Stranger Things might be the death of episodic television

I don't understand you

Stranger Things is a pretty good television show. I’ll get that out of the way, for fear of sounding overly negative in this rant. The production is actually gorgeous. It has perfect attention to detail in every aspect of its recreation of the 80s. The design of the upside down world, and in particular Winona Ryder’s house (with its meticulously placed Christmas lights used as mood lighting) is stunning. It has a really good atmosphere and creepy synth soundtrack!

But, I don’t know, that’s kind of it?

I just didn’t love it as much as most people I guess. And that’s fine! I’m glad that others have enjoyed it as much as they have. However, the biggest problem I have with it is not with the show’s content, but with the larger trend it represents in the television industry. I think Stranger Things is the first truly successful show to embrace the “binge-watching” Netflix model, and that terrifies me.

Of course there have been other successful streaming shows, Orange Is The New Black being the best example of one that has both critical acclaim and a passionate fan base. Yet you could argue that show would work just as well, if not better, on a traditional week-by-week viewing schedule. It’s a huge show with a rich world and endless characters in its ensemble, but putting emphasis on one character’s flashback in each episode gives these episodes focus individually. There is a serialized nature through season and even series-long arcs, but you could also watch a single episode and be satisfied. 

I would argue that right now 80-90% of dramatic television works this way. In fact, I would say that its format as a streaming Netflix show actually hurts Orange. This is because most of its viewers have a tendency to binge it all at once in the week or two following a season’s release (and then quickly forget about it for a year), rather than digesting each episode individually and giving its standout moments some weight. Any conversation I’ve seen or partaken in regarding season 4 has completely revolved around one shocking event and its aftermath, which takes place in the final two episodes of the season. It’s a shame that some of the earlier episodes of the season, like the one featuring deranged inmate Lolly, didn’t receive more attention. Orange certainly isn’t hurting for viewers if we use media coverage as a metric, so it may be successful in that sense. But wouldn’t it have a bigger place in cultural discussion if all those think pieces were spread out over 13 weeks, instead of clustered into 2-3? With its episodic template it could easily support a week-by-week structure, which would help prevent entire seasons from boiling down to one or two “shock factor” moments.

Back to Stranger Things. Can you imagine watching just one episode of this show? Sure, of course you can. Not everyone is a binge-watching animal; some just have time for one episode a night, two if they’re awake enough. But the show is absolutely designed with a binge in mind. Individual episodes do not have beginnings and ends, or cohesive themes tying them together. It essentially plays as an 8 hour movie. It takes advantage of the streaming format, knowing that its audience is going to have access to all of it at once, in a way that shows like Orange don’t necessarily. It’s certainly not the first show to do this. House of Cards, Daredevil, and Transparent all tell long stories that are arguably best absorbed as a whole rather than through individual episodes. It’s the other 10-20% of tv dramas, but I would say Stranger Things is the first critically and commercially (again, based on media coverage and user created content because streaming networks rarely release viewership statistics) successful show of this format. For many viewers, this probably isn’t a problem. Netflix suggests that binge-watching IS the way most people watch tv, so it makes sense that writers and showrunners would embrace the format and assume that people are consuming content this way.

I might be old fashioned, but I am a firm believer that the episodic format is what makes television the best entertainment medium. I find comfort knowing that my favorite shows are on every week. Watching a weekly tv show is like hanging out with old friends. You never exactly how it will play out, but you have a pretty good idea. The best thing about this is the excitement that builds between weeks, and the internet has enhanced this by allowing us to dissect, analyze, and discuss each episode in the meantime. 

There’s also the anticipation that a “perfect” episode may be coming. A perfect episode of a tv show is inspiring; it plays within the show’s established structure while being completely unique and testing the limits of what the audience thought was possible in that show. I can list the best episode of all my favorite shows, and usually have specific memories attached to them. Mad Men? “The Suitcase”, of course, which is everything great about that show condensed into 45 minutes. You’re The Worst? “There Is Not Currently A Problem”, because it’s an extremely serious episode where multiple characters just dance mindlessly in a corner for about half of it!

