Art and restrictions
I basically live and breathe TV, so whenever I think about larger questions of art and culture, they tend to be coloured by that medium. And now that my long-term hobby these days seems to be feeling my way through the basic tenets of media criticism, I thought I should pull back a bit and consider TV's place in the art world. I think it's a nagging question for any TV fan whether it can even match up to other forms of art, as a medium that's essentially defined by consensus and compromise. When I say that The Middle is one of the best shows on TV, am I just not saying "despite being an intentionally inoffensive and derivative show that is designed to universally appealing?" Its current season is legitimately great television, but only from a relativistic point of view. Taking TV as a whole, it's just another broad sitcom like any from the past sixty years, albeit a particularly well-made one. But even our best shows are great works of art that seem to require a "but." Making a TV series requires a lot of concessions to networks and (often) advertisers, meaning creators never have as much freedom as they would in any other art form. So is television inherently less effective than film, or literature, or anything else? It's something I wonder from time to time. I do know that TV can be just as affecting as any other artistic medium, sometimes moreso - few other works of art involve creating and maintaining a relationship with their audience as they're being made. I also know that restrictions are necessary for any great art. TV may have more of them than most, but commercial concerns have been inherent in art creation for centuries.
One reason I've been thinking about this, and forgive me for yet another grandiose intro to a banal topic, is that I've recently rewatched a few episodes of Clone High. It's probably one of my favourite shows of all time, a single-season wonder with a particularly bizarre style that managed to be relentlessly funny. As a series about clones of historical figures trying to navigate high school, with plots that parodied the maudlin "very special" sitcom episodes of the '80s, it was surprisingly ambitious. But that setup allowed it to make every element of its presentation funny: for one thing, having the main characters be clones of famous figures makes practically everything they say hilarious when juxtaposed with who they're all modeled after. But Clone High is also a great example of a series that turns its limitations into positives. Like most animated sitcoms, it's produced in a pose-to-pose style, which links together key character positions in order to save time and money. Clone High took this style and ran with it, creating a uniquely static look for the show which emphasized specific facial expressions and choppy animation. It turned a process intended to save production costs into a distinctive look. Just check out the two screencaps below. On the left, Abe and Joan have an extended conversation while Abe is shushing her, with only their facial expressions changing: by just positioning their eyebrows, it's instantly obvious that Abe is being condescending while Joan is mostly just puzzled. It works with their personalities, and little else around the scene has to change. On the right is one of those times where the show uses its characteristically flat presentation to build an ostentatious composition: it foregrounds Abe's sleep-deprived face while Cleo wakes up well-rested and happy behind him. With no shadows or depth of field at all, it's a jarring image at first, but it's also absolutely hilarious, and suits the show's overall style.
Since I spend so much time thinking about TV, sometimes it's refreshing to consider how other artistic endeavours use their constraints to their benefit. Particularly interesting to me are those media that only exist on the internet, since they're largely guided by completely different constraints from more commercial works. Instead of content or monetary restrictions, they tend to be constrained by notions of identity. I'm most interested in podcasts and webcomics, and they're both great examples of these differing constraints. Both can include any content they like, and don't have to consider the wishes of any overseeing network. Just look at Homestuck, a comic which has so far accumulated over 4000 pages, along with hundreds of characters and various levels of reality; or The Todd Glass Show, which routinely runs over two hours long and uses a dense mix of repetition and analysis to achieve its comedy. Both have inexplicably rabid cult fanbases. I think what the most important thing for a webcomic or podcast is that your work is recognizable as a member of its medium. Homestuck may incorporate interactive or animated segments, but it's still recognizably a webcomic, so webcomic fans will read it. Meanwhile, with its many sound effects and musical cues, The Tood Glass Show sometimes seems more like old-timey radio than it does a podcast, but it is nonetheless an improvised audio show with a recognizable sense of humour. While television constantly attempts to court casual viewers by keeping things universally appealing, podcasts and webcomics are aware that they are playing to a niche fanbase who is actively interested in their particular medium. It's neat how these little rules just appear out of nowhere. Maybe they did for every other artistic medium too.
One reason I've been thinking about this, and forgive me for yet another grandiose intro to a banal topic, is that I've recently rewatched a few episodes of Clone High. It's probably one of my favourite shows of all time, a single-season wonder with a particularly bizarre style that managed to be relentlessly funny. As a series about clones of historical figures trying to navigate high school, with plots that parodied the maudlin "very special" sitcom episodes of the '80s, it was surprisingly ambitious. But that setup allowed it to make every element of its presentation funny: for one thing, having the main characters be clones of famous figures makes practically everything they say hilarious when juxtaposed with who they're all modeled after. But Clone High is also a great example of a series that turns its limitations into positives. Like most animated sitcoms, it's produced in a pose-to-pose style, which links together key character positions in order to save time and money. Clone High took this style and ran with it, creating a uniquely static look for the show which emphasized specific facial expressions and choppy animation. It turned a process intended to save production costs into a distinctive look. Just check out the two screencaps below. On the left, Abe and Joan have an extended conversation while Abe is shushing her, with only their facial expressions changing: by just positioning their eyebrows, it's instantly obvious that Abe is being condescending while Joan is mostly just puzzled. It works with their personalities, and little else around the scene has to change. On the right is one of those times where the show uses its characteristically flat presentation to build an ostentatious composition: it foregrounds Abe's sleep-deprived face while Cleo wakes up well-rested and happy behind him. With no shadows or depth of field at all, it's a jarring image at first, but it's also absolutely hilarious, and suits the show's overall style.
Since I spend so much time thinking about TV, sometimes it's refreshing to consider how other artistic endeavours use their constraints to their benefit. Particularly interesting to me are those media that only exist on the internet, since they're largely guided by completely different constraints from more commercial works. Instead of content or monetary restrictions, they tend to be constrained by notions of identity. I'm most interested in podcasts and webcomics, and they're both great examples of these differing constraints. Both can include any content they like, and don't have to consider the wishes of any overseeing network. Just look at Homestuck, a comic which has so far accumulated over 4000 pages, along with hundreds of characters and various levels of reality; or The Todd Glass Show, which routinely runs over two hours long and uses a dense mix of repetition and analysis to achieve its comedy. Both have inexplicably rabid cult fanbases. I think what the most important thing for a webcomic or podcast is that your work is recognizable as a member of its medium. Homestuck may incorporate interactive or animated segments, but it's still recognizably a webcomic, so webcomic fans will read it. Meanwhile, with its many sound effects and musical cues, The Tood Glass Show sometimes seems more like old-timey radio than it does a podcast, but it is nonetheless an improvised audio show with a recognizable sense of humour. While television constantly attempts to court casual viewers by keeping things universally appealing, podcasts and webcomics are aware that they are playing to a niche fanbase who is actively interested in their particular medium. It's neat how these little rules just appear out of nowhere. Maybe they did for every other artistic medium too.