Approaches to Television Viewing: An Introductory Course
There is an undeniable satisfaction to be found in escapism. We enjoy pretending to lead other lives, however briefly, because we are given an opportunity to forget our own. That is not to say that our own lives are terrible, far from it. But the person who is completely content with his or her lot in life is a rare bird indeed, and even the happiest of people could likely be even happier.
Television and film provide us with the most direct form of fictional escapism. They force our eyes to focus within the boundaries of the screen, to shut out the reality around that rectangle. Theatres amplify this effect (you're in a rather nondescript environment, shrouded in darkness; what else do you have to look at?), but it occurs even within one's own home. After all, there's nothing there you haven't seen before. But that screen, oh that screen offers you glimmering images of a life unknown, a different world. And while your mind might wander, your eyes never once glance away.
And it is for this reason that watching a serialized television show is so often an exercise in frustration. The writers, the actors, the directors, the producers, they're all working so hard to keep you glued to that screen for a half hour or an hour. And you fall for it. You fall into it. That television screen is a black hole of mesmerizing entertainment. The best fall you ever had. The problem, of course, arises when the falling stops and you're left with no choice but to smack into the cold reality of end credits. As you dust yourself off, the haunting realization sinks in: this is just the first rabbit hole, and, if we're being honest, you're one curious little bunny.
You're hooked. It's practically masochistic. You know you're going to face that painful plummet again next week, but, well, isn't the crash worth it if you get to revel in the fall? And someday you'll finally reach Wonderland (which could be everything you hope it will be, though that nagging, insistent voice in your head is taunting you with its pragmatism, warning you that nothing will live up to the images that flit across the television screen in your mind as you subconsciously script idealized episode after idealized episode while you wait for the next week's installment, your next great high).
Movies and novels, contrastingly, tend to provide the viewer or reader with some sense of closure (even if that closure is simply the knowledge that no concrete answer will ever be given). There is no "Next Time On..." The screen goes black, the lights go up, and the people leave their seats. The cover snaps shut.
The only way to come remotely close to attaining this effect with a television show is to watch it on DVD. There is an exquisite delight to be had in marathon viewings of episode after episode. We know that we are cheating the system, and we glory in that violation. In this instance, we are able to conquer those malevolent gods who demand a hiatus between viewings, who force us to wait like good little boys and girls before exploring the next rabbit hole. Theoretically, you can often watch an entire season in the course of a single day (a long, pathetic day, but the important thing here is the possibility of instant gratification). Imagine. Months of uncertainty, doubt, confusion, suspense, anxiety, curiosity, and intrigue compressed into a single day. It's mind-blowing in more ways than one.
Unfortunately, this immediate satisfaction comes at a price. For there is a certain pleasure that comes with waiting. And a certain sense that you are part of something, that you are part of a collective whole that wants the same thing. And you will all be able to celebrate together when that aim is finally attained. Think of Harry Potter release parties--the mob mentality, the ability to bond instantaneously, if ephemerally, with complete strangers. If you had waited until eight months after the book seven came out to even start reading the first book, sure, you would get to read from cover to cover to cover without stopping for lunch, but then it's over, and that's that. Just another book on the shelf. There is something about the yearning that makes the experience all the more worthwhile. Something about the fall that makes the knowledge that there will be no more crashes so bittersweet.
Then there are the times when you watch a show on DVD so that you can catch up and start to watch it on the air. This is, in fact, that same masochistic tendency magnified a thousand times. It's like letting yourself run wild in a candy store for an hour and then going on a crash diet for three months. It's like sleeping for three days straight and then only allowing yourself an hour-long nap every other day for the next week. It's like going on your honeymoon and then being married (heh). In other words, because you are aware of what it's like to have constant and immediate access to something, deprivation becomes infinitely more difficult to bear.
