The Decline of SNL: A Legacy Traded for Optics, Image, and Access

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Brutally Honest Opinion On Modern SNL

Saturday Night Live has collapsed into a shadow of its former self—not because sketch comedy is outdated, but because the very foundation of how talent is selected, nurtured, and showcased has been corrupted. This isn’t just about the show not being funny anymore. It’s about how inclusion has replaced ability, how nepotism and industry connections have replaced grit and originality, and how SNL now functions more like a curated showroom of identity checkboxes than a crucible for elite comedic talent. This is a show that once launched legends—now it protects mediocrity. From Bowen Yang’s uninspired, one-note performances to the painfully flat attempts of Please Don’t Destroy, this isn’t a one-off casting problem. It’s a full-system breakdown—one where image, access, and social optics matter more than raw ability. And when even children tune in and instinctively know it’s boring? That’s how you know the soul of the show is gone. This is a breakdown of what happened, and why it’s time we stop pretending this is okay.

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Let’s start with Bowen Yang. His presence on SNL isn’t a problem because of who he is. It’s a problem because of what he doesn’t bring. In an era where the show used to celebrate wildcards like Bill Hader, Chris Farley, Gilda Radner, or Will Ferrell—people who could shapeshift and explode inside a sketch—Bowen Yang delivers one single mode: the snarky, petty character with a flat face and a sassy twist. That’s it. He plays himself dressed up. There’s no range, no escalation, no surprise. Yet he’s propped up as a star—not because of the laughs he earns, but because of the representation he provides.

And that’s where the rot begins: when talent is sacrificed for identity optics. It’s not inclusion. It’s compensation.

This is not to say SNL didn’t always have politics—it did. But politics never outranked performance. Eddie Murphy was 19 when he joined. He didn’t just check a box—he became the box, shattered it, rebuilt it, and made you laugh so hard you cried. No one cared what demographic he fit. They cared that he was undeniable. Think about “Mr. Robinson’s Neighborhood” or his James Brown Hot Tub sketch—moments that didn’t just live in culture, they moved it.

Then there’s Please Don’t Destroy, the trio the show seems desperate to position as the next Lonely Island. But they’re not. Not even close.

Where The Lonely Island made people howl with unpredictable, stupidly brilliant concepts (“I’m on a Boat,” “Lazy Sunday,” “D*** in a Box”), Please Don’t Destroy creates sketches so dry, so self-aware, and so focus-grouped that even a slight chuckle feels impossible. At best, their bits might make a very forgiving viewer murmur “heh, that’s clever.” But no one is dying of laughter. No one is quoting them. No one’s eyes water. Even someone with the simplest comedic tastes, the kind who laughs at reaction videos or animal fails, would watch a PDD short and shrug: “It’s… fine.”

Because it’s not art—it’s uniform. They’re not making comedy—they’re performing the idea of comedy creators. Everything from their wardrobe to their pacing to their structure screams, “We’re the new Lonely Island!”—without understanding that what made Lonely Island great was how they never tried to be anyone but themselves.

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And underneath all of this, a deeper question festers:

How did these people even get here?

It’s not just that they’re mid. It’s that they were chosen—out of thousands of hopefuls. So you start wondering… is this what happens after decades of “who you know” over what you can do? Did industry connections, nepotism, or “friend of a friend” handshakes quietly replace the insane audition tape, the 2 a.m. comedy club grinder, the character actor with something to prove? Look no further than Please Don’t Destroy itself—John Higgins is the son of longtime SNL producer Steve Higgins, and Martin Herlihy is the son of Tim Herlihy, a former head writer and frequent Adam Sandler collaborator. That’s not speculation. That’s nepotism in plain sight.

Because this isn’t one miscast. This is a full ensemble of mid. No stars. No killers. Just people connected enough to get the opportunity to get the opportunity… to get the opportunity.

And if that sounds harsh, ask yourself: Where are the Bobby Moynihans? The Jay Pharoahs? The Fred Armisens—even the Adam Sandlers? Where’s the cast member who can anchor the show with pure electricity? They’re not being passed over. They’re not even being seen.

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SNL used to be earned. Now it feels inherited. It used to be a proving ground. Now it’s a showroom. And the worst part? Audiences know.

Lorne Michaels built a temple to risk, chaos, and comedic danger. But now, under his continued leadership, it’s become a museum of safety. A once-live wire now reads like a pre-recorded PR reel.

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With how much kids today watch YouTubers, streamers, and fast-paced content online, and with what social media has done to attention spans, SNL must realize it’s no longer enough to just put “types” on screen. They need genuinely talented cast members—and even more importantly, truly great writers who can craft sharp, relevant comedy for all ages. Yes, SNL isn’t made for children—but when I was little, I understood comedy. I looked up to Will Ferrell and Bill Hader and laughed from the gut. Their talent transcended age.

The future of the show depends not just on who’s cast—but who’s in the writers’ room. If the show doesn’t find and nurture the next generation of fearless, hilarious minds, it’ll become background noise to TikTok. Today’s SNL? Kids will watch five minutes and call it boring or cringe. Not because they don’t understand it—but because there’s nothing to understand. There’s nothing there. Talent speaks across generations. But only if you let it in the door.