“Better Things” is a nearly impossible show to write about. Other shows tend to have a plot. “Better Things” does not. The episodes are a series of disparate scenes taken from everyday life. Its premise is watching the day-to-day life of a single mother, Sam Fox—played (embodied is perhaps more accurate) by a wonderful Pamela Adlon—raising three kids. With that said, it feels both obvious and derivative to call “Better Things” subtly brilliant.

Its minimalism is not the only reason that this show is brilliant—though it serves as a progressive force for television. The show is deeply intelligent because of what that modernity allows such austere narratives to do. Enjoying the Adlon and Louis C.K. co-created comedy (Drama? Dramedy? Enough with the labels.) is not a function of enjoying the broad sweeps of narrative. Instead—as narrative is pared down to the point of ludicrousness—one is implored to realize the deeply intelligent thought put into each choice by each actor and the subtle hilarity in minute moments of absurdity. It forces one to notice the details of day to day life.

However, I do recognize that “Better Things” is not for an audience that is inattentive. It is not for an audience that watches television lazily. It is certainly not for an audience that requires a cohesive narrative to remain engaged.

At times, Season One of “Better Things” became a bit too enamored with the humility of its narratives—the show simultaneously became exceptional and forgettable when it portrayed life with an excess of honesty. Despite it being a wonderfully rich exploration of childhood and motherhood, it never quite could make the mundane memorable. However, the Season Two premiere subverts some of these tendencies. “September” uses a dinner party setting as a way to make disparate small threads of the episode cohesive.

The stakes are higher too. Sam’s eldest daughter, Max (a startlingly fantastic Mikey Madison), presumably high school aged, brings her 30-something-year-old boyfriend as an unwelcome dinner guest. Her youngest daughter, Duke (an equally fantastic Olivia Edward), presumably on the precipice of middle school, is bullying girls into placing objects in their vaginas. Sam’s doing her best to be a good mother.

There is a certain audacious wonder in such an honest depiction of childhood and adolescence. Adlon is, of course, fantastic—but the show’s true joy comes from what Adlon allows each of Sam’s children to be. They are not just vehicles for the childhood tropes of rebelliousness and incorruptibility, but fully realized individuals who do both good and bad things. Max, Duke, and Frankie (Hannah Alligood) become more than repositories for adults to place their regrets about their own loss of innocence. There is a certain autonomy to their depiction, a certain honesty about the independence of childhood. It’s the best representation of childhood that’s graced the small screen since Kiernan Shipka’s Sally Draper (“Mad Men”).

Precisely because of that—because of its honest understanding of youth—“Better Things” is richly emotional work. It evokes nostalgia for a childhood never lived. It renders love—familial love—for a family never met.

Is that enough to make good television? I hope so. This season will be a barometer for exploring how far serialized shows can go while bucking the rules of narrative. I may offer a single critique: The honest realism of “Better Things” can become tiresome. At times, “September” feels a bit too close to the experience of being at an overly long dinner party. The first season suffered from a similar syndrome. There is a certain claustrophobia of life that art is able to escape. Adlon and C.K. are stubbornly non-escapist (we only leave the scene of the party once, for a brief flashback).

Yes, there is a wild ambition to their realism. It sometimes comes at the expense of some of the best things that television can offer as art—narrative cohesiveness, surrealism, and simultaneity (among many others). Yet do not let my reservations deter you. “Better Things” is ambitiously moving the proverbial artistic needle forward through its minimalism. One day, I hope that my commentary is but the written vestige of a conservative television critic.

—Staff writer Aziz B. Yakub can be reached at aziz.yakub@thecrimson.com.