Cooper Raiff’s Hal & Harper is a TV show that serves as an emotional excavation of family, trauma, and the complexities of growing up too fast. At first glance, it’s a sibling drama about two children and their single father, but its conceit—casting adults as the seven- and nine-year-old protagonists—immediately signals that this is something else entirely. A John Cassavetes TV series for Gen Z, Hal & Harper plays with form and tone, balancing absurd humor, deep emotional wounds, and an aching exploration of how grief and responsibility shape the way we love. Across eight episodes, the show takes full advantage of the medium, weaving through time with memories that propel the story forward rather than simply filling in backstory. Each episode builds on the last, not just in plot but in the emotional weight of its characters’ experiences, making it the kind of series that demands to be binge-watched for full impact. What emerges is not just a story about two siblings navigating life, but a meditation on the messy, contradictory ways in which we attempt to grow up and heal.
At its core, Hal & Harper is about love—not romantic love, but the kind of familial love that shapes our entire emotional foundation. Hal (Cooper Raiff) and Harper (Lili Reinhart) are not just siblings; their relationship functions as a kind of dysfunctional, borderline marriage. The emotional push-and-pull, the intimacy, and the resentment are all there, but with a depth that feels uniquely lived-in. They are bonded not just by blood but by shared trauma, the weight of responsibility, and the unspoken expectations placed on them by a father (Mark Ruffalo) who is trying to be better but is often lost in his own emotions. Raiff is fearless in his portrayal of Hal, not afraid to be unlikable, immature, or deeply flawed in the way that many leading men avoid. Harper, on the other hand, is a revelation, a character who is deeply intuitive but also carrying the weight of being the caretaker in a family where men are allowed to fall apart while women are expected to hold everything together. Reinhart delivers one of her most nuanced performances, capturing both Harper’s quiet strength and her deeply rooted exhaustion.
What sets Hal & Harper apart is its approach to sound design, which doesn’t just complement the storytelling but defines it. The show invites us into the characters’ sensory experiences, allowing us to hear what they hear. When trauma strips them of feeling, the sound cuts out. When grief chokes them, the world becomes muffled. When memories surface, the sound shifts into tones that hit just the right frequency in the chest. These choices make Hal & Harper not just a show to be watched but a show to be felt. Raiff’s direction also embraces visual storytelling in a way that many contemporary TV dramas neglect. Instead of relying on expository dialogue, he lets montage sequences carry emotional beats, using editing to juxtapose past and present, cause and effect. The narrative language of sitcom gags, like saying something and having it immediately happen in the next cut, adds levity to a show that otherwise explores some deeply painful themes.
One of Hal & Harper’s sharpest insights is its understanding of how women are conditioned to carry emotional burdens, especially in families where fathers are distant, absent, or emotionally immature. Harper and the stepmother figure (a beautifully nuanced Betty Gilpin) are the ones picking up the pieces, offering care and forgiveness even when they themselves need support. There’s a particular kind of trauma-bonding that happens between women who have been shaped by the same emotional neglect, and Hal & Harper is one of the first shows to depict this dynamic in a healthy, non-exploitative way. Female characters on television are often written as either caretakers or survivors, but rarely do we see them supporting each other without competition, resentment, or martyrdom. Yet, the show doesn’t let its male characters off the hook either. It subtly critiques the ways in which men are often allowed to remain emotionally stunted, unable to process their grief until it becomes an inconvenience for others. This dynamic plays out in deeply revealing moments—two men talking about trauma only when it interrupts their daily lives, or an emotionally distant father attempting to reconnect with his children only when his own pain becomes unavoidable.
From The Sopranos to The Simpsons, these American TV shows have been foundational to the development of pop culture and the television landscape. It’s rare to see a TV show that is fully aware of the medium it’s working within. Too often, prestige TV feels like a long movie, but Hal & Harper embraces the episodic form, using each installment to deepen our connection to its characters. This story could not work at a feature film length. It needs eight episodes, needs the passage of time, needs the ability to linger in moments of joy, heartbreak, and quiet introspection. What makes it work, beyond the writing and performances, is how it understands that healing is not linear. The show doesn’t provide easy resolutions. Problems don’t get neatly solved, and characters don’t “overcome” their trauma. Instead, it’s about how people learn to live with it, to move forward while still carrying the past. Raiff has crafted something special here.
Hal & Harper is a show that feels like cinema, not just in its aesthetic but in its storytelling approach. Raiff’s connection to Jay Duplass signals something even more exciting—Hal & Harper is not just redefining cinematic television but defining indie cinematic television. With Duplass’ Penelope premiering at Sundance last year and Raiff’s Hal & Harper arriving this year, it feels like a new wave is forming, one driven by deeply personal, emotionally intelligent storytelling that doesn’t just subvert traditional TV structure but rebuilds it. TV miniseries have grown in popularity over the last few years. We are finally in an era of television that no longer adheres to the emotional rhythms dictated by advertising breaks but one designed for a new kind of viewer: those who have outgrown the binge-watching boom but still seek emotionally resonant storytelling that unfolds at the perfect tempo. This is television that breathes, that meets audiences where they are, delivering depth in potent, perfectly timed doses. It is intimate, emotionally rich, and unafraid to sit in discomfort. It is both deeply personal and universally resonant, the kind of show that lingers long after the final episode.
It is astonishing that nobody has secured distribution for this series yet. Hal & Harper deserves a home where it can be revisited time and again—where audiences can return to it not just for entertainment, but for emotional regulation, for comfort, for catharsis. Some stories demand to be rewatched, not because they are easy, but because they meet us where we are, again and again, as we grow alongside them. This is that kind of show. Someone, please, buy it already. It is, quite simply, one of the most emotionally complete pieces of television in recent memory. Hal & Harper screened at the 2025 Sundance Film Festival. You can find more information here.