Jon Hamm’s Andrew “Coop” Cooper doesn’t fall from grace so much as he’s pushed.
Fired under false pretenses, replaced emotionally by an NBA all-star, and quietly erased from the only world he ever knew — Coop doesn’t fight back. Not at first. He just… absorbs it.
The heartbreak, the humiliation, the financial gut-punch. He’s not angry — he’s stunned. That’s what makes him dangerous.
On the premiere of Apple TV+‘s Your Friends & Neighbors, Coop’s undoing doesn’t feel like karma. It feels like a rigged system finally cashing in on its favored sons, and Coop realizing too late that he was never one of them.
Yes, he slept with a younger employee. One time. Months ago. And yes, she was clearly into him.
But it’s not her complaint that gets him fired — it’s his boss, Jack Bailey, who wants Coop’s clients and sees the perfect opportunity to take them.
When Coop confronts the woman, Liv, she’s blindsided. She didn’t file anything. Jack used her, too. And I’d bet she’s not done with this story. Maybe she’ll even help blow it all open.
So when Coop ends up stealing a wad of cash from Peter Miller’s bedroom during a pool party, it’s not petty revenge. It’s an emotional breaking point.
Picture it: he’s just been blindsided by a career gut-punch, he’s watching his ex-wife laugh with her new man in the driveway, and he’s hiding in a corner with a drink, trying to disappear into the shrubbery when Peter strolls up and asks him for two $30,000 tables for an upcoming charity event.
A reflexive flex from a man who’s never once had to wonder if his friends can actually afford what they’re smiling through.
Coop tries to say no. He almost gets the words out. But something in him still wants to be included. Still wants to be someone. So he doesn’t say no. He doesn’t say anything. And that silence costs him his last shred of dignity.
He doesn’t rob Peter because he’s a criminal. He does it because he gave everything — to his job, his marriage, his kids — and this is the thanks he gets.
What If the American Dream Just… Lied to You?
Across both episodes, Coop reflects on the dream that got him here — Westmont Village, the house upgrades, the escalating lifestyle.
He thought it was all leading somewhere. That with each new mortgage, each new baby, each new white-trimmed front porch, he was getting closer to happiness. Instead, he was just drifting.
He even says as much. That he thought he had achieved everything. That the life he wanted was right there, and he still missed it. That maybe he never even knew what the dream was. Maybe he confused status with substance. Maybe they all did.
So when he starts lifting watches from the drawers of people who still live that dream, it’s not about the resale value. It’s about control. It’s about feeling something. And it’s about no longer waiting for someone to tell him he’s allowed to take up space.
His dealings with Lou — the sharp, unflappable pawn shop dealer — are both hilarious and sobering. She sees right through him.
“This isn’t your world,” she says flatly. And she’s right. Coop isn’t a hustler. He’s a soft-handed guy who’s used to being handed things. Lou treats him like a kid playing gangster.
But that’s the point — Coop’s so out of his element, and so desperate to pretend he’s not, that he ends up learning some of the hardest truths about class and perception while negotiating over a $225k timepiece.
She doesn’t take pity on him. She gives him just enough rope. And when he comes back for more, she doesn’t hesitate to put a literal gun on the table. The message is clear: this world has rules too — and you don’t get to skip the line just because you used to belong to another one.
Coop and Mel: The Thing That Almost Was
The most quietly devastating dynamic is between Coop and Mel. Their marriage is over, technically, but emotionally? There’s still something there.
Mel isn’t trying to rekindle anything — she’s trying to be happy. But the way she looks at Coop, the way she talks to him… it’s not cold. It’s not closed off.
And sure, she’s got Nick now, who seems fine. Great, even. Tall, dependable, probably uses protein powder. But Coop is the one she still checks on.
He’s the one she shows up for with a beer and a question like, “Are you okay?” in a tone that implies she knows the answer and wishes it weren’t so sad.
And maybe that’s what haunts Coop the most. That she did love him. That they did have something. And he didn’t lose her because of some giant betrayal. He lost her because he never grabbed the wheel. Because he let the dream drive for them — and it drove them off a cliff.
Then again, is Mel really better off now? She’s smiling by the pool, but she’s also keying cars in the parking lot. She’s building a wellness career and also day-drinking while confessing her sadness to a younger bartender.
Maybe neither of them really moved on. Maybe they just learned to compartmentalize better.
The Kids Are Not Alright, Either
Their kids — Hunter and Tori — are watching all of this, even if no one thinks they are. Hunter barely speaks, lost in his headphones, but he has one of the most telling lines so far: that things don’t feel all that different now that Coop is gone.
That’s not indifference, that’s resignation. That’s a kid who’s used to absence, used to disconnected grown-ups moving around him without ever letting him in.
Tori’s trying to be perfect — a top-tier tennis player, Princeton-bound, forever managing her image. But she’s also dating a 20-year-old with a scrawny mustache, and Coop’s outrage is one of the few times we see him fully drop the detachment and react like a dad.
It’s messy and complicated and exactly how this family seems to operate — never outright toxic, but so far from honest that it almost circles back to sad.
Desperation Wears a Rolex
What’s striking is that none of these people are broke. Coop has six or seven months of money left, a $200k car, a closet full of luxury leftovers, and friends who still take his calls — sometimes. But that’s not the point. These characters aren’t afraid of poverty. They’re afraid of irrelevance.
That’s why Coop keeps stealing. Not just watches and cash, but time. He breaks into the lives of people still playing the game and snatches back whatever scraps he can carry. A little validation here. A little control there.
And I have to wonder — how long before someone notices? Not just the stolen goods, but the fact that Coop is slipping further away from the man he thought he was. Or maybe that guy never really existed in the first place.
And then there’s Ali, Coop’s sister, who’s just had a breakdown and is quietly being abandoned by the rest of the family. He shows up when no one else will. He finds her playing Radiohead on her guitar in her ex-fiancé’s yard, packs her up, and offers her a place to land.
He’s guilty as hell that the mess he made of his life is impacting hers, and can’t stand that it means moving her out of the apartment he pays for.
But when he brings her to their parents’ house, Coop climbs the stairs to find the “spare room” full of old junk, not even a made bed, and the shame on his face says everything.
These are not people who know how to show up. But Coop tries. He doesn’t always succeed, but he tries. And maybe that’s what separates him from the world he’s trying to escape: he still gives a damn, even when no one else bothers to.
So yeah, Your Friends & Neighbors might be about rich people’s problems, but it also taps into something universal: that sick, sinking feeling that you worked your whole life for something that turned out to be hollow. And now you’ve got to keep living in it — or rob it blind.
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