And yet we continue to do this. Because it's addictive? Certainly. But also because we want to be a part of that rush of voices, that maddening crowd that keeps screaming "WATCH THIS WATCH THIS WATCH THIS" until we are lulled into hypnotic obedience. And we watch. And we plummet. And we crash. And we plummet. And we crash. And on and on it goes.
And then we come to the end. Which is, of course, the beginning, since we just find a new rabbit hole altogether (and I haven't even begun to talk about the implications of the forking paths, i.e. of watching more than one show on a regular basis). We are obedient, entrapped little tumbling bunnies. But damn, isn't it fun?
And that, friends, is my pseudo-academic analysis of why I've started watching Criminal Minds. It's been difficult to hear so many people tell me what a good show it is and still hold that urge at bay. Even more difficult to do so when I watch a random episode (or four) with Cynshen. And then, finally, I cracked. Started with disc one of season one today. Finished disc one of season one today. And I'm oh-so-conscious of the fact that it's still going to be airing in the fall. Even more conscious of the fact that the fourth season won't be out on DVD until September (read: after I can stop watching my mother's copies of the show for free; she has the first three seasons on DVD). And yet more conscious of the fact that it conflicts with another TV show that I watch, though I can't currently remember which one it is. In other words, this is a terrible idea. But I'm sure as hell going to enjoy the ride while it lasts.
Season two of Mad Men is also off to a great start (see, I really can't help myself).
But there is a method to this Mad Men viewing. I can watch Don Draper or Jason Gideon or Sookie Stackhouse or Desmond Hume or Veronica Mars or Rube Sofer or Ted Mosby or Matt Parkman, etc., etc., ad nauseum (bonus points to anyone who knows which two characters here are played by the same actor), and imagine myself in new shoes. I can be a private eye or a profiler or a paper pusher or a philanthropist. I can be in Hawaii or New York or France or India. I can simply enjoy a good story. To do all this, well, sometimes that means going on a pleasure binge and watching disc after disc, and other times it means coping with the endless stream of questions from week to week or, worst of all, from May to January as I wait for the next scene to play across my screen. But in either case, if I enjoy the show on some level, any level, then I can consider it a worthwhile pursuit, because I can, as Billy Joel would put it, forget about life (and Latin) for a while.
Television and film provide us with the most direct form of fictional escapism. They force our eyes to focus within the boundaries of the screen, to shut out the reality around that rectangle. Theatres amplify this effect (you're in a rather nondescript environment, shrouded in darkness; what else do you have to look at?), but it occurs even within one's own home. After all, there's nothing there you haven't seen before. But that screen, oh that screen offers you glimmering images of a life unknown, a different world. And while your mind might wander, your eyes never once glance away.
And it is for this reason that watching a serialized television show is so often an exercise in frustration. The writers, the actors, the directors, the producers, they're all working so hard to keep you glued to that screen for a half hour or an hour. And you fall for it. You fall into it. That television screen is a black hole of mesmerizing entertainment. The best fall you ever had. The problem, of course, arises when the falling stops and you're left with no choice but to smack into the cold reality of end credits. As you dust yourself off, the haunting realization sinks in: this is just the first rabbit hole, and, if we're being honest, you're one curious little bunny.
You're hooked. It's practically masochistic. You know you're going to face that painful plummet again next week, but, well, isn't the crash worth it if you get to revel in the fall? And someday you'll finally reach Wonderland (which could be everything you hope it will be, though that nagging, insistent voice in your head is taunting you with its pragmatism, warning you that nothing will live up to the images that flit across the television screen in your mind as you subconsciously script idealized episode after idealized episode while you wait for the next week's installment, your next great high).
Movies and novels, contrastingly, tend to provide the viewer or reader with some sense of closure (even if that closure is simply the knowledge that no concrete answer will ever be given). There is no "Next Time On..." The screen goes black, the lights go up, and the people leave their seats. The cover snaps shut.
