Category: TV

Last May, The Guardian published an article on the rise of a kind of primetime television we haven’t seen before, a kind of television not driven by conflict like traditional TV, but one anchored by a levity of humor. It has come to be dubbed as “nicecore television,” that is, scripted television that aims to provide a charming touch of wit at the expense of pushing a show’s conflict forward. The article made some pretty valid points, but I believe nicecore television’s roots run deeper than the charm you seen on the screen. Shows such as Ted Lasso and Abbott Elementary tend to lean on these kneejerk humorous reactions as a crutch. But these aren’t just one-off jokes – these entire series are based off the need to rely on light-hearted humor in exchange for conflict driven episodic spaces.

But what does this mean for the future of serialized and episodic television and potentiality for series pick-ups? If these popular nicecore television shows aren’t driven by a central story engine, what does that signal to the longevity of other future series? In this day and age, incited by the pandemic, the business of TV has started shifting away from shows that have a consistent source of story energy in exchange for a more happy-go-lucky, wish-fulfilling TV series, which could very well be detrimental to the medium of scripted television. In light of next week’s Primetime Emmy Awards, we’d like to shed some light on these nicecore television shows and what they pose to the future of television writing.

The biggest example of nicecore television so far has been Ted Lasso, perhaps the first show in this new wave to sway away from a concentrated story engine. Apple’s first foray into TV signaled to viewers that the company was still finding its footing in the medium, but it was the height of the pandemic and the depths of quarantine that made Ted Lasso take off. It’s feel-good, un-American worldview provided the right feelings at the right time for viewers, as well as challenged the American viewer to watch a show about a world we weren’t accustomed to – international soccer – in a time where we desperately needed to go against our habits. It provided a rewarding light in a very dark time, pop-culture references we thought we’d forgotten, and sweet humor in the lead of Jason Sudeikis.

However, these attributes also contribute to the show’s flaws. Yes, the character of Ted Lasso is the lead. Yes, he provides a joke or pop-culture reference every sentence. And yes, his character is meant for us to feel happy. However, it is not his story. He is not the show’s protagonist. Interestingly enough, it’s Rebecca Welton’s (Hannah Waddingham), the team owner’s story. She is the one who’s put into conflict, she is the one putting the team at risk and instigating stakes. But what makes this conflict thin is the glue that keeps her in this situation. Why does she keep Lasso as manager? If she’s putting the team’s investors at risk and remains reluctant to Lasso’s optimism, why doesn’t she just get rid of Lasso? One hint: biscuits. But the show’s longevity is not reliant on this thin conflict. Merely, the through-line is only there to make the series function as a narrative, as the show instead relies on the jokes and personality of Ted Lasso morale boosting his team to generate episodes.

But nicecore television is not just an Apple TV problem. Now, even network shows are starting to borrow this approach. Abbott Elementary has only aired one season, but one can tell from the first episode that it relies heavily on its lightheartedness for audience satisfaction, much like Ted Lasso. But unlike Lasso, it follows its protagonist as its lead – Janine Teagues (Quinta Brunson), an elementary school teacher who desperately wants to help the underprivileged students she teaches. However, like Lasso, it also has a problem with the “glue” that keeps Brunson’s character in conflict. There is no organic glue keeping her in the world she is in other than that she wants to help the children. It’s admirable, and certainly provides for a likeable protagonist, but there is no central flaw or world of conflict she’s thrusted into. But these are the elements necessary to spur a series’ permanency, as the show instead aims to focus on high-spirited comical aspects to satisfy a viewer’s expectation for comic relief. It aims for a setup/punch-line combo instead of choosing to elevate the series by pushing the conflict forward.

Even though this is a fairly new formula, it’s one that’s quickly being copied in exchange for fewer series orders from networks. By following a formula such as this, the thought of the show’s longevity is quickly ignored, thus not promoting the show’s core theme and its varying degrees. CBS and ABC have both drastically cut back their series orders this year, in addition to axing many already existing series. This year, ABC had only one pilot order along with only one comedy picked up to series, whereas CBS ordered only 4 series out of its nine pilots with zero of them being comedies, and NBC has ordered two series so far out of its five pilots.

It used to be that a show took pride in delving deep into its theme over a number of seasons, churning out however many episodic spaces that stemmed from its central conflict. If you look at past successful TV shows (or, arguably, shows that ran for at least five seasons), a series longevity was a testament to the originality of a show’s theme – it was its social commentary. Shows such as Roseanne and Married with Children were not just light, dinner-time entertainment, but a particular insight into American society told through an intimate medium, a medium that centers around a flawed protagonist changing over a period of time based on the people they are surrounded by. These shows had just the right elements for a show to properly function: stakes, glue, dimensionalities of characters, and conflict.

