Jury Duty Unveils: Company Retreat That Makes Corporate Culture Appealing

Anthony Norman is your quintessential Gen Z employee: 25 years old, a bit lost, and on the hunt for a full-time position.
You can’t really blame him for his current situation. Unemployment remains high. The rise of AI is challenging young people eager to join the workforce. Hiring has become sluggish. Meanwhile, numerous companies—including Amazon, Block, and Meta—are in the throes of tech’s latest round of mass layoffs, with some slashing their teams by as much as 20 percent.
So when Anthony secures a temporary role at Rockin’ Grandma’s Hot Sauce, a small enterprise in Southern California, he considers himself fortunate for what he believes will be a straightforward job: tackling odd tasks and aiding in the planning of the annual retreat.
Unbeknownst to Anthony, he is the unwitting star of Jury Duty Presents: Company Retreat, the second season of Prime Video’s unique docu-comedy in which one person unknowingly participates in a scripted sitcom (the first season, which gained popularity on TikTok and received three Emmy nominations, revolved around a fabricated jury trial). Every participant is an actor, except for him.
Anthony arrives during a pivotal time for the company. The founder, Doug Womack, is preparing to hand over the reins. His son, Dougie Jr, is waiting in the wings, and because not everyone sees him as the rightful successor, he aims to demonstrate that he is more than just an unqualified nepo baby—“the Bronny of hot sauce,” as he describes himself. After spending four years in Jamaica “jamming” with a hotel lobby ska band called the Jive Prophets, the retreat serves as a proving ground for Dougie Jr.
This season swaps out mundane office life for Oak Canyon Ranch, a quaint resort located in the grassy suburb of Agoura Hills—roughly an hour’s drive northwest of Los Angeles—where the staff gathers for a range of activities: team-building exercises, a client cookout, inspiring speakers, and a talent show. Jackie Angela Griffin, the distribution and logistics representative, is eager to escape for “one week without Cocomelon” and her three children.
Like any workplace, Rockin’ Grandma’s is a whirlwind of quirks and personalities. Accountant and bourbon lover Helen Schaffer has been “cooking the books for 26 years.” Receptionist PJ Green aspires to be a snack influencer. Sourcing manager Anthony Gwinn, who once mistakenly identifies a fleshlight as a water thermos, is humorously dubbed “Other Anthony,” despite his longer tenure. Kevin Gomez, the HR head, has moments reminiscent of Michael Scott: he’s an enthusiastic, comically misguided, hopeless romantic who adores his job and Amy Patterson, the customer relations coordinator. “Hot Sauce is having a moment,” he tells Anthony during orientation. “You don’t see this kind of thing happening with ketchup.”
On the second day, eager to assert his authority as CEO, Dougie Jr. interrupts the flow and introduces an “emotions and vulnerability expert”—essentially, a budget version of academic Brené Brown—who awkwardly guides the team through discussions about confronting uncomfortable situations.
This serves as good practice for Kevin’s botched proposal to Amy—they’ve actually never had a real date aside from her birthday, which she spent with eight friends. After an embarrassed Kevin quickly departs from the retreat center, the sound of tin cans rattling as he hurries away in his car, Anthony finds himself needing to take charge.
“I got a promotion,” he announces, improvising to boost spirits and take on the title of “Captain Fun.”
Even as many grapple with finding purpose in their jobs—or just finding jobs—television’s fascination with the American workplace continues to resonate with audiences. Mad Men delved into the existential struggles of advertising executives. Severance explored themes of autonomy, among other very odd elements. And no show has captured the delightful chaos of workplace antics better than NBC’s The Office, which followed the quirky employees of Dunder Mifflin, a paper company in Pennsylvania.
