by Hannah Degner
It’s exciting to begin
actively engaging in my culture at the moment the potential of TV
shows has dawned on our collective mind. All of a sudden, we’re pitched forward
in our seats, craning our necks to see what television will become. But the
nature of new media propelling us forward means that often we don’t seriously
consider what we’ve left behind. There was a time, a little over a decade ago,
when TV was no one’s heated cultural debate. It was just “bad”.
When I was a kid, I was not
allowed much television. My mom supplied me with stories, crafts and outdoor
excursions enough that I didn't often give the TV set a passing glance. But on
some days that lagged, I would wonder why we had the thing at all, if not for me
to enjoy like the other kids I knew.
When I felt old enough to try
creeping down the stairs and peeking into the living room on sleepless nights,
I learned what happened after my mom tucked me in: exhausted by exerting all
her energy on the well-being of another, she would lower herself onto the couch
and cherish the latest episode of Friends, which when I was around three was in
its prime. She has described this ritual as an immense comfort, a small
concession to herself and her desire to be a part of something that had nothing
to do with being a parent. She laughed at jokes that adults make when they’re
padded in a plush layer of friendship and share just enough baggage with each
other to seem plausibly real, but deal with none of life’s angst or monotony.
In recent years I have
discovered that my stepmom had the same ritual after putting my sisters to bed.
By that time—just after the turn of the millennium—she was settling down at
night to the last couple seasons of the show, the ones that only exist because
season two was so good and these characters and writers were now infallible
icons. I don’t think she noticed that the show was deteriorating, becoming a
farce. The simplified reality inside that box was comfortingly vacuous. Friends never asked my moms to consider their own
lives; we kids were asleep, and this was their storytime.
Flash forward 15 years and
you’ll find us all watching TV—sisters (2), mothers (2), fathers (2), brothers
(2) in all the directions my family extends have their own taste for the stuff.
I’m more invested in the medium than anyone, urged on by my puerile impulse to
catch up to the “other kids” of my youth. Like your self-satisfied matchmaking
friend who knows "just the girl for you," I relish the opportunity to
fit someone I know to a new or old show that they will soon develop strong
feelings for. Watching TV is a whole different activity than it once was. The
mindlessness that my parents protectively shielded me from—and desperately
embraced themselves—is not part of the equation. Instead, my family shares TV
and talks about it—a lot—because of the connections we make, the way that it
brings our thoughts together when we’re thousands of miles apart. This shift in our attention reflects a social one that’s been taking place over my lifetime. The
language used to discuss TV shows has become richer, more articulate.
These great shows install in
our lives another window through which we can view ourselves. This window is top-of-the-line, built to last. Films are
fantastic, and the best ones maintain a level of control and vision that TV
shows are only beginning to reach. But there’s just something about how a show
marinates with you over time. You invest a portion of your life into the lives
of the characters, experiencing the monotonous ironies of their existence with
room to consider the passage of time.
While our cultural conversations generally
represent an expansion of the medium, some of what once mattered to television
is no longer relevant. As a millennial, I could never quite grasp the
difference between “cable” and “network”. This detail, which used to seem like
an important part of the conversation, is now an anachronism. My TV is
connected only to the power outlet and the DVD player. Shows stream in through
the Internet router a few feet away. I don’t pay for a cable connection, but
I’m charged for services that allow me to click and play almost anything I want
to watch in an instant. The intrusion of a commercial break—once
indisputable—is now deeply upsetting.
As the Internet becomes more
and more the default venue for shows, the very essence of what makes a “TV
show” has been called into question. The voices of many have melded into a
constant stream of chatter over the Internet’s effect on television viewership,
conception and appeal. These conversations take place on the Internet.
As someone who has already
given over a substantial portion of my lifetime to appreciating TV shows, what
most bothers me about the attention they’re currently receiving is this: I
don’t think we’re having the right conversations. In fact, rehashing the
discussion of where—literally where—TV is going distracts from engaging in a
closer look at its content. An example of this is embodied in the Internet TV
phenomenon House of Cards. This show continues to be given way more attention
than it ever should have received. (If you want to see what happens when
someone holds the first season of this show to the standards of an aesthetic
creation and not a milestone technological achievement, I’ve a blog for
that.)
What we should instead be paying closer
attention to is recognizing when a show has gone on long enough. There might be
more space out there for TV shows thanks to the world wide web, but when better
shows are being cut out of existence because of the space taken up by
comfortable ones that have lost their creative dignity—as with Friends in its
final years—there's not yet enough room to leave our standards low as our
commitment soars to new heights.
This trend in our culture of
discussing bells and whistles over basic construction has many casualties. Take
Enlightened. That show was interesting, like nothing I had
ever seen. It was visually stunning and ironic to an ambiguous degree that made
people mildly uncomfortable. Our protagonist was deluded and enlightened,
manipulative and innocent. The tone explored the line between serene and eerie.
The people who watched it loved it, felt refreshed by it. A little bemused. But
not enough people. Too many didn't have time to fit in another show, or didn’t
know it was out there because there were just too many to choose from. It ended
at its highest point, just two seasons in, and has recently become a martyr to
the cause of TV appreciation. I keep in my head a list of many other shows from
the past twenty years that have been swallowed up in this way. I consider
writing their obituaries. Every time this happens to a show that was doing
something important, many people come to regret it. Many more people than
ever tuned into that show when it ran. I’ve been on both sides of this line,
and wherever you fall it’s frustrating to be too late.
We’re constantly made aware of how much there
is out there now to see and experience, how inundated we have become thanks to
our technological connectedness. I say we use this, not just to talk about what
TV is, but to find it. If you’re interested in television, make it an active
interest. Find something obscure or foreign and bring it into your world. When
you’re up for it, be part of the new wave of TV shows lapping at the outskirts
of your attention. And when your show gets bad, and you become aware on some
level of your consciousness that it’s not just a rough patch but a symptom of
the end: get out. No more absolute faith for as long as some of the original
actors are still there and they’re finding ways to bring on bizarre guest stars to intrigue you. Calling yourself “loyal” to
something that no longer exists is perpetuating a delusion. Because unless you
stop watching, it’s going to go on for as long as it’s making money and the
writers and actors don’t feel completely dead inside.
Here’s a little secret, from
me to you. Letting go of a TV show is liberating. It's like spring cleaning in your brain. Yes, you will feel a pang of
loss at first. You might be sickened by your own self-satisfied tone when you
tell your friends that you have nothing to say about how the most recent
episode was kind of flat and contrived. Your mind will trail off as they
discuss that perfect episode of the past when it was just right. Instead,
you'll be thinking about the brand new show you heard has a promising future if
anyone will watch it. You watched that show instead, and maybe now it has a
chance to reach them.
Hannah, Such an original account of the act of will needed to leave a pleasure behind, to acknowledge the life-arc of entertainments that evolve and devolve in time. I loved it. I hope everyone seeks out ENLIGHTENED--Laura Dern is amazing in that show (best performance of hers since Blue Velvet, I think--)
ReplyDeleteTerrific; thanks.