C.K. neither attempts to present life as it actually is or to woo viewers with an upgraded, escapist approximation of it. Louie’s New York can be both mimetic — the apartments are all appropriately small — and utterly fantastical: a severed head rolls down the street; a doctor tells you you’re too out of shape to exercise; Matthew Broderick directs an all-Jewish remake of the Godfather. It’s the New York of C.K.’s imagination, the city inside his brain. Like Joyce’s Dublin, it’s sign-posted with recognizable locations, but sense-warped by its auteur’s myopic subjectivity. And like a Bergman dream space, or the literal limitlessness of cyberspace, C.K.’s nebulous New York is in a state of constant flux, blessed by FX with the freedom to be inconsistent even with itself.