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Jean Smart Is Having a Third Act for the Ages

Like her character on “Hacks,” she’s winning late-career success on her own exuberant terms.

Jean Smart. Credit... Sinna Nasseri for The New York Times

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By J Wortham

J Wortham is a staff writer for the magazine. They visited the set of “Hacks” in January in Los Angeles, and interviewed the cast and crew over the course of a few weeks.

• Published May 12, 2024 Updated May 15, 2024

Calling someone a “hack” is a particularly vicious insult. It implies that they have no talent or, worse, that they have wasted it. The slight is hurled early on in “Hacks,” the popular Max Original series starring Jean Smart as Deborah Vance, a seasoned comedian who teams up with a younger one named Ava (Hannah Einbinder) to freshen up her act.

Listen to this article, read by January LaVoy

When they meet, Ava takes stock of Deborah — her glitzy mansion, her residency at a casino in Las Vegas, a hustle selling branded merchandise on cable TV — and sees her as the definition of a hack, a sellout cashing in on her former fame. Deborah is unfazed. Amused, even. What does this kid know about her career, about years of hard work, about the unfairness, sexism and disregard?

Deborah, meanwhile, sees Ava as a bit of a hack herself — an entitled and spoiled young internet persona who was canceled for posting a joke about a closeted senator. (“Sounds like a Tuesday for me,” Deborah retorts when Ava complains about it.) Deborah is a workaholic on the verge of bitter, someone who grew tired of being cut and so became a knife. She’s shameless, litigious, petty, vengeful, stubborn — qualities that become a comedic asset for the character and a narrative engine for the show. Just how far is Deborah Vance willing to go?

Throughout the first two seasons, much of the drama — and delight — is in seeing Ava puncture Deborah’s carefully lacquered facade with her Gen Z earnestness and sharp wit. In one of the show’s funniest moments, Deborah bluntly asks Ava, “You a lesbian?” Ava leans back in her chair while considering the question. She responds with a treatise reflecting the identity politics of a generation raised with nonexistent boundaries and zero sexual shame, ending with a graphic description of how she orgasms. Deborah doesn’t miss a beat. “Jesus Christ!” she exclaims. “I was just wondering why you were dressed like Rachel Maddow’s mechanic!” Deborah and Ava are mirrors for each other, gifted and perspicacious performers at opposite ends of their careers, both trying to be their most audacious selves in an industry that will dispose of them the moment they cross an invisible line.

Over the last three years, “Hacks” has earned its two Emmy nominations for outstanding comedy series by cultivating a polyphonic, fast-paced humor relentless as Deborah’s own quick mind. There are constant insult jokes about Ava’s appearance (“Your manicurist must use a paint roller!”); manic banter between Jimmy, Deborah’s beleaguered agent, and his delusional assistant (played brilliantly by the comedian Meg Stalter); antic bits like a seemingly poignant scene of Deborah’s daughter playing classical piano as a reflection of her gilded upbringing, before it devolves into absurdity when the music is revealed to be the theme song from “Jurassic Park.” And then there are the battles royal in which Ava and Deborah fire hilarious barbs back and forth until their frustration gives way to awe at each other’s cleverness and something like respect blooms. It’s weaponized therapy.

One day in January, Smart was filming an episode of the show’s third season at a private villa near Pasadena, Calif., kitted out to resemble a mansion in Bel-Air. She sat in a magisterial library on a caramel leather Chesterfield. Deborah is meeting with the network executive who canceled her show in the 1970s after she (allegedly) tried to set her former husband’s home on fire upon discovering that he was having an affair with her sister. The ensuing scandal banished her to the edges of the entertainment industry. She hopes the conversation will yield some clarity, perhaps even closure.

No one would mistake Deborah Vance for soft. And yet here she was, defanged — somewhat. She wore an expensive silk leopard blouse, a reminder of her latent ferocity. As Keith Sayer, who worked with Smart to craft the image of Deborah, remarked to me while observing the scene: “She went in thinking there might be a battle.”

