The History Of Concrete is the best episode of How To With John Wilson that never was

Concrete is a topic perfect for a filmmaker who made the ubiquitous scaffolding on the sides of urban infrastructure impossible to ignore, and who forever connected furniture covers with foreskin restoration activists in the minds of comedy geeks. Concrete is everywhere yet unworthy of notice, essential yet invisible. It’s the world’s second-most consumed material, he explains, second only to water. It lays a sturdy foundation upon which Wilson can build further forays into his professional and personal lives, now incorporating the bittersweet afterglow of his HBO success. As he finds the cracks and crumbling corners of his subject, and considers his own burgeoning reputation—one he’s anxious will soon be a past-tense legacy—he’s able to work in pet observations about the ways that people and cities deteriorate over time. (In this way, he and aviation safety pioneer Fielder share a penchant for trying to backdoor serious-minded civic issues into their comedy.) And, finally, for a convention enthusiast like Wilson, concrete also provides a fittingly absurd tradeshow for him to attend.

But despite its shape and subject matter, The History Of Concrete isn’t Wilson simply stagnating. How To allowed him to grow between seasons, becoming more personal when the focus turned away from his aesthetic and toward the man who found fulfillment through it. His first feature incorporates a similar shift in expectation: Wilson must reckon with the relatable wall his mid-career has hit. After his Emmy-losing series ends, he’s not a big enough name to finance a new project, but famous enough that his voice and style are stolen by AI TikTok ads to sell gutters. He’s an answer on Jeopardy! that stumps its players. He’s succeeded just enough to see how weird it can be at the top (Kim Kardashian and the set of Marty Supreme make cameos) and to feel all the more despondent when he has to fight tooth and nail to get anything done professionally.

It’s this roadblocking that directly leads to the first falling domino of the film. During the 2023 Writers Guild strike, Wilson attends a training seminar for members interested in selling film scripts to Hallmark. This exacerbates—in a representatively roundabout way involving the movie ‘Twas The Date Before Christmas—his guilt around being a landlord, some of which stems from the deteriorating base of his building. Boom, concrete.

Of course, just as old batteries led Wilson to sex offenders and public bathrooms led him to a nuclear bunker, The History Of Concrete is gleefully more interested in its footnotes than its focus. Even its secondary focus (the end of How To) is something that Wilson never wants to look at for too long, for fear it’ll become too real. It’s why he made his feature-length capper to it somewhere between conclusion and continuation. It’s why the film is full of material indecision, decorated with images of decayed permanence: crumbling concrete; ancient gum, blasted from the sidewalks of NYC; grotesque wax sculptures of public figures; washed-up rockers, playing to empty bars; and other thematically rhyming details too gross, funny, or surprising to mention here. 

Wilson’s free-associative investigation provides all the raw footage and bizarre New Yorkers to make hundreds of these essays. His artistry lies in how he uses his medium—that perfectly renewable resource: human eccentricity—to tell increasingly personal stories, even when they’re about his signature style. Those who’ve had trouble letting go of How To With John Wilson won’t find closure in The History Of Concrete, just like Wilson himself can’t bear to leave behind an approach he’s spent so long perfecting. But, also like Wilson, you may find a rewarding poignance in returning to a comfort zone and finding yourself changed.