Dear TV,
I recently attended a puppet show that depicted the inner workings of the human brain as a bustling engine room. The narrative centered on a tiny mechanic diligently adjusting dopamine and pressure levels to manage human behavior. One particularly memorable scene involved this homunculus attempting to lull an insomniac back to sleep. His method? Activating a computer and selecting, in a hushed tone, “Season one, episode six.” Instantly, the character’s agitated rhythms softened, easing back into REM sleep.
I strained to see which show was being selected, but the title remained elusive. It dawned on me that the specific show wasn’t important. The scene resonated not by revealing a character’s particular taste in television, but by tapping into a universal, self-soothing behavior: the now-familiar act of scrolling through streaming services in the dark, searching for something to watch. Netflix, and platforms like it, have become more than just a way to watch; they’re now intertwined with our sleep patterns, a tool for easing back into slumber. In these late-night hours, we curate the perfect digital ambiance to dispel nightmares, anxieties, or even the less tractable sadness. Television has become profoundly personal, deeply connected to our subconscious, almost intimately close. Shows, in this context, function less as structured narratives and more like music – symphonic poems or repeating themes rather than intricate plots.
For personal anecdote, my anxious nights are often soothed by the familiar cheer of Arrested Development, the comforting bleakness of Peep Show, or the psychic safety woven into Frasier. Arrested Development offers an almost aggressively optimistic irresponsibility, while Peep Show provides solace in the predictable cycle of hitting rock bottom. Frasier, on the other hand, wraps its crises in a blanket of inherent security.
This phenomenon isn’t entirely novel. However, as we consider how the expansive libraries of Netflix and Hulu have reshaped our viewing habits, this tendency to watch television for reasons detached from plot progression or spoilers has intensified. Television has always served as background noise, a casual medium whose inherent lightness allowed for relaxation – the questionable charm of late-night programming. Over time, scripted stories evolved, demanding greater attention and engagement. Now, thanks to on-demand services, we inhabit a curious middle ground. We might have Netflix playing in the background, not due to inattentiveness, but because our relationship with television has shifted. We now watch TV much like we re-watch movies. Shows that attain classic status become, in essence, continuous reruns. But unlike traditional TV reruns, which rely on chance encounters (“oh, it’s this episode again!”), we now deliberately select specific shows, perhaps even quoting “Season 1, Episode 6,” as in the puppet show. Rewatching allows us to memorize segments, to quote lines verbatim. The pleasure resides partly in the repetition, partly in observing familiar narratives expertly unfold, in witnessing the meticulously crafted universe of a show endure the intense scrutiny of a devoted fan. In truly exceptional shows, these worlds possess a robustness that yields new discoveries even upon a twelfth or forty-eighth viewing.
:quality(75)/https%3A%2F%2Fassets.lareviewofbooks.org%2Fuploads%2F201310OITNB_image.png)
Therefore, in discussions about how streaming technology impacts the television canon, a significant new factor in a show’s lasting appeal is its capacity for repeat viewing. Spoilers, once the scourge of TV fandom, become utterly irrelevant in the Netflix era. Plot-driven shows that thrive on cliffhangers may not age as gracefully. The true classics, in this context, are those that reward re-watchers. Arrested Development is a prime example. Similarly, in the UK, Peep Show and The Office enjoy high rewatch rates. As Netflix ventures into original content creation, the varied outcomes are intriguing. I wish they would release data on rewatch figures for their shows. My intuition suggests that while viewing numbers might differ, Orange is the New Black likely accumulates significantly more repeat viewings than House of Cards.
This disparity, I believe, stems from a show’s ability to maintain its implicit contract with its audience. House of Cards initially captivated (at least for me) with its stunning visuals and an awareness of Spacey’s character’s inherent absurdity – his insignificance against the backdrop of grand, sweeping shots of Washington D.C. in the opening credits. He was a petty Macbeth, convinced of his own tragic heroism, delivering pompous monologues while oblivious to the larger narratives unfolding around him. We were not meant to accept his self-perceived centrality at face value; his tragedy was his delusion of being a tragic figure. However, a season’s purpose is clarified by its conclusion, and the first season’s ending was excessively Francis-centric, undermining that initial interpretation. Francis, ultimately, is the center, which, in retrospect, diminishes the series’ appeal. The universe feels shallower than initially suggested, and the show’s return to Francis betrayed our growing investment in a genuinely remarkable ensemble cast and their sidelined stories. (This echoes my frustration with Mad Men as well.)