In the scene, Deborah’s voice is low, pleading. “Before I do this all again,” she says, “I really need to know why it didn’t work the first time.” The executive is perplexed. To him, it’s obvious. He reminds her of the chaos that followed her very public meltdown with her husband. She is chastened by the memory but recovers. “I know,” she says. “I’ve just always thought if I’d been a little bit better, a little bit funnier, if I’d been undeniable, it could have happened.”

The entire crew seemed to collectively hold their breath as they watched Smart, as Deborah, waiting for the reply. From behind a cluster of monitors, the show’s creators, Jen Statsky, Paul W. Downs and Lucia Aniello, sat watching the process and whispering to one another. (Smart calls them “J.P.L.” for short, which she says stands for Jet Propulsion Laboratory.) At one point, Aniello asked Smart to do a take with her eyes not lowered, to add some of her potency back. “Less like a wounded deer,” she added. They wanted her to strike a delicate balance between humble and proud. They gave Smart a few pointed notes, which she metabolized quickly, speed-cycling through a spectrum of emotions on command. Smart is a maestro of microexpressions: She can adjust the lines on her forehead to convey pain or arrogance. Her voice is an ember that can smolder or burn red-hot; her laugh can sound coquettish or sharp, like the cries of an exotic bird.

At this point in the show, Deborah and her career are trending. After combing through Deborah’s extensive archive, Ava realized that her most powerful work could be drawn from her own history. They devise a new act that satirizes Deborah’s shadow selves: a jealous ex, a vain and self-involved mother, a bad feminist and a power-hungry entrepreneur. Self-aware and self-skewering, the act revives interest in Deborah and pushes her back into the spotlight, so much so that her team pitches a comedy special. Networks won’t touch it. Undeterred, Deborah decides to finance the special herself, and it goes viral.

“Hacks” is a similar turning point in Smart’s career. Despite working steadily in Hollywood for three decades, she has never played a lead character that has captivated audiences quite like this one. Casting her was a stroke of genius: There’s a relish to her performance, not only because she’s perfect in the role but also because she and Deborah would both delight in the idea of proving wrong anyone who overlooked or underestimated their gifts. Smart, as Deborah, gives the lie to the idea of the hack and repurposes it as a glorious wink.

In 2015, Downs, Aniello and Statsky were road-tripping to a monster-truck rally in Portland, Maine, where Downs would be filming a segment for a sketch-comedy special. The three met in 2009 while bumming around New York trying to get their comedy careers off the ground. Downs and Aniello began dating after they met in an Upright Citizens Brigade improv class, and Statsky and Aniello met in a sketch group. The three formed a tight-knit circle.

As tends to happen on long drives, the three found themselves deep in existential conversations. One turned to talented people who had fallen into obscurity. A theater actress with a vibrant and illustrious career had died recently, and articles about her life stunned them. “How come we are only learning about this woman and her work in her obituary?” Downs, who plays Jimmy, asked. “Why did we not see her in every guest role on TV?” It reminded Statsky of the improvisational-comedy duo Nichols and May — Mike Nichols, she said, “went on to have an incredible career, but you weren’t quite sure what happened to May.” (Elaine May did have a long career, directing films and writing screenplays, but she is not nearly as well known.) They thought about other great female performers who seemed to disappear — or worse, lost control of the joke and became the butt of it. They had just heard Kathy Griffin’s appearance on Marc Maron’s podcast , where she discussed how much easier it was to become a reality-TV star than to sustain the life of a comic. They had also watched “A Piece of Work,” the 2010 Joan Rivers documentary that highlighted the verdant years of her comedy career, before she became better known for body modifications and red-carpet cattiness.

These women were meteoric talents whose reputations eroded over time because of the industry’s exclusionary practices. Many became spectacles, cartoonifying themselves with antic behavior and plastic surgeries or tawdry television appearances. “It was really just a way to survive, a way to commodify their art,” Aniello said. “They weren’t being taken seriously as geniuses or auteurs, so they had to go into this other lane and create it for themselves. And sometimes we look down on that art form, and it’s unfair, because they were literally just trying to exist.”