The only way to come remotely close to attaining this effect with a television show is to watch it on DVD. There is an exquisite delight to be had in marathon viewings of episode after episode. We know that we are cheating the system, and we glory in that violation. In this instance, we are able to conquer those malevolent gods who demand a hiatus between viewings, who force us to wait like good little boys and girls before exploring the next rabbit hole. Theoretically, you can often watch an entire season in the course of a single day (a long, pathetic day, but the important thing here is the possibility of instant gratification). Imagine. Months of uncertainty, doubt, confusion, suspense, anxiety, curiosity, and intrigue compressed into a single day. It's mind-blowing in more ways than one.
Unfortunately, this immediate satisfaction comes at a price. For there is a certain pleasure that comes with waiting. And a certain sense that you are part of something, that you are part of a collective whole that wants the same thing. And you will all be able to celebrate together when that aim is finally attained. Think of Harry Potter release parties--the mob mentality, the ability to bond instantaneously, if ephemerally, with complete strangers. If you had waited until eight months after the book seven came out to even start reading the first book, sure, you would get to read from cover to cover to cover without stopping for lunch, but then it's over, and that's that. Just another book on the shelf. There is something about the yearning that makes the experience all the more worthwhile. Something about the fall that makes the knowledge that there will be no more crashes so bittersweet.
Then there are the times when you watch a show on DVD so that you can catch up and start to watch it on the air. This is, in fact, that same masochistic tendency magnified a thousand times. It's like letting yourself run wild in a candy store for an hour and then going on a crash diet for three months. It's like sleeping for three days straight and then only allowing yourself an hour-long nap every other day for the next week. It's like going on your honeymoon and then being married (heh). In other words, because you are aware of what it's like to have constant and immediate access to something, deprivation becomes infinitely more difficult to bear.
And yet we continue to do this. Because it's addictive? Certainly. But also because we want to be a part of that rush of voices, that maddening crowd that keeps screaming "WATCH THIS WATCH THIS WATCH THIS" until we are lulled into hypnotic obedience. And we watch. And we plummet. And we crash. And we plummet. And we crash. And on and on it goes.
And then we come to the end. Which is, of course, the beginning, since we just find a new rabbit hole altogether (and I haven't even begun to talk about the implications of the forking paths, i.e. of watching more than one show on a regular basis). We are obedient, entrapped little tumbling bunnies. But damn, isn't it fun?
And that, friends, is my pseudo-academic analysis of why I've started watching Criminal Minds. It's been difficult to hear so many people tell me what a good show it is and still hold that urge at bay. Even more difficult to do so when I watch a random episode (or four) with Cynshen. And then, finally, I cracked. Started with disc one of season one today. Finished disc one of season one today. And I'm oh-so-conscious of the fact that it's still going to be airing in the fall. Even more conscious of the fact that the fourth season won't be out on DVD until September (read: after I can stop watching my mother's copies of the show for free; she has the first three seasons on DVD). And yet more conscious of the fact that it conflicts with another TV show that I watch, though I can't currently remember which one it is. In other words, this is a terrible idea. But I'm sure as hell going to enjoy the ride while it lasts.
Season two of Mad Men is also off to a great start (see, I really can't help myself).
But there is a method to this Mad Men viewing. I can watch Don Draper or Jason Gideon or Sookie Stackhouse or Desmond Hume or Veronica Mars or Rube Sofer or Ted Mosby or Matt Parkman, etc., etc., ad nauseum (bonus points to anyone who knows which two characters here are played by the same actor), and imagine myself in new shoes. I can be a private eye or a profiler or a paper pusher or a philanthropist. I can be in Hawaii or New York or France or India. I can simply enjoy a good story. To do all this, well, sometimes that means going on a pleasure binge and watching disc after disc, and other times it means coping with the endless stream of questions from week to week or, worst of all, from May to January as I wait for the next scene to play across my screen. But in either case, if I enjoy the show on some level, any level, then I can consider it a worthwhile pursuit, because I can, as Billy Joel would put it, forget about life (and Latin) for a while.