Few TV shows, outside of soap operas, run long enough that they could air an “in memoriam” segment right after their series finale. Curb Your Enthusiasm could have. It would, without question, have included Bob Einstein, who played Marty Funkhouser; Shelley Berman, who played Larry David’s dad; Bea Arthur, who played Larry’s mom—but only in a single scene, because her character didn’t want to bother the fictional Larry by letting him know she was dying; and, last but best, Richard Lewis, who saw Season 12 through before making Curb’s many jokes about his mortality come true.
Larry himself survived—not only in life, but also, somewhat surprisingly, on the show. He tried to die, but it didn’t stick. TV Larry expired and came back to life in the Season 5 finale—prematurely titled “The End”—which was the first time David decided to conclude Curb. (It’s a testament to Curb’s longevity that Larry tried to end the series the same year It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and Grey’s Anatomy made their debuts.) David shot a death scene for the finale of Season 11, but decided to scrap it. Even Sunday’s series (?) finale included a curious line about a character’s intention to shoot and kill Larry. This time, Chekhov’s gun didn’t go off.
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And so, though Curb is over, Larry lives on. Even so, for the first time in decades, the culture is confronting a Larry-less future (or at least one without Larry as an active TV presence). His absence will leave a void, except that in some sense he’s already filled it. Thanks to Seinfeld and Curb, we’ve lived in Larry’s head for so long that he now lives in ours (an idea that might dismay him). There’s a little of Larry in all of us. There always was. He just made it more acceptable—even aspirational—for us to let our Larrys out.
By being unfiltered, David provided a permission structure for those without shows. If the massively successful and beloved Larry David could unsubscribe from small talk, leave gatherings without warning, and be brutally honest (while, at the same time, constantly telling self-serving lies), why couldn’t we? Even as he helped us shed the shackles of propriety—or daydream about being social assassins in a Mittyesque way—Larry liberated himself: As he said in 2015, “The character has emboldened me to be much less inhibited and to take on a lot of the things that the TV Larry David does.”
TV Larry wasn’t just a sitcom character; he was something of a folk hero. HBO’s teaser for Curb Season 9 portrayed him as a superhero without a cape (though he did wear one on Seinfeld). “The world needs him now more than ever,” the poster for that season said, next to an image of David’s face projected onto the heavens, Bat-Signal-style. And even though Larry declined the call in that promo, he answered it 120 times on Sunday nights, not to mention all those Wednesdays and Thursdays on Seinfeld. He was a cranky chronicler of the human condition, a champion for the fed-up, an etiquette critic who expressed our anal inner thoughts like a veterinarian expresses anal glands. He became an unlikely lifestyle model who helped shape the ego ideal of anyone who has, in some social situation, wondered WWLDD: What would Larry David do?
If Sunday was our last chance to get answers straight from the source, Larry left us with some satisfying ones. On the penultimate episode, he insisted, “I don’t want a happy ending—I just want an ending.” For someone so acerbic, a true happy ending of the non-massage kind—aside from the moment Mark Messier hoisted the Stanley Cup, of course—might be unattainable, or even undesirable. But hey, he got out of jail free. And through the flattering reviews and viewership surge for “No Lessons Learned,” which is currently Curb’s highest-rated episode on IMDb—it was (obligatory) prettay, prettay good, but let’s simmer down—the real-life Larry got redemption for the notorious Seinfeld finale. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that finale, as far as David is concerned.)
The last thing Larry wants from the world is a warm embrace—certainly not one that lasts longer than five seconds—but figuratively speaking, he’s enduring one this week. The positive outpouring is partly a thank you for his service: Without completely crossing over into clip-show territory, as the Seinfeld finale did, “No Lessons Learned” invokes highlights from the whole of Larry’s sitcom career. Not just through its many Curb callbacks, but through the recursive structure that links “No Lessons Learned” to Curb series premiere “The Pants Tent,” as well as to the trial in the Seinfeld finale, which itself circled back to the Seinfeld premiere. Via funny new bits (like Cheryl’s request for privacy re: her feelings about Mexican food) and the return of treasured old ones (like the long-lost Larry-initiated staredown), the finale flashed a last salute to the Larry we love to watch people hate.
If we count George Costanza as an avatar of David, it’s been 35 years since America met his on-screen persona—long enough that millennials like me can’t recall a time B.C. (Before Costanza) as we contemplate a time A.D. (After David). (If you’re a young millennial, you can’t recall a time B.C.E.—Before Curb Enthusiasm.) Would I have identified with David regardless of when my comedic sensibilities developed, or do I feel an affinity for Larry because growing up in the ’90s (in New York, no less) exposed me to his humor at a formative age? When my friends and I have a conversation that Jerry, George, and Elaine—or Larry, Leon, and Jeff—could have had on Seinfeld or Curb, respectively, are we unconsciously taking our cue from those characters? I can’t untangle the cause and effect, and neither can anyone younger than me, because Seinfeld left Larry’s stamp on all the comedy (cringe or otherwise) that came after.
I know this, though: Much like Larry himself has borrowed phrases from J.B. Smoove, many viewers who were weaned on Curb have adopted Larry-like mannerisms. I haven’t attacked Elmo, but I will, at times, catch myself sarcastically, dismissively muttering during a protracted stop-and-chat, or uttering a Larry-esque “Eh,” “OK,” “No good?,” or “I don’t think so.” (Can’t you hear him now?)