Statsky reckoned with her own dismissal of those women and others like them. “Did I have some weird bias?” she said. “Thinking this person is hacky or writing them off in a way?” Why, they all wondered, was it easier to remember these women for their cheapest career moments than for their best work? And more to the point — what drove those comedians to devalue themselves in the first place?

The friends were juiced enough after the car ride to try to create a character, a woman in her third act who refused to accept the notion that she was past her prime. They also devised her foil, a younger comedian weaned on viral fame. They saw the narrative arc so clearly that they knew exactly where the series would end. They also knew that they wanted to staff the show with comedians and comic actors who they felt hadn’t been fully given the chance to showcase their talents. All three were admirers of Smart, and so they sent the pilot script to her agent; she was the only actor they met with. “When she walked into the room, you just felt Deborah was alive — she’s glamorous and dry and smart and blond — just a perfect fit,” the trio told me in an email. They pitched the show in 2019, and the first season aired in May 2021.

When Smart first read the script, she was enraptured by the depth of the writing for Deborah. “It ticked all the boxes,” she said. She recalled a scene in which Deborah has a liaison with a younger man. Rather than writing it as purely salacious, the creators infused it with real sensuality — and the encounter kindles a burst of creativity for Deborah. “She discovers something new in her work that just brings back some real joy to her,” Smart told me.

The character of Deborah is based on an amalgamation of female comedians, including Griffin, Rivers, Paula Poundstone and Betty White. There’s a little Lucille Bluth of “Arrested Development” in there, too. Phyllis Diller may be the most important model for Deborah — Smart once dressed like her as a girl — but while Diller leaned into the garish to the point of surrealism, Deborah is firmly established in the leisure class. As Kathleen Felix-Hager, the show’s costume designer, told me, “She has money.”

It was important to the show’s creators that Deborah’s difficulties are not financial. By many definitions, she has already made it. But her ambitions extend beyond her bank balance. She wants a certain stature, a reputation, a desire to be, as she tells the executive, undeniable . But “you can be undeniable, and you might still get denied,” Downs said. If Deborah is a hack, she was first made that way by a sexist and ageist industry that disposed of her as soon as she became inconvenient.

When Smart was done filming, she bundled us both into the back of her car, and a driver took us to a favorite Italian spot in Toluca Lake. In the back seat were a satin pillow (for napping) and sequin jackets (for a drag show later). She was energized by the day’s shoot, particularly by the verve of her co-star, Hal Linden of “Barney Miller” fame, now in his 90s. “I hope to keep working like that,” she marveled. As we walked into the restaurant, heads perked up as Smart waltzed past, and we found a roomy, private booth in the back.

Many people remember Smart from her role as Charlene on “Designing Women,” in which she played a version of herself as a teenager growing up in Seattle: the “blue-eyed, blond-haired, goody-two-shoes cheerleader,” as she described it to me. In person, Smart is as warm and loose. At lunch, she slapped the table to punctuate her sentences and unleashed her distinctive, bellowing laugh at high volume when she was pleased by a detail or an interaction. She straddles generations; she doesn’t do social media yet knew to ask me for my pronouns. Her knack for physical comedy seems second nature. When the waiter asked if she wanted a “baby” glass of wine or a big one, she shot me an impish glance and then used her thumb as an arrow to indicate that she would like the adult-size version. “I’m not driving,” she said slyly. After she served us both from a communal plate, she said: “I’m not your mother. Why am I cutting up your food?” and then continued doing it.

Smart described with glee how she leaned into the role of Deborah. She loves getting to be a demanding boss and a sexpot. “I’ve had more action on this show than my entire career put together,” she told me. She has a one-night stand with Devon Sawa, makes out with Tony Goldwyn and has an ongoing love-hate relationship with Marty (Christopher McDonald), who owns the Las Vegas casino where she performs. She was awarded two Emmys for outstanding lead actress in a comedy series in 2021 and 2022.