Orange is the New Black adopts the opposite approach. It begins somewhat conventionally with Piper’s fish-out-of-water narrative. To Piper’s credit, she consistently attempts to acknowledge her own myopia, selfishness, and arrogance, and the show mirrors this by gradually shifting her to the periphery, increasingly focusing on the ensemble cast. More characters emerge as fish out of water than comfortably within it. It’s a remarkably generous and sympathetic undertaking. Admittedly, it occasionally falters: Pennsatucky is excessively caricatured, and Janae Watson deserves a more nuanced storyline than the after-school special she received. Yet, against these minor missteps stand Sophia, Taystee, Red, Poussey – Poussey, my personal favorite, who commands every scene despite a delayed backstory reveal. The show excels at acknowledging the complexity and subjectivity of almost every character. Even the cartoonishly villainous Pornstache receives moments of empathy.
OITNB‘s prison microcosm becomes a lens through which the wider world is viewed with greater clarity. The Maury Kind subplot brilliantly satirizes the more confined world of “This American Life.” The show is a complex interplay of motivations, impulses, and narratives, striving not to sacrifice any character unnecessarily, and when sacrifice becomes inevitable, ruthlessly depicting its consequences. Suzanne’s (“Crazy Eyes”) cries are unforgettable, and the show doesn’t offer easy solace.
Do I need a spoiler alert to discuss the finale? Consider this one in place.
It’s arguable (and some have argued) that the show, like Piper, attempts to critique its own myopia but ultimately falls short. However, I defend the finale as precisely the opposite. I consider it an exceptional piece of television.
The “good” woman’s descent into darkness is always compelling, but to orchestrate it within a Christmas special is an unprecedented escalation in the realm of compelling television. I have never witnessed a Christmas special so meticulously crafted, so richly imbued with subtle moments of grace, precisely to highlight both the impact of grace and the alienation felt by those outside its reach: isolated, misanthropic, partially lifeless. The Christmas pageant was not ridiculed; its triumphs were genuinely earned, yet Piper’s exclusion from them was equally justified. The nuanced contrasts were masterful, intricate, and profoundly impactful. If there were concerns that the show might devolve into Piper’s personal growth narrative, those concerns are dispelled. And if she is not technically a murderer, it’s a mere technicality. The final shot of Piper relentlessly smashing Pennsatucky’s face, long after any sign of life ceased, was a devastating act of character assassination. One could argue that the ending remains Piper-centric because it concludes with her, but the heart of the finale resides within the auditorium, where Norma sings. It’s Piper against the ensemble, and Piper loses. This lengthy analysis underscores that OITNB respects its own thematic explorations, thereby enhancing the realism of its world.
It’s been suggested that OITNB is a challenging show to watch, or rewatch. Yet, almost everyone I’ve spoken to who has seen it has already watched it multiple times – unlike, for instance, Season 4 of *Arrested Development*. To paraphrase one of television’s most rewatched shows: what’s the deal with rewatching*?
Clearly, there isn’t a direct correlation between shows we rewatch for comfort and those we rewatch for their inherent quality. Too much poor television exists, and too many subpar reruns circulate, for any reasonable person to defend such a claim. However, canon formation is a gradual and imperfect process. I believe that for those of us wired like the puppet in the play, when we instinctively reach for our computers in the middle of the night, it’s for a form of meditative reassurance. Reconciling reassurance with footage of Chapman’s violent act against Pennsatucky might seem difficult, but perhaps narrative safety differs from anodyne content. It’s more about robust structural integrity.
When we choose to revisit a familiar televisual path in the middle of the night, it’s the mood or the world the show constructs that draws us back. The impulse is almost more akin to music than narrative, but that world’s credibility – our trust in it – hinges on the show’s endings respecting its established arcs and its risky endeavors being skillfully executed. When anxieties plague us in the quiet of the night, perhaps we seek not a simplistic happy ending, but the reassurance of a competent architect. Then, secure in the knowledge that a guiding hand – or at least a capable mechanic – is at work, we can listen to the reassuring hum of the gears turning and drift peacefully to sleep.
Season one, episode six,
Lili
*Referring to the first three seasons. Season 4, psychologically, feels like a nightmarish inversion of AD.
** It was acceptable, but it failed to surpass its previous achievements and cohesively integrate its numerous plot threads into a satisfying whole. The ending was disjointed.