In light of all that history, how could you watch Larry and Jerry’s half-smiling Seinfeld-ian jail-cell exchange on Sunday—“He’s supposed to sequester!”—and not wonder whether it was the last time we’ll see them play with language like that on-screen? In a sign of how deeply ingrained in the culture that kind of call-and-response is, the “sequester” conversation made me think not of a Seinfeld scene, but of a Family Guy parody of Seinfeld—“Not a stickler for a tickler!”—which is itself turning 20 years old this year. Seinfeld’s brand is so strong that it sometimes seems as if people didn’t discuss or mock mundane minutiae until Larry came along.
David’s brand is roughly as strong as a solo act. Speaking of things turning 20 this year: Remember his appearance on Entourage? That time he cameoed on Hannah Montana? Or when Bob Odenkirk name-checked him on The Office? What about the innumerable Curb theme memes? Or his emergence as a style icon? Forget the Seinfeld curse; in some respects, Curb transcended its precursor series. When I watch Seinfeld now, it feels as much like a step on the path to Curb as it does a destination—as if, underneath the network-friendly language, the unnatural laugh track, the multi-camera setups, and the cramped sitcom sets, it was yearning to become Curb, once its cocreator could step out in front of the camera long enough to do more than order an eggplant calzone or ask whether anybody at the beach was a marine biologist.
David bent the rules of the medium through the power of his personality—not just by turning a show about nothing into a national phenomenon, but by subsequently side-stepping the traditional realities of TV scheduling. Forget white-knuckle renewal notices, precise planning, and tight production timelines: Larry had a standing offer to make more Curb whenever he wanted to. (Perhaps he still does.) HBO was happy to have whatever time with Larry he was willing to share, and so were we.
In escaping the strictures of social niceties and industry norms, he also transcended the typical limitations of a sitcom creator or character. That’s partly because his sitcom and real-life personas are so intertwined. (Though they aren’t identical; imagine TV Larry with multiple kids.) But it’s mostly because we look to him not just for laughs, but also for his rulings on human behavior. He’s a humorist and an amateur ethicist—or plays the latter on TV—but he’s really a referee, a guy we go to when we want to know what’s out of bounds. (Even though his character gets called for fouls so often.) He’s not infallible, but he calls it like he sees it—and despite what Kaley Cuoco’s character claims on Season 11, he’s not Mr. Magoo.
Speaking of his appearance: David is reputedly ageless, though his supposed resistance to time is somewhat exaggerated. (That’s just what wearing glasses and being bald will do.) His comedy is even better preserved. Seinfeld still isn’t dated, except in some superficial respects. And for a show that ran for roughly a quarter century, beginning before 9/11, Curb was remarkably consistent in quality, and even more so in tone. The last couple of seasons certainly weren’t peak Curb, but considering the series ran long enough for the girl from “The Doll” to grow up long before the finale, it held up pretty well. Consequently, we’re used to having Larry around. He’s keenly assessed the intricacies of social interaction since mores about beepers, answering machines, and call waiting were topical. When something ails society, Larry seems to possess Stage 4 wisdom. He’s become a kind of cultural ombudsman, whether he’s dishing on Donald Trump, berating Alan Dershowitz, or weighing in on whether The Rewatchables should announce its movie selections in advance.
That’s what David has done. As for what he will do: Well, we don’t know, and neither does he. He’s still repeating a lifelong line: Something will turn up. It probably will; the guy can’t golf all the time, and Larry doesn’t seem like the sort to partake in most other traditional retirement activities. But sitcoms are clearly his métier: Nothing he’s done outside of Seinfeld and Curb—from stand-up to SNL to Sour Grapes to warmed-over Curb-likes Clear History and Fish in the Dark—has really resonated publicly, or lasted long. Is he content to call it a career at 76, or will he return to stage or screen in some form or fashion?
I wouldn’t bank on complete David withdrawal; Larry won’t suddenly stop being flummoxed by mankind, and as Curb executive producer Jeff Schaffer told Deadline, “That stuff’s gotta go somewhere.” David may play a misanthrope, but even TV Larry hasn’t cut himself off from the species. He’s rich enough to insulate himself so thoroughly that he’d never need to trade empty pleasantries, but he doesn’t. (In Season 12’s “The Dream Scheme,” he goes to drastic, implausible lengths to get out of doing huge favors for someone he hardly knows, instead of simply saying … no. And inexplicably, he’s still doing paid appearances.) He helps people constantly, even as he constantly complains. Hell, he’s had a houseguest since Season 6. In fact, he’s quite affable when he wants to be, and he’s a dynamite middle at dinner. He wants to connect to others on some level—just not necessarily an emotional one. That’s why, even though he has “fuck you” money, he’s usually the one people say “fuck you” to.
In a sense, it’s almost disappointing that the off-screen Larry is seemingly such a nice guy. But even IRL Larry has his limits: However much we may miss him, the pain probably won’t be mutual. Larry doesn’t want to be friends—not with us, anyway. When he butchered a hand heart to the jury in “No Lessons Learned” (or, in real life, on the jumbotron at Madison Square Garden), he may as well have been setting the terms of engagement: Let’s keep it professional.
On Monday, HBO released behind-the-scenes footage from the filming of Curb’s closing scene. After the series wraps, multiple cast members pay tribute to Curb and their colleagues, in heartfelt fashion. (Lewis calls David “arguably the greatest sitcom writer in the last two centuries”; I’d love to know whether Larry inwardly bristled at “arguably.”) True to form, Larry looks like he can’t wait to wander off set. “Speech!” a crew member cries, but the star doesn’t deliver one. I wonder why they even asked; 12 seasons is enough to know he’s not the sentimental type.
Maybe it’s true that there’s no light within Larry. If so, though, that wouldn’t diminish how much he’s enlightened us. Those teachings have prepared us for life after Larry. The man may be proud of learning no lessons. But we learned a lot of lessons from him.