Smart wondered aloud where all this adulation was 20 years ago. By her own estimation, she has always been this dynamic, this charismatic, this compelling. But Smart talks about her career with oracular calm: She knows that her time is simply her time. Smart is 72, and for women of her generation, the range of archetypes available to them has always been narrow, and it dwindles even more over time. “At 40, you’re going, They definitely aren’t going to be calling me for that role,” she said. “Experience is hugely important. It’s going to trump brilliance every time.”

Smart’s easy grace is offset by a frenetic energy that makes her irresistible to watch but difficult to categorize. She’s 5-foot-9 and always felt that her height cut against her beauty-pageant looks, transforming them into something more formidable. Smart was never an ingénue. “I’ve always been part way to between leading lady and a character actress.” She worked consistently after leaving “Designing Women” in 1991, but it wasn’t until she was 53 that she began being cast in larger roles with more edge and gravitas. On “24,” she played Martha Logan, a mentally unstable but cunning first lady who managed to make being unhinged admirable. In “Fargo” (2015) and “Mare of Easttown” (2021), she played cunning and at times malevolent matriarchs. She had a powerful role on “Watchmen” (2019) as the retired vigilante turned F.B.I. agent Laurie Blake. (She got the role after Sigourney Weaver turned it down and told me that “if I’d won the Emmy for that, I was going to thank her.”)

Kate Winslet, who worked with Smart on “Mare of Easttown,” described how she combines intuition with exquisite control of the distinct regions of her face. Smart played Winslet’s mother, Helen, who is both all-seeing and self-absorbed. “Jean has the power to do a tiny thing and flip the energy of the scene,” Winslet told me — raising an eyebrow, say, or sharpening the edge of an inhale. “It’s fresh, because it means every time you walk into a scene, she’ll always do something that will surprise you.” Winslet recalled a moment while filming “Mare” after their characters attended a funeral. They were walking off the set when suddenly Smart turned to her: “Oh, shoot, I wanted them to paint my nails.” She knew that Helen was the kind of woman who would have gone to the beauty parlor to get her hair set and nails done. “It mattered to me that she cared in that way,” Winslet said.

Smart’s willingness to surrender vanity for her art impressed Winslet, but Smart has sometimes wondered if allowing herself to be styled as matronly or haggard hindered some of the momentum she was building. In “Fargo,” for example, she let them color her hair, and “all of a sudden I looked so much older.” It felt like being led out to pasture. “Casting directors have Rolodexes full of actors,” she said, “and if they can’t type you or pigeonhole you, it’s like, Is it really worth the time and effort to try to figure out what that person can do?” By the time she arrived on set at “Hacks,” she had acquired the ability to draw from her letdowns in Hollywood with enough distance to satirize them. On “Hacks,” Smart explained, Deborah represents someone who is pushing back and saying, I’ll decide when I’m done.

At lunch, Smart was open about the recent tragedies in her life. In 2021, Richard Gilliland, an actor she met on the set of “Designing Women” and married in 1987, died after a heart attack. Covid restrictions meant that she got to see him only twice in the hospital. There was still a week left of filming for the first season of “Hacks,” and Smart was asked if she wanted to take some time off. Her inclination was to keep working. “I figured, I’m still in shock,” Smart said. “Let’s just do it, you know?” In the episode they were filming, Ava’s father has suddenly died, and Deborah crashes the funeral and gives a speech that brings the house down. When the time came to get in front of the camera, Smart started shaking. It had been only a few days since her own husband’s death. She wasn’t sure she was going to make it. She recalled taking a deep breath (and an Ativan) and jumping into the scene. Deborah asks the mourners to share a memory of the deceased when he was drunk. Aghast — and titillated — they allow themselves to be goaded into unruly stories, which she tempers by sharing a rare gem of praise for her protégée. Smart remembers it as cathartic.

