Wires and Lights

Wires and Lights

This is the first of many articles about television, a medium often maligned by critics and the public alike for its general pandering and almost-oppressive vapidity. So when writing about television there are two important questions: is television worth writing about; and, if so, how does one write about it? Are the methods and challenges in conceiving, producing, and distributing television significant enough to make it more than a mere subset of cinema? This column will argue that, yes, television is an entirely different animal. The nature of television allows it to easily reflect the fundamental dilemmas of the culture it inhabits and the individuals who make and watch it. When you watch American television, you are watching America.

If the cinema is the most democratic art form, then television is the most populist one. The trend in cinema has been to decrease the cost of entry to the point where anyone with a camera and a bright idea can reach a mass audience. Television, on the other hand, is still a place where you can spend five million dollars, bring together some of the best talent in the world, and produce something that’s summarily rejected by a handful of executives then locked away in a vault never to see the light of day. It happens every year—we call it pilot season.

The salient differences between film and television seem to work in favor of the former. It is surprising that television can be as aesthetically viable as it is considering all the barriers placed between it and the audience. Writers of all stripes know classical three-act structure, but television writers have to work within a four (or five - six if you count the teaser) act framework built around commercial breaks. What other medium allows interruptions every ten minutes and takes for granted that the audience will tune in and tune out whenever they like? What other medium assumes it will be background noise for people, and that its audience will be watching it while eating dinner or browsing e-mail? What other medium accepts the fact that stories can end abruptly before their conclusion, and that it happens on a regular basis?

On top of that, the long-form nature of television makes it inherently conservative. Making television is a hefty, long-term investment and thus discourages experimentation. There is a wide and vibrant fringe in which independent and foreign cinema can operate and gain a receptive audience. The vast majority of television, on the other hand, must be tailored to appeal to as wide a demographic as possible, for the sake of ensuring longevity.

But what mostly damns television to the critical eye is its passivity and its ability to function with virtually no engagement from the audience. Cinema is fairly active by comparison, requiring a deliberate decision on the part of an audience member to get in his car, drive to the theater, and pay ten dollars a ticket to see a specific film. Because of that investment in time and money, a film has a captive audience and is freer to dazzle, challenge, or even alienate.

Television, on the other hand, must deal with a lazy and fickle audience. A viewer might end up watching something just because it’s on. But that same viewer can just as easily change the channel at any time. A television show must fight every second to retain its audience—case in point: act-break cliffhangers. The multitude of distractions at home in comparison to a darkened theater means that television operates under the assumption that its audience’s attention is divided. Thus simplicity is favored over depth, and clarity is favored over subtlety. One of the reasons why television is so dialogue-heavy is that most shows are designed to make perfect sense even if you take away the image.

These commercial and artistic pressures almost ensure the mainstreaming of most broadcast and cable television. Generally, television is immediate where film is belated; it is a blunt tool where film is a fine instrument. It tells us what we want to hear while film tells us what we need to hear. Because of these facets, where cinema is cosmopolitan and global, television is parochial by comparison. Most Hollywood films seek a global audience, and much of a movie’s theatrical earnings comes from foreign markets.

A good portion of American-made television, on the other hand, is mainly for domestic consumption. Sitcoms do not often survive translation, and things like talk shows and reality television are even more difficult to export. Other countries may consume American television but they are not the show’s primary audience. The reverse is true as well; while foreign cinema is not necessarily a significant force in America, the outlets are there. However, someone in the United States can live and die without seeing a single minute of foreign television.

This parochial dimension of television does lend the medium an interesting quality. While movies are a reflection of America’s public face, television is more intimate and private. The cinema is what we tell the world; television is what we tell ourselves.

The average American is more conversant with television than with cinema or any other art form. Its ubiquity and longevity make it an integral part of American conversation. Most people in the United States watch multiple hours of television daily, while watching one movie or fewer per week. It’s clear that television inhabits a different world than film, and if you want to understand the American mind, you have to understand American television.

That fact alone makes television worth studying. But what makes it worth watching? After the laundry list of everything that’s hobbling television, what makes it good? Simply put, television is the only medium capable of sustaining the long narrative. While other art forms present the beginning and end at the outset, television presents an ongoing story; it invites you to join a work in progress and provides for a different kind of experience. While this can lead to rehashing and creative bankruptcy, in deft hands television is a medium of creative breadth. Its regular rhythm and long-term development mimics the rhythm of life itself.

Television’s unique long form allows for a show to be an organic, ever-changing work. A film exists in a single point of time—two or three hours chained to a single day and a single year. A television show, on the other hand, consists of dozens (perhaps hundreds) of hours spread over many years. And as the world changes, so does the show. So while a film exists in a historical moment; a show exists in a historical era.

The long narrative also allows for a great degree of story development and character growth, which elicits empathy and engenders an odd sense of devotion. Where films have the freedom to dazzle and alienate audiences, television is well-suited for identification and attachment. The medium itself is a work in progress, and as shows continue to innovate and refine, the potential of the art form seems limitless.

In the columns to follow, I won’t pretend to give an overview of all the television that is currently out there. I won’t even necessarily give a balanced appraisal or recommendation of the show that each article is about. But every show has something to add to the conversation, and every show goes about it in a different way. What I want to do is ask the interesting questions—what does this show say about the people who make it? The people who watch it? The time and place in which we live?

The answers will take some time to find.

Oscar Moralde can be reached at oscar@oscarmoralde.com.

© 2008 The Hypermodern.