I can’t list my favorite episode of Stranger Things. You could say that each episode is equally entertaining, and that might be true, but it’s much less exciting to me than the opportunity afforded by a more episodic tv show to experiment. And with the outrageous success and praise that it’s gathered since its release last month, it could become a problematic trend. If television is increasingly designed to be watched in one or two sittings it sacrifices much of what made it a great medium to begin with.

Halt and Catch *fire emoji*

Yesss edgy hacker chic!

When I started watching Halt and Catch Fire a few weeks ago, I was skeptical. The concept had me hesitating, how could any computer hacker drama live up to the consistently groundbreaking and engaging precedent set by Mr. Robot?  But after all the acclaim thrown at the show during season 2, I felt the need to catch up on it before this week’s season 3 premiere. I have a weird compulsion to at least try to be caught up on every noteworthy TV show out there. It’s something that I should probably work on, before I force myself to watch a 7th season of The Walking Dead.

My fears were validated throughout watching most of season one. Halt was trying too hard, and it was a pastiche of other, better shows. Think Mad Men with Breaking Bad’s color palate but set during the 80s tech boom instead of advertising in the 60s. I complained about its lame shock tactics and the fact that characters would seemingly be in and out of relationships at random. The focus on early computer technology felt like a too clever wink at modern times. “Their computer needs to have a personality, look at these visionaries!” The plot sharpened into focus near the season’s end, leading to an amusing reveal where the characters realized they were not quite the innovative pioneers they thought. It works better in retrospect, but it’s a messy season of television and tough to push through at times. The best thing I could really say about it in those early episodes was “This show has a dope title sequence.”

I knew season 2 would be better, critical consensus had told me so, but what struck me was how elegant the shift was. A simple change of protagonists, from the Don Draper wannabe Joe MacMillan (Lee Pace) to ambitious hacker protégé and ex-lover Cameron Howe (Mackenzie Davis), is the only fundamental difference between seasons 1 and 2. All other elements remained intact, and yet the show immediately felt better and more natural. Compare the pilot and the season 2 premiere, and the differences are subtle. Season 2 may be quieter and more driven by its (excellent) ensemble cast, but the plot is almost identical: a pair of unlikely friends have an interesting idea and try to grow a business around it. It’s something I’ve never quite witnessed in television, a retooling but not a reboot, and with the exact same writing team and creative talent behind it.

If the writers can take credit for any of season 2’s recovery, it’s realizing what a great cast they had in season 1 and running with it. By focusing so much of that season on Joe and his ambitious but flawed business schemes, it left the show’s best supporting players Gordon Clark (Scoot McNairy) and his wife Donna (Kerry Bishé) feeling awkward and out of place. The two were in a troubled marriage, but the details of that relationship felt arbitrary and underdeveloped. Season 2, refreshingly, puts Donna front and center by partnering with Cameron, while Gordon’s lack of motivation and ideas becomes one of the most compelling aspects of the show. The rest of the employees at Cameron’s new gaming startup, Mutiny, fill out the cast with a great sense of humor and fun names like Yo-Yo and Wonderboy. Even Joe, while still being the weak point of the show, slipped into a more interesting antagonist role. Halt and Catch Fire had somehow, seemingly effortlessly, become a perfect character drama.

And so the show moves into season 3, which began on Tuesday night with all its characters moving to California hoping to find success and fulfillment (I could honestly write another piece just comparing this show to Mad Men). The premiere episodes suggest a show with newfound confidence, which is deserved. Rather than feeling like a hackneyed glimpse of the future as it once did, the technology driving the show’s plot now feels like an earned metaphor for the connection that its characters desperately seek. Halt doesn’t have to impress anyone anymore, and it doesn’t seem like it wants to. I was partially right in my initial judgment, it’s definitely not Mr. Robot. It’s content as a quiet character drama, and that’s a beautiful thing. It’s a good reminder that a show can always change for the better, and I’m glad it was allowed to exist long enough to get to this point.