in the air, we’ll never forget greats like her. Especially when they return to remind us how it’s done.
The sketch of a very excellent night was Beyoncé on the Hot Wings talk show. Rudolph had her sitting placidly in black leather get-up and gold-tipped gloves, a study in impenetrable cool. After a wing drenched in Hitler’s Anus sauce, Bey was dripping and gasping a little, but still a warrior. But the next wing wrecked her. We will never see Beyoncé undone, because Beyoncé will never allow that, nor do we want her to. Which is why it was all the more fun to see Rudolph’s Bey pouring milk down her face and chest. “Oh, my whole head is on fire,” she said, summoning her hair stylist D’Michelangelo, played by Kenan Thompson. “I need you to take my wig off. Put six ice cubes on my head. Then put my wig back on.” If Beyoncé happens to catch the sketch, I hope it gives her a contact high of imagining what a ridiculous exhale it would be should a hot wing ever shoved her out of her glorious, magical, art-decorated bubble.
It’s a testament to how in the background Vice President Kamala Harris has been the last two months that it took thirty minutes to get a sketch about her. Our twinkly-eyed, sneaker-wearing number 2 was hosting a Unity Seder at the White House. Martin Short as her Second Gentleman Doug Emhoff was an absolute gift. “I can’t do this!” he worried, grasping onto his wife. “I’m just a shy entertainment lawyer.” They nuzzled and caressed and talked dirty to each other until the guests arrived. None was more inspired than Chloe Fineman’s Ella Emhoff, who stomped in to house music and declared herself the most normal-looking girl in Bushwick, however crazy she might appear to Aidy Bryant’s Ted Cruz. Alex Moffat’s excellent Joe Biden soon joined them, bragging–after his notecard confirmed–that he’d nailed his first press conference. Even Major showed up, though Second Gentleman Emhoff’s social anxiety apparently undid his retraining. Watching Martin Short be taken down by a giant stuffed dog was such an old-school shot of joy.
Weekend Update was similarly top notch. Colin Jost went hard on gun control, insisting that Republicans drop their cynical claims that it’s a Second Amendment issue. “I don’t know if you noticed when they almost hung you two months ago,” he said, flashing to an image of the Capitol insurrection, “but our militias aren’t super well-regulated.” He gave President Biden good grief, mixing his stumble up Air Force One’s steps into a breakdance and declaring the press asking about his running again in 2024 “probably the nicest way to ask him if he’ll be alive in three years.”
But besides Rudolph, the highlight of the night was Bowen Yang. Billed as “Asian Cast Member,” he succeeded at walking a tremulous line. He mourned the violence against Asian Americans in this country, and called out social media justice warriors who post fleeting solidarity for crises of the moment, without ever losing the audience. He was graceful and adamant and funny throughout. “I don’t even want to be doing this character piece,” he insisted. “I wanted to do my character, gay Passover bunny—but it was too smart for the show.” When Jost checked him on that, Yang sneered, “Whatever, you’re scared.” He called on us to look around our communities, instead of our Instagram stories, for real answers to serious problems. “Fuel up, do more,” he said. “We ride at dawn, Grandmas!”
I could’ve watched Kenan Thompson and Rudolph–pop the hip, tip the hat—as rival, lovesick choreographers all night long. But all good things come to an end. And so, Dismukes, neutered in an NBC page’s blazer, told Rudolph her car was waiting to take her back to her real life. But nostalgia is a drug, and it led her once more down the rabbit hole of memory lane. In the Maya-ing: A Stanley Kubrick Film, Tina Fey showed up at the bar, Rachel Dratch in a bathtub, twin Kristin Wiigs in a spooky hallway. There’s no escaping some places, because they’re too grand to ever fully leave.
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