Frasier is a perfect example of how central conflict can spur longevity. The show begins with the theme of privacy and a simple premise: a stuck-up Harvard-educated psychiatrist is forced to take in his injured policeman father who is everything but. The pilot episode lays down the bare basic bones of how the series will operate. But the conflict externalized on screen gradually gets more intimate as the series progresses. Soon enough, it becomes not just about the privacy of Frasier’s space, but also the privacy of his mind. The show grows to center around ethical dilemmas, as Frasier Crane rejects not only the invasion of his privacy, but the ethical quandaries that come with it, fearing that he might be going against his values as a highly-respected psychiatrist.

It wasn’t until the success of Seinfeld when networks discovered that a show can be essentially about “nothing,” thus taking away a sitcom’s essential social element. It brought about a “loose-ness” to network television, introducing the idea that a TV sitcom didn’t need a central theme. Traverse this all the way back to today, where the same predicament occurs but in a slightly heightened experience. Not only does breaking a story’s theme lead to a lengthy series, it also reinforces the need for a revolving door writers’ staff. Keeping fresh voices moving in and out of the writers’ room is essential for creating a show’s durability. It introduces new voices to bring about new story beats at a certain point in a show’s narrative, not just to keep the show fresh, but to also HIRE MORE WRITERS. Hiring more writers is key in breaking story. It promotes writers from within and provides a diversity of voices to lend to the exploration of a show’s central theme and the many pockets within it.

Cut back to today, where networks are giving fewer series orders and premium cable and streaming services are ordering what are essentially long movies cut up into 10 episodes. This, in turn, changes the entire economic climate of how television is written: by not working with a central theme and story engine, a show does not produce longevity. When a show does not produce longevity, it fails to hire fresh voices and perspectives, thus leading to the changing TV writer climate we have today. Have we really had better quality television with 8-10 episodes every one to two years as opposed 22 episodes in one year?

I’m sure it goes without saying that a show doesn’t absolutely NEED to stick to its conflict, it can survive just fine from its charm that stems from its cheeriness. But that will only take a show so far. It used to be a testament that a show’s depth goes as far as its writers’ room does. The more diverse the writers’ room, the more specific the show’s niche becomes. Not only do these “nicecore television” shows change the landscape of modern television, they change the very DNA as to how television is made. Television is an intimate medium based on character relationships, and a writers’ room centered around a single story engine provides this intimacy. When we lose what the central idea of what a show’s about, we lose its social commentary, we lose its intimacy. Let’s just hope there will be future shows that take into account the next generation of TV writers.

Featured image courtesy of ABC

Every generation has that one show. You have your Breaking Bad‘s, your Hill Street Blues‘, your I Love Lucy‘s… but every generation has that one show that operates on a different level. That’s not to say if it’s good or bad, but it definitely can’t be compared to anything. If you haven’t been under a rock, HBO’s Euphoria boasts penises, a heavy soundtrack, reckless drug use, and underage sex. It’s everything a parent wouldn’t want their child to be doing. But underneath all the debauchery are mysterious forces at work, something mythic – everyone trying to find their own form of satisfaction, or I guess, euphoria.

But it brings to mind another show that aired 30 years prior. Despite being a serialized primetime network drama, Twin Peaks also explored the darker side of a small town: both center on subjects in high school, yet they take vastly different directions – one’s a murder mystery, and the other a relationship drama. Both portray promiscuity with high schoolers and adults. Both involve some sort of drug use. The similarities on the surface are easy to point out, but let’s dive a little deeper.

The theme (and story engine) of Twin Peaks is truth – the truth of Laura Palmer’s death, and the truth that everyone in the town conceals. However, Euphoria’s characters are also in search of their own truths: what makes them tick, what gives them the ultimate satisfaction, what will bring them closer to what life is all about – happiness. But also, both shows portray their characters as doomed to fail in this search. It will always be a bottomless well – they’ll keep digging and digging for that stimulus of an answer, but they’ll never reach it, all while putting their well-being at risk. As for Twin Peaks’ case, the “truth” will always be some version of the truth, an interpreted truth, by one of the town’s inhabitants.

It’s needless to say both shows also sprung from singular auteur-ist visions. David Lynch and Sam Levinson both had artistic controls over their respective series, quite evident in Euphoria with its exuberant style: the lighting, the camera movements, the casting, the music – it’s incredible how HBO gave so much power to a young filmmaker, in its first two seasons no less. Every camera placement and backlight feels precisely and deliberately done, that it’s impossible to imagine Euphoria as a show that functions with the elements of a traditional drama series: a writers’ room, rotating directors, etc… some may argue that as a fault, but Euphoria wouldn’t be the show we love even if it did have those elements.