You can see, in that scene, how Smart excavates her own subterranean emotions in her performance. Occasionally, while talking about her life’s hardships, I got the impression of Smart as a large, silvery body of water and her difficulties as opaque shapes moving underneath. But they never fully surfaced unless she wanted them to. Smart is now raising her youngest son alone, something she never imagined doing at her age. (She has another son who is in his 30s; she and Gilliland adopted their second son 20 years later.) He is now a teenager, and she wants to be present for all the moments of wonder, anxiety and introspection. As our meal wound down, she began talking animatedly about picking him up from school. He was in rehearsals for his high school’s production of “The Pirates of Penzance,” and she was excited to hear about it while she made him dinner. She doesn’t go to bed before he does, even if he stays up until 10 p.m. and she has a 4 a.m. call time. Smart’s zest for her life — all of it, even the challenging parts — comes through clearly. She is determined to enjoy the pleasure of her children and her career as long as she can.

At the end of the previous season, after a tumultuous road trip, a lawsuit and the triumph of pulling off a comeback tour, Ava and Deborah part ways at Deborah’s insistence. She wants Ava to forge her own career. She is also pushing her away out of fear: The closeness has proved to be too much. Deborah is still working out her trust issues, believing that dependence on others has never served her.

When she finally gets what she craves — recognition and power — the axis of the show turns to wondering how this second wave of success will influence her. Will she operate like the ruthless executives she worked under, or will she create new ways of being? Can she? Can anyone? “Hacks” also asks the question of Hollywood itself: What would it be like with different people at the helm? It’s a fantasy of second chances, shifting hierarchies, upended power dynamics — but, appropriately for a moment when the gains of racial-justice movements, #MeToo and D.E.I. initiatives are being rolled back, if not eradicated, “Hacks” refuses to be rosy. Deborah Vance is no utopian leader. She is as flawed as anyone else, but through her, the show explores how people are shaped by systems that misuse them and the damage they can inflict, or undo, as a result.

Deborah’s relationship to biological motherhood is evidence of her priorities and ambivalences. DJ, Deborah’s daughter on the show (played by Kaitlin Olson), is a monument to Deborah’s narcissism. (DJ stands for Deborah Jr.) Their relationship is fraught, as DJ, who feels neglected, commits minor acts of sabotage toward her mother, including tipping off the paparazzi to photograph her in unglamorous moments. It’s later revealed that Deborah not only knows about this but lets DJ get away with it. “Makes her feel self-sufficient,” she tells Ava. It’s a clarifying moment: It is easier to let her daughter think that she’s exploiting her than to affirm or be affectionate toward her.

Deborah finds more kinship with Ava, recognizing herself in the younger comedian’s unabashed careerism and raw talent. Zero blood ties yield more honesty between them. The show understands that chosen family can come in many, sometimes demented and occasionally toxic forms, including work relationships that become stand-ins for our most intimate ones. “Mother” is a verb as well as a noun, and Deborah finds her footing nurturing the next generation of feminist performers and their outrage (on one thrilling episode, she pays an obnoxiously misogynistic male comedian $1.69 million to never perform publicly again). Ava also nurtures Deborah, teaching her how to embrace her vulnerability through comedy and invite people into an incisive and exploratory investigation of the self.

Later in the season, Deborah is being profiled by a magazine when some unsavory, racist material from her past resurfaces online. Ava pushes her to hold herself accountable for her offensive behavior, but the reckoning becomes deeper than that. She is asking Deborah to look hard at her own complacency, her willingness to adopt the status-quo tendencies of exploiting others for her own gain. Deborah agrees to appear at a town hall, but she also insists on charming the students in her own way, crashing a frat party, doing keg stands and buying everyone pizza.

When the article comes out, Ava reads it aloud to Deborah. Ava is quoted in the piece, and she pauses as she recites her own words. “A hack is someone who does the same thing over and over,” she starts. “Deborah is the opposite. She keeps evolving and getting better.” It’s an apt description of the show, Deborah and anyone who faces their worst moment — and survives to joke about it.

Stylist: Micah Schifman

Read by January LaVoy

Narration produced by Krish Seenivasan and Anna Diamond

Engineered by Brian St. Pierre

An earlier version of this article misidentified the service that carries the show “Hacks.” It is Max Original, not HBO.

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Writing an article

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Age range: 14-16

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Last updated

14 April 2024

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