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

In the second episode of Shrink In season two, Jimmy (Jason Segel) – a therapist who places so few boundaries between his patients and himself that people even live with him – accuses his colleague Paul (Harrison Ford) of being too professionally rigid. “You’re like a mental health robot,” Jimmy says, and starts imitating Paul during a session. “Engage empathy,” he says in an automatic voice, moving his arms like a tin man in need of oil. “Oh, oh, interesting. Time is up. Disconnect.” Jimmy settles down as if Robot Paul’s battery is dead: “Beep-boop. Beep-boop.”

Paul hisses angrily: “I never say ‘beep-boop’.” He enunciates each word in that sentence carefully: “I. Never. Participation. “Beep. Boop.’” – as if he wants to make sure a court stenographer captures them all for good measure. Instead of adding more silliness to an already deliberately goofy line, Ford plays it seriously, basing his character on a personality that closely matches the public’s perception of himself: pragmatic, allergic to nonsense, and quite grumpy. His “beep-boop” reaction is funnier than it could be because he’s deliberately not trying to make it funny.

It’s his approach that makes Ford such an essential part Shrinkwhich, like most dramas Bill Lawrence has created or co-created, alternates between sensitive moments and sitcom-style humor. It’s difficult to get that tonal balance right, so that the absurdity doesn’t undermine the authenticity. There are times when Shrink wobbles with that effort; the cast of comedic actors is tasked with playing people who are a bit much, which means their acting is often a bit much. Segel, a man with a resting Muppet face, screams when he’s caught off guard, does Cookie Monster impressions, and at one point turns choking on a grape into a brief one-man farce later in the new season. Jimmy’s best friend, Brian, played by Michael Urie, often awkwardly talks about how uncomfortable he feels in confrontational situations, 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 be out of place in a Pixar film. At times, both men act as if they are fully aware that they are starring in a television comedy.

But Ford, more consistently than any other actor, knows exactly when and how to bring the company down to earth. In one scene, after Alice tells Paul he sounds like Batman – not the first time someone has had their turn Shrink makes that observation – Ford smiles and says, “I do that on purpose.” It’s called gravitas.” Ford is the gravity that gives Shrink just enough weight to keep it from veering too far into schmaltz or self-aware silliness; he is the leavening agent that keeps the comedy from soaring so high that it collapses.

Ford’s default setting Shrink is sarcasm. No one understands better that taking the wind out of a sentence is just as funny, and sometimes funnier, than pumping it up with air. When he walks into the cafeteria at work and finds Jimmy and Gaby, sleeping together, engaging in a little PDA, he pours himself a cup of coffee and says, “We should add it to our sign: Rhodes Cognitive Behavioral Center” – he pauses for a moment, puts down the coffee pot and then stares at his colleagues – “Our doctors are fucking.” The words fall dry like dirt from his mouth during a three-month drought. When Jimmy tells Paul that Gen-Zers think muttering “My bad” is a sincere form of apology, Paul snaps, “I’m glad we ruined the planet for them.” It’s an unpleasant comment, but Ford is so aggrieved, and so able to convey an underlying sensitivity that makes him not mean it, that the remark gets a genuine laugh.

The key to Ford’s performance is that he lets Paul’s softer side emerge from beneath his crusty shell. The character is in the early stages of Parkinson’s disease, and without overdoing it, Ford reveals his shakiness, both physical (his hands shake slightly at several points, a reminder of how his body is beginning to betray him) and emotionally. He is most vulnerable with his former neurologist and now girlfriend Julie (Wendie Malick), a relationship that is also in its early stages. Malick, such a lovely, elegant complement to his grumbling advisor, has great chemistry with Ford. When Paul – minor spoiler alert – finally asks her outright to move in with him, he says it with such genuine, unadulterated desire that you can feel your heart a few degrees warmer 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 cringes. “Do you have to go there?” he asks, without making eye contact. “Fine. I am deeply in love.” He sounds angry about the whole concept of romance.

In that sense, you can’t help but hear faint echoes of Harrison Ford’s The empire strikes back responding to Carrie Fisher’s “I love you” with a subdued, “I know.” As much as Ford gets into a character, it’s impossible to watch him at this point in his career without being reminded of the fearless, stubborn heroes he represents. This man is Han Solo, and Rick Deckard, and Jack Ryan, and Indiana Jones. We’re used to thinking of him as an icon, someone bigger and better than just an ordinary man. That legacy works in Ford’s favor Shrink. There’s an underlying, unspoken joy in watching him play an average person with normal concerns who does average, normal things. Everyone, no matter who they are, must confront pain, guilt, and discomfort, even the man who once melted the Nazis and helped destroy the Death Star. Shrink It simply wouldn’t be as entertaining or meaningful if Ford didn’t literally and metaphorically refuse to be a robot every time he’s on screen.