And for Twin Peaks, Lynch had what was fairly the equivalent in the 90s with a basic cable drama. From the theme song, to the tone and mood, Lynch’s fingerprints are all over every aspect of the series. But network primetime was a different place back in April 1990, and Peaks crashed the party like a goth at a debutante ball. However, when the show’s producers succumbed to network pressure and revealed Laura Palmer’s killer (sort of) in the seventh episode, the show’s viewership hemorrhaged. But it was no longer just a show about finding the murderer of a high school girl – it started to involve other dimensions, the birth of good and evil. Lynch took it in a wild, surreal direction, the style we usually associate him with. All of a sudden, Twin Peaks became some sort of puzzle, quickly growing out of the mold basic cable shows usually get stuck in becoming the show we know and love today.

Both shows also grew their audience reach while on hiatus. It’s hard to believe, given that season 2 of Euphoria just aired, season 1 aired two and a half years ago. Most TV shows wouldn’t ever be able to sustain that kind of momentum, nonetheless during a pandemic. A show about high school kids who abuse privilege – what made that so special? Why was it still a talking point amongst TV enthusiasts despite a two-and-a-half-year absence? Likely, there’s a few particular reasons, or rather, a culmination of them all. Euphoria became popular right before the pandemic hit. It was the last cultural phenomenon that was a trending topic before our lives were changed. It’s also the last serialized drama series we can remember where we’re given a week to gossip, digest, and theorize on an episode before watching the next one, thanks to Twitter supplying it with a constant discourse outlet.

Twin Peaks, on the other hand, had 26 years before its return. But just like Euphoria, Peaks’ cult status only grew during its absence, speaking to a new generation and fanning the flames for the desire of a revival. And that’s just what happened. When Twin Peaks: The Return aired, it not only brought along its old built-in audience, but drew in a newer, younger crowd, and even behooved them to revisit earlier seasons. Also like Euphoria, Peaks’ popularity soared in its absence thanks to internet discourse. Its history and folklore only made the show more infectious with theories on what could’ve happened. It was a feedback loop that drew in younger audiences in a way its original audience couldn’t understand.

There are just as many arguments against this opinion than there are for it. One can just as accurately argue that these two shows couldn’t be any more different. But the starkest similarity is the zeitgeist around the two. They are two shows that challenge and require audience participation, and there’s very much a world that stems from and exists outside of them: us, the viewers. One could say that about any show, but these two are special. They conjure a community of specific kinds of people – outcasts, people in the in-between, people who don’t know how to necessarily describe themselves, but also a community that ultimately wants to challenge itself. I think that’s what these two shows will be remembered for most: the discourse and the compelling urge of the viewer to step out of their comfort zone.

The world of soccer has been virtually untouched by Hollywood for years. Why? Because of how simply un-American it is. It’s as idiosyncratic as Lance Armstrong choosing cycling as his sport: it takes a specific, odd American not to tackle baseball, or basketball, or football, but instead go for the outsider sport. Ted Lasso, however, aims to flip that on its head.

With its politics meets optimism duality, Ted Lasso gives the world of European football a jolt of American confidence. Determined on driving her ex-husband’s football club into the ground, Rebecca Welton (Hannah Waddingham), co-owner of AFC Richmond, hires Ted Lasso (Jason Sudeikis), a Division II American college football coach with no knowledge of soccer, in hopes that the team will be relegated and lose its worth. This, however, backfires. At first faced with adversity, Ted Lasso brings a morale and unified enthusiasm to the fragmented, divided team, which eventually upends the owner’s plans as the team begins to show more promise.

The story engine of the show exists to thrust American morale into the business and politics of European football, a world that can be such a “business” nowadays that it lacks any sportsmanship and team morale. Since the best teams in Europe have the most money, they buy up the best players and expect them to play well with each other to win games. However, when the gung-ho savvy coach is hired, it throws a monkey wrench into not only Welton’s plans, but the culture of European football as a whole.

The show aims to contrast the elements of American and British sportsmanship. The Premiere League is such a numbers game, where the best, wealthiest teams play each other over and over again for the top titles, that it misses the point of fostering a family. It’s a world where players are bought and sold, traded and loaned, and statistics make the judgements. Ted Lasso, however, introduces to his players what they’ve long lacked: confidence.

