Thanks to the strength of an underserved audience of women just like her, she’s pulled up a chair to the table with “Leanne.” And, in the end, television as a whole, not only Netflix, benefits from that.

Forty minutes is a long setup, but the show gets better from there, welcoming in even an audience that may find Leanne’s suburban Tennessee foreign.

Every fourth or fifth joke has the air of having been hammered out on an anvil, and a few might have been better left in the smithery. Yet I like this show, in no small part but not entirely because I like Morgan

Morgan and Johnston bounce off each other with sarcastic banter and sisterly ribbing, a bit jarring at first, but their quirks quickly grow on you. Like any good sitcom, Leanne combines goofiness and sincerity to give a platform to w

All very simple, “Leanne’ puts into play what Morgan describes on stage. The anecdotes wear well with others sharing the comedy but, too often, the star is left to reflect others’ glory.

Morgan and Johnston are in almost every scene and have comedy chops that can overcome even the most defiantly second- and third-tier writing and reward your viewing investment with glimmers of merriment. It starts to take on a rosy hue. Are you entertained, or just glad that the first 22 minutes are safely past and need never be seen again? Who’s to say? Whatever is happening, it’s … sort of nice.

Like McEntire’s series, Leanne takes a known Southern star (in this case, comedian Leanne Morgan) and sticks her into a story about betrayal, divorce, and starting over. Only where Reba felt like a breath of fresh comedic air, Leanne is mostly just stale.