Marvel has a thing for starting in the middle, then revealing how it all began mid-season. Episode 4 is the play within the play. It’s presented like a classic black-and-white movie, complete with classic title fonts, although the time period is contemporary. It introduces “Doorman” Davis (Byron Bowers), the reason people with powers are literally gatekept from working in Hollywood — Simon’s biggest hurdle in getting a major role. Under that kind of spotlight, Simon would be hard-pressed to hide his abilities, but that doesn’t stop him from aiming high anyway. Although the events in Episode 4 happened recently, the Doorman Clause is a black-and-white dealbreaker law, and for Simon, it might as well be a long-established canon event — hence the black-and-white presentation.
This episode is all about Doorman, a name Davis is called because of his function as a doorman at a popular Hollywood bar where ordinary patrons get to rub shoulders with the stars. Josh Gad, as himself, drops by in person and entertains the crowd with his rendition of Olaf’s song about a snow-person’s expectations of chilling out on a summer vacation. So timeline-wise, we are in the post-Frozen era.
After hours, Doorman has a heart-to-heart talk with his boss, who asks whether he has any ambitions beyond being a doorman at her bar. Doorman shares that despite his low-wage position, he is happy doing his job, in which his identity and function align perfectly. That night changes everything. The ever-present Roxxon company negligently causes an industrial accident that empowers Doorman by turning him into a literal walking, talking, human-shaped door. A bit like the Spot in Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse, but non-multiversal and less malignant. Now Doorman’s identity and function are totally fused into each other.
The very next day, Doorman becomes a hero, saving the patrons — and Josh Gad — from a fire in the bar. A grateful Josh immediately employs Doorman as his personal assistant, mainly for quick escapes from uncomfortable social encounters. Later, Josh convinces him to play a side character in his heist movie, telling him that all he needs to do is say a line and otherwise be himself — as a door. Trevor would cringe at such advice on acting, but Doorman follows it and becomes an instant success.
From this point, Doorman is on an upward trajectory of fame, wealth, and social clout. But the star he becomes is far removed from what made him happy in the first place. His identity and function are now split between how his audience sees him and how he sees himself. He realises he has zero talent for acting and that he only gets jobs because of his unique ability to become a door on command. He makes up a catchphrase — “Ding, Dong” — which makes him instantly identifiable and endearing at first. However, his fans grow tired of hearing it, so he takes acting lessons. He falls flat when he tries to show off his new skills on a talk show, attempting some serious Shakespeare, but knowing he cannot finish the line with conviction, he falls back on “Ding, Dong” to make the audience laugh instead. As a star, Doorman is just a one-trick pony.
Doorman’s downward spiral is just as rapid. From no longer getting job offers to addiction and poverty, Doorman’s identity and function completely separate. Doorman the doorman: alignment was bliss. Doorman the Hollywood star: a personal disaster rolled into an identity crisis. At this point, Josh Gad returns to offer Doorman a chance at a comeback — reprising his role in a sequel to the heist movie that made him a star. In the meta, it’s a comment on milking a formula by making a sequel in hopes of recapturing lightning in a bottle. The scenario is the same as before: master thief Josh Gad needs a quick exit; Doorman is there to provide one. But this time it doesn’t work.
At a critical juncture, Doorman loses his function as a door, and Josh doesn’t reappear on the other side. Earth-616’s Josh Gad variant, for all intents and purposes, vanishes from the world — perhaps stuck in the non-space that exists between an egress and its exit. Ironically, Josh Gad mirrors what would have happened to his Frozen alter ego had he persisted in enjoying the summer.
With this single catastrophic incident, Doorman is taken into DoDC custody. Superpowers are deemed too dangerous to have a place in moviemaking, and so the Doorman Clause takes effect, ostensibly barring Simon from being employed at all, let alone becoming the big star he dreams of being.
The irony is stark in this episode. Fame is fickle. Fans latch onto a simple thing — like a dumb catchphrase — and someone with no real talent rockets to stardom. Meanwhile, truly talented people who are absolutely dedicated to the craft, like Trevor, spend years in the industry and, despite perhaps one or two career high points, are still looking for their big break.
