‘Abbott Elementary’ and the Joys of Living Outside the Main Edit

There is a scene, early in the second season of ABC’s “Abbott Elementary,” that neatly captures some most contemporary questions about the power and ubiquity of video. Teachers at Abbott, a public elementary school, are in their lounge, watching something alarming. A charter-school company has been running what’s essentially an attack ad against them, featuring unflattering video clips of them on the job. As they process seeing themselves eviscerated onscreen, a question hovers over the proceedings like chalkboard dust: How did the charter school obtain this footage in the first place? The answer comes from the school’s principal, Ava Coleman, who explains that she welcomed in the interloping camera crew — because she had a hard time telling them apart from the regular camera crew, the one supposedly filming the show we’re watching.

“Abbott Elementary,” now reaching the close of its second season, is a mockumentary sitcom; its narrative frame involves the production of a documentary about “underfunded, poorly managed public schools in America.” The teachers are used to being filmed, if not always happy about it. (Ms. Schemmenti, the resident South Philly toughie, turns on the regular crew: “See, this is why I never trusted any of youse! Now get the cameras out of my face before I give you a colonoscopy with it.”) They have been subject to a classic sitcom trope, the misunderstanding that leads to humiliation. But the root of that humiliation is unlike most every sitcom character before them: They’ve been captured by the wrong cameras.

The show isn’t exactly subtle in its suspicions about what recording culture has done to education.

The way “Abbott” deploys comic mix-ups is a technique the show shares with traditional sitcoms, the 20th-century kind with their multicamera setups, stagelike sets and audience laughter (real or simulated). But “Abbott” exists in a world that has been slowly shedding that style. Many examples still exist, but by the end of the aughts, multicamera shows were already seen as quaint compared with their critically acclaimed new counterparts — single-camera comedies like “Arrested Development,” “The Bernie Mac Show” or “Modern Family.” These shows could borrow techniques from film, documentary and reality TV — cutaways, confessional interviews, voice-over — to access jokes unavailable in the old studio-audience setup. The most obvious predecessors of “Abbott” were among them: the American adaptation of “The Office” and, later, “Parks and Recreation,” both long-running NBC mockumentary sitcoms about close-knit workplace colleagues.

“The Office” framed itself as a documentary about work at an ordinary company, then let that premise recede into the background; it wasn’t until its final season that it began to reckon with the camera crew’s yearslong presence. “Abbott” has introduced this quagmire much earlier. Across its sophomore year, it has repeatedly turned its attention to the inescapable surveillance we face today — not just from professional camera crews but from one another. Coleman’s gaffe is, in reality, just another expected incursion. The staff’s flabbergasted reaction is an instance of the characters’ not so much breaking the fourth wall as routinely banging their heads against it.

The attack-ad scene parallels one from the show’s pilot, in which the premise is introduced. Principal Coleman barges into the teachers’ lounge boasting about the staff’s chance to become famous. After an older teacher, Mrs. Howard, reminds her why the crew is filming — the school is being cast as both underresourced and badly managed — Coleman replies that “no press is bad press.” It’s often unclear whether the biggest challenge facing the teachers is a lack of resources or the fact that Coleman is such an ineffective, uninterested leader. But the charter-school episode marks the first time that the main threat to their work is their own comfort with being observed. The principal may be hilariously awful, but in this case the teachers have ceded their privacy — and that of the small children they teach — to random strangers with cameras.

The whole misunderstanding mirrors what the critic Ian Penman once called “the relentless publicity of modern life,” a quality that leads many of us to constantly re-evaluate our relationships with recording technology. On “Abbott,” the main characters have various levels of attachment to cameras and microphones, which wind through plots in countless ways. In one episode, Ms. Teagues — the idealistic protagonist played by the show’s creator, Quinta Brunson — introduces her co-workers to a TikTok challenge that helps them fund-raise for school supplies. Mr. Hill, the dorky young history teacher, tries to help his students start a podcast. Mr. Johnson, the school’s custodian, helps quash a TikTok-style fad and later mugs for the camera at a Sixers game.

They’ve been captured by the wrong cameras.

But the show sieves most of its video-​age anxiety through Principal Coleman. She pulls out her phone to record videos of teachers arguing. She spends her time watching survivalist reality-TV shows in her office. She live-streams online auctions. The show isn’t exactly subtle in its suspicions about what recording culture has done to education, for either the children or the staff, but Coleman’s online hustles and schemes are a joke that can point in either direction: Sometimes they’re selfish manipulations that waste everyone’s time, and sometimes they pop up in the final act to rescue the school.

Crucially, though, it’s the least-pertinent footage that carries an important lesson “Abbott” has for viewers: the value of life lived outside the main edit. In real documentaries, the richest parts often capture something secret or ancillary, something “caught” from outside formal interviews. But these mockumentaries are scripted, meaning showrunners can simply write those moments in. Their use of such footage suggests that the real meaning of our lives is often found outside the stuff we’re presenting on camera for others to see. Even the attack ad speaks to this: Viewers know that the moments captured in that commercial represent only a sliver of what the characters have to offer.

“Abbott” uses such incidental footage to interesting effect. In a first-season episode, we watch Mrs. Howard and Mr. Hill try to plant a garden, though neither really knows how. A stoic former substitute, Mr. Eddie, whose father owns a landscaping company, grumbles about the project. Over the course of the episode, the garden mysteriously improves — until, in the closing minutes, we see that Mr. Eddie has been tending to it in secret. In another episode, Ms. Teagues and her visiting sister get into an argument about deep-seated family trauma — one we see play out incidentally, caught by rolling cameras even though it has nothing to do with the supposed theme of the documentary.

The question of why the fictional cameras of “Abbott” take this approach has, thus far, gone unanswered. But the show’s sustained critique of our video-saturated era — conditions that models like “The Office” and “Parks and Recreation” never had to contend with — suggests that the narrative function of this “minor” footage is crucial. TikTok and Instagram, two of Principal Coleman’s favorite platforms, might feature much comedy and the language of storytelling, but neither is all that good at doing what great sitcoms have always done: revealing the ways that people are messy and contradictory and fail to align their private and public selves. In this era of curated video, the way “Abbott” treats seemingly throwaway moments is a reminder that our biographical B-roll, in memories and private impressions, is the most valuable viewing material.

Source photographs: Gilles Mingasson/ABC; Tim Robberts/Stone/Getty Images; Manu Vega/Moment/Getty Images.

Niela Orr is a story editor for the magazine. Her recent work includes a profile of the actress Keke Palmer, an essay about the end of “Atlanta” and a feature on the metamusical “A Strange Loop.”