The world of European football just feels so impenetrable, that American ideals struggle to fit in. There’s a number of reasons as to why soccer has never taken off in the states. 1) There is no youth infrastructure for the sport. If you look at Europe, you see club teams that have been fostering players since the age of 11. And, as a result, 2) only the wealthy can afford to excel at soccer. Since soccer is rarely taught in public schools in the U.S., one really has to invest money in the sport: trainers, youth leagues, fees… it’s a sport that just isn’t as accessible to Americans. Perhaps it’s because there is no “satisfaction” point in soccer: home-runs, touchdowns, or slam dunks. And more often than not, goals are sloppy pieces of work. But perhaps it’s also because Americans crave the individual gratification of taking sole credit for a score, as opposed to the team-driven effort of soccer.

However, just recently, actors Rob McElhenney and Ryan Reynolds took control of Wrexham AFC – a Welsh football club that currently plays in the fifth tier of the English football league system. With a two million pound investment, the purchase brings American money onto foreign soccer soil with a plan to foster growth and push for a promotion in order to compete with the greater Premiere and Champions League teams. But even Hollywood money can’t compare to the billionaire oil-money out of the Middle East or the mob money out of Russia that owns teams like Manchester City, Manchester United, and Chelsea – teams that are owned by powers that supersede Hollywood money.

And perhaps this is why, only less than a month ago, the biggest clubs in Europe agreed to join what would be called the European Super League. This was heavily scrutinized by the media and UEFA, European football’s governing body, and was seen as merely a “cash grab.” With the organizers of the league promising “solidarity payments” that would be “in excess of €10 billion during the course of the initial commitment period,” there would be a €3.5 billion advance to “support infrastructure investment plans.” This came as a result of the massive inequality in European football, as more often than not, the same richest teams play for the top spot year after year – be it the Champions League, Europa League, or Premiere League – further eluding to the idea that the world of European football is, in fact, just one big bubble waiting to burst (FC Barcelona, the world’s wealthiest football club, is already worth $4.6 billion.)

Ted Lasso points out this gaping hole of missing sportsmanship in European football culture by reinforcing the idea of what it means to be great: it’s not just about winning, but also about how you deal with the unfair. Because more often than not, the best team, at least on paper, doesn’t win. But it’s how you come back from that unfair disadvantage that makes it a sport both on and off the field. I think Ted Lasso would agree with those ideals.

Throughout the series Friday Night Lights, Coach Eric Taylor’s ignorance of the outside world is what ultimately brings about its characters’ demises in the town of Dillon, Texas. By having his life only revolve around football, Taylor ultimately hinders the futures of the people around him, and only the ones that suffer are the ones who truly transcend their high school bubble. It begins in the pilot episode, when hot-shot quarterback Jason Street of the Dillon Panthers loses his ability to walk. Afterward, the pressure on Coach Taylor increases ten-fold, as everyone in the small town feels like their opinions about the team matter and constantly harass him. This, essentially, is what the show is about – community.

Mad Men is the best show ever created. And I don’t mean that lightly – I will fight someone to win that argument. But maybe that only stems from the passion I have for this show. The intangible effects the show gives off makes one feel like they can feel time itself passing. And maybe it’s because that’s what the show is ultimately about: change – social change, cultural change, political change… if television is a medium centered on change – a flawed protagonist changing over a period of time based on the characters they surround themselves with – then Mad Men is the ultimate form of change.

Every once in a while, The Guardian or Rolling Stone will put out a list of the “100 Greatest TV Shows of All Time” or something along those lines. The Wire, more often than not, always lands near the top. It was ranked 1^st on Entertainment Weekly’s list, and the WGA ranked it as the 9^th greatest show ever made. However, it won zero Emmys, was always dwarfed in ratings by HBO’s other darling The Sopranos, and very much like the oppressive nature within the show, it struggled and fought to get renewed each year. But it’s the only show I know of that tackles real world problems in the landscape of urban development.

During this month’s Super Bowl and Oscar ceremony, Quibi finally unveiled their first advertisements ushering us into a new world of mobile content. The commercials didn’t show too much, only a teaser of what was to come. But even based off the advertisements, I still don’t think the public is aware of what Quibi actually is.

There’s a line somewhere early on in HBO’s Chernobyl, in which Valery Legasov (Jared Harris) explains to Boris Shcherbina (Stellan Skarsgård) about how to put out the fire from the exploded nuclear reactor, in which Legasov states “You’re dealing with something that has never been seen before on this planet.” This line, essentially, is what encapsulates what’s so special about the HBO mini-series – the capability of human self-destruction, and the many layers of how the show can be analyzed.