Phillip Caruso / Hulu Zoë Kravitz in the new Hulu series High Fidelity.

Last week, Barnes & Noble, in collaboration with Penguin Random House and an advertising firm, announced it would be releasing limited editions of classic books with modernized “diverse” covers. One particularly insensitive example: Frankenstein’s monster rendered as a black man. The backlash on Twitter was swift and immediate; writers like Angie Thomas and Nnedi Okorafor argued against the retailer’s quite literal attempt to paper over the publishing industry’s lack of meaningful diversity. By the end of the day, Barnes & Noble announced it was suspending the initiative, clocking in as the shortest publishing scandal in a year already ridden with them (and it’s only February). It’s easy to believe that gestures like this are well-intentioned, but it’s hard not to be cynical about them. Making one character black or queer or trans in a book or movie or TV show that is otherwise white or straight or cis can often feel like transparent pandering. (See J.K. Rowling’s half-assed decision, years after the fact, to make Dumbledore gay or the recent slate of mediocre gender-flipped action movies.) And when these sorts of changes are merely cosmetic — when there’s been no attempt to consider how different identity markers affect the characters’ lives — the story usually suffers. This isn’t to say that changing a character to some more marginalized identity can’t work; it can, sometimes to glorious effect! Color-blind casting for works that are considered canonical can function as reclamation — a powerful argument that great stories belong to everyone. (Theater is perhaps the best example of this; take Ruth Negga’s raved-about performance as Hamlet at St. Ann’s Warehouse or the acclaimed gender-flipped version of Stephen Sondheim’s Company coming to Broadway in March.) Still, not every creator who goes that route seems able or willing to make the effort required to truly pull it off. Which was why I was skeptical when news first broke in 2018 that Hulu would be turning High Fidelity — Nick Hornby’s bestselling 1995 novel and the source material for the 2000 John Cusack movie of the same name— into a TV series. The twist? Rob, the highly opinionated and perpetually lovelorn record store owner and protagonist, would be played by a woman. Ugh. Cringe. Who asked for this? But the series, out on Friday, is a surprisingly thoughtful adaptation — one that takes race and especially gender into consideration. Developed for TV by the writing team of Veronica West and Sarah Kucserka, with Zoë Kravitz in the lead role, the new High Fidelity retains the arch charm of the movie — even replicating some shots and lines word for word — while nixing the creepy undercurrents of misogyny and entitlement from Cusack’s character for a Rob who is just as self-absorbed but also compassionate and insecure. The changes don’t feel pandering, didactic, or overbearing. And even when the show occasionally falls short, underutilizing the only other prominent black woman character on the show, it just makes me curious to see what another season of the series might bring. The new High Fidelity is proof that sometimes switching up a character’s race or gender or orientation can, when it’s done with care, create new possibilities.

Phillip Caruso / Hulu Cherise (Da'Vine Joy Randolph), Robyn (Zoë Kravitz), and Simon (David H. Holmes).

One of the reasons I was skeptical about the adaptation, at least at first, was because of the casting. Kravitz has spent her career so far slotted in as the token “ethnic” character amid a bevy of white women in ensemble miniseries or feature films, from Rough Night to Big Little Lies. Would she be compelling enough in a lead role, especially one that relies so much on a specific point of view? But it turns out Kravitz is a good actor who, until now, hasn’t always been given good material. As Rob, short for Robin, in High Fidelity, she actually has personality; she’s acerbic, effortlessly cool in her Doc Martens, and convincingly knowledgeable about music, but disarmingly vulnerable too. Like Cusack’s Rob, she addresses the camera directly in knowing asides, at turns taciturn and sexy and wryly funny. Though the specifics of how she acquired a record store at 29 are frustratingly hazy, she feels like a recognizable type of New York fixture.

The new High Fidelity is proof that sometimes switching up a character’s race or gender or orientation can, when it’s done thoughtfully, create new possibilities.