I have something to say. I am having a crisis. I think I love Roseanne.

This makes no sense on any level. I didn’t watch the original. I have only a vague impression of it: characters in tacky sweatshirts, blue-collar yuks. I screened the revival, which premieres tonight, purely from a research perspective, expecting it not to hold my attention. After all, I watch and love to talk about shows like Atlanta and The Handmaid’s Tale. When it comes to television, I’m a—what’s the word? Oh yes. I’m a snob.

And yet, there I was, a third of the way through the pilot, feeling warmly invested and laughing out loud. "What has happened?" I emailed my editor afterward. "Have I lost my edge?"

Roseanne Barr and Laurie Metcalf on 'Roseanne' on 1995 Everett Collection

Maybe. But there’s something else going on, some stealth sophistication beneath the “Who, us? We’re simple folk!” surface. Let me walk you through the experience. The episode starts up, transporting you instantly back to your side-pony days. “Roseanne is taped before a live studio audience,” Sara Gilbert’s voice reminds you, as the camera tracks the Conners sitting down to a dinner of (my assumption here) many dishes made with or designed to pair with ranch dressing. Sigh. Remember when food was just…less of a thing?

Then—just when you’ve been lulled into a state of nineties nostalgia—the decidedly 2018 writing reveals itself. It takes all of a minute for Dan to call Roseanne “Mother,” in homage to our vice president’s pet name for the Second Lady. The next scene finds the two of them at the kitchen table, divvying up their pills because their “insurance doesn’t cover what it used to.” A moment later Jackie blows in, pussy-hatted, and bellows at Roseanne: “What’s up, deplorable?”

When the family gets set to eat, a few scenes later, Roseanne lifts her gaze to Jackie. “Let’s say grace,” she says. “Jackie, would you like to take a knee?”

Here’s a sentence I thought I’d never say: Roseanne’s really opened my mind.

On it goes from there. Jackie and Roseanne are the leaders of the show’s values clash, flipping snowflake burns and Trump jokes at each other like coins, but the rest of the females in the Conners’ world take up charged positions too. Darlene is forced to defend her son’s unicorn-sweatshirt habit. Becky (played by Lecy Goranson, who originated the role) has to fend off her family’s disapproval when she agrees to be a surrogate for Andrea (played by Sarah Chalke, who took over the Becky role when Goranson departed the show). The wink to the Becky-sharing embedded in the surrogate story is a delightful little stunt—but the writers have made it into more than that. Now Becky is a cash-strapped waitress who sees the surrogacy gig as a feminist choice, a way to assert her independence. (“Her body, her choice,” Roseanne concurs, crossing party lines for a moment.) Andrea, by contrast, is bougie-clueless—probably the sort who considers herself woke, but will reveal herself to be still waking at best.