Strip Law Review

Netflix’s Strip Law arrives as the streaming service’s latest foray into adult animation, joining a crowded field where series must fight desperately for attention. Created by Cullen Crawford with writing credits spanning The Late Show with Stephen Colbert and Star Trek: Lower Decks, this Las Vegas-set legal comedy channels the anarchic energy of Adult Swim programming while attempting to develop its own distinctive voice. The result is a series of contradictions—genuinely funny moments interspersed with exhausting excess, sharp character work buried beneath relentless gag density, and enough raw potential to suggest that somewhere within this chaos lives a better show struggling to emerge.

The Strip Law Premise

The series centers on Lincoln Gumb, voiced by Adam Scott with the same schlemiel energy he brought to Parks and Recreation’s Ben Wyatt. Lincoln inherits his legal ambitions from his late mother, a legendary Las Vegas attorney whose shadow he cannot escape. Following her death, Lincoln’s mother’s longtime partner Stevie Nichols (Keith David) promptly fires him from the prestigious firm, forcing Lincoln to establish his own struggling practice called Gumblegal.

Lincoln’s fundamental problem: he’s a competent lawyer completely lacking the showmanship Vegas courtrooms demand. “You’re a Vegas lawyer, but you think you’re better than Vegas,” he’s told in the pilot, capturing the character’s central conflict. His salvation arrives through Sheila Flambé (Janelle James), a magician and self-proclaimed “three-year all-county sex champion” whose theatrical instincts complement Lincoln’s legal knowledge.

The supporting ensemble includes Irene (Aimee Garcia), Lincoln’s iron-pumping teenage niece serving as investigator; Glem Blorchman (Stephen Root), his disbarred-then-reinstated uncle whose sanity remains questionable; and Kevin (Matt Apodaca), a straight-man paralegal introduced mid-season as acknowledgment that the main cast’s chaos requires grounding.

Comedy at Breakneck Speed

Strip Law operates at velocities that overwhelm as often as they entertain. The dialogue fires at machine-gun pace, with characters launching jokes, references, and absurd non-sequiturs before previous punchlines land. The rhythm resembles talk-radio programs from Grand Theft Auto—entertaining in bursts, exhausting over extended duration.

This approach yields genuine laughs when it connects. A running gag about “reappropriating out-of-date catchphrases” demonstrates self-awareness that elevates material above mere reference humor. James’s delivery transforms even mediocre lines through sheer vocal confidence. Root’s Glem provides consistent highlights—his claim to be Bikini Kill’s “original bass player” and subsequent admission that “neither did I, according to Kathleen Hanna” exemplifies the show’s best absurdism.

However, the relentless pace leaves little room for emotional investment. Characters crack wise through moments that might benefit from genuine feeling. The show introduces Lincoln’s depression and mommy issues without meaningful exploration, preferring quick jokes to developed psychology. By episode’s end, viewers may remember individual gags while struggling to articulate why they should care about anyone delivering them.

Adult Animation in the Netflix Era

Strip Law enters a marketplace saturated with animated series targeting mature audiences. The show distinguishes itself through Las Vegas setting—rarely explored in animation—and legal profession focus that recalls Archer while pursuing different tonal goals. The visual style employs thin-line character designs typical of contemporary adult animation, with perhaps subtle Daniel Clowes influences in character expressions.

The production values meet professional standards without achieving distinctive aesthetic identity. Backgrounds capture Vegas’s neon excess while character animation remains functional rather than expressive. The medium’s potential for visual invention goes largely unexplored—this is a script-driven show where imagery serves dialogue rather than developing its own language.

Netflix’s investment in adult animation continues yielding mixed results. For every BoJack Horseman achieving genuine artistic breakthrough, multiple series settle for crude humor and shock value. Strip Law contains enough intelligence to suggest aspirations beyond mere transgression, though it frequently retreats to safe vulgarity when bolder choices might prove more rewarding.

The Adult Swim Influence

Crawford’s background includes Star Trek: Lower Decks, itself influenced by Adult Swim’s anarchic sensibilities. Strip Law extends this lineage through Vegas-filtered absurdism that recalls Paradise PD and Brickleberry—previous Crawford credits—while aiming slightly higher through cast quality and premise sophistication.

However, Adult Swim’s best series combine absurdity with genuine emotional substance. Rick and Morty’s nihilism carries tragic weight; The Venture Bros builds pathos through season-long character arcs. Strip Law currently operates at shallower levels, content to amuse without aspiring to move. Whether this represents deliberate limitation or developmental growing pains remains unclear.

The show’s commitment to human creation deserves acknowledgment—closing credits proudly declare “proudly made by real, non-computer human beings.” In an animation landscape increasingly populated by AI-assisted production, this stance carries ideological weight even if viewers cannot detect procedural differences.

Serialized Elements and Season Arc

Beyond episodic case-of-the-week structures, Strip Law develops several ongoing threads. Lincoln’s obsession with his deceased mother and complicated feelings toward Stevie Nichols provide serialized emotional stakes. Sheila’s integration into the firm and evolving partnership with Lincoln suggest character growth trajectories.

Unfortunately, these elements receive insufficient development across ten episodes. The season finale attempts dramatic escalation that feels unearned given preceding emphasis on standalone comedy. Binge-watching reveals structural issues that weekly release might have masked—repetitive beats become apparent, character arcs stall, and promising premises fail to pay off satisfyingly.

The show seems uncertain whether it wants to be episodic workplace comedy or serialized character drama. This indecision produces tonal whiplash as episodes lurch between standalone absurdity and manufactured emotional climaxes. A clearer commitment to either mode might strengthen overall impact.

Final Assessment

Strip Law offers enough genuine entertainment to justify viewing for adult animation enthusiasts, particularly those appreciating the cast’s vocal performances. Janelle James and Stephen Root elevate every scene they inhabit, delivering laughs even when material underwhelms. Adam Scott’s comfortable presence as beleaguered protagonist provides accessible entry point for audiences unfamiliar with animation’s wilder shores.

However, the series currently represents promise rather than fulfillment. The creative team has assembled impressive ingredients without quite figuring out how to combine them optimally. Future seasons might develop the character work and tonal consistency that would elevate Strip Law from amusing distraction to essential viewing.

For Netflix subscribers seeking background entertainment during multitasking, Strip Law serves adequately. Those demanding concentrated engagement may find the relentless pace and uneven quality frustrating. The show argues its case loudly, as critics have noted, but not always convincingly.

Adult animation remains capable of genuine artistic achievement—Strip Law demonstrates this potential through scattered moments of inspiration even when the whole fails to cohere. Whether subsequent seasons realize this potential depends on creative choices currently invisible. For now, Strip Law entertains without quite distinguishing itself in an increasingly crowded marketplace.

What are your favorite adult animated series? Share your recommendations in the comments below.