TV Studies 2024

In her essay “Challenging Stereotypes,” Evelyn Alsultany problematizes the idea of “positive” minority representation on TV. In the wake of 9/11, hate crimes against Arabic- and Muslim-Americans increased exponentially. In response, shows like Fox’s long-running crime thriller 24 made an effort to increase Arabic and Muslim representation outside of “negative,” antagonistic contexts. But, as Alsultany argues, resisting writing characters into cultural stereotypes does nothing to dismantle these insidious forms of oppression if these characters still operate within a show that regularly equates Islam with terrorism.

Alsultany’s essay got me thinking about shows that, unlike 24, work to create worlds where sympathetic, nuanced Muslim characters are not the exception to the rule, worlds that focus on these characters wrestling and/or making peace with their upbringings and identities. I thought of Sort Of, a funny and sweet Canadian dramedy following Sabi, a nonbinary 20-something of Pakistani descent navigating life and love in modern-day Canada. The show employs a variety of the techniques Alsultany unpacks, including humanizing these underrepresented characters in familial contexts and showing them as victims of racism and homophobia. Whereas 24’s “positive” (patriotic and/or victimized) Muslim characters “perform the ideological work of producing the illusion of a post-race moment that obscured the severity and injustice of institutionalized racism,” Sort Of’s Muslim protagonist and multicultural supporting cast, the vast majority of whom are people of color, queer, trans, etc., occupy different realities very much informed by race. Sabi experiences microaggressions and other, less overt forms of racism and transphobia left and right, from comments on their skin color by white characters to complicated relationships with family, culture, and gender identity.

That said, Sort Of offers a glimpse into an alternative, optimistic Canada: one populated by queer people free to present themselves how they want to, who have access to safe, queer spaces, and support each other through thick and thin. The relationships between marginalized characters are made deeper and more complex by their experiences in a world hyper-focused on race. The characters’ status as ‘other’ to their white, heteronormative, cisgender surroundings only serves to bring them closer together.Reading this essay and watching Sort Of in recent memory have made me think about how neglected a topic representation behind the camera tends to be in conversations about diversity in pop culture. Bilal Baig, who stars as Sabi, is also billed as executive producer and co-creator. Would Sabi and their surroundings be as nuanced and thoughtful were a nonbinary Pakistani-Canadian not at the helm of their stories? I’m not sure. What I do know, though, is that giving people with marginalized identities the chance to tell their own stories, on their own terms, is the most straightforward route to dismantling oppressive systems upheld by racial stereotypes in pop culture.

So! Animation. I’ve been thinking a lot about it recently, partly because it’s an interest of mine and partly because several classes of mine are talking about it at once, and that’s a dream come true. Granted, it’s in very different contexts—Bojack Horseman versus experimental stop-motion animation with enough strobe to leave an impression on your retina—but hey, I’ll take it where I can get it.

It’s interesting though because this experimental animator, Jodie Mack, came to visit another class of mine and give a lecture or two on what she’s made, how she makes it, theory-type thoughts on animation as a whole. And one of the things she made a point of doing was telling us, “Animation isn’t a genre.” Which, in retrospect, makes a whole lot of sense! You hear that and go, “Of course not. It’s a medium,” like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and I’m only a little ashamed to admit I did so. But, reflecting back on it, it’s not obvious! Not at all.

I remember discussing Bojack Horseman in class, analyzing it through the lens of intertextuality, and just googling the show to see what genre people categorize it as. A cursory read gives us: animated comedy, animated television show, and my personal favorite, adult animated psychological tragicomedy-drama television series. That last one’s taken from Wikipedia, and it takes me a full five seconds to read it every time. Regardless, every single one of them classifies it as animated, because the medium itself has turned into its own genre.

How would you describe shows like Gravity Falls, or Bluey? Animated kids show. Despite sharing genres, they’re wildly different shows: one’s got horror elements, twenty minute episodes, and three seasons of overarching plot; the other’s an Australian educational program for toddlers, with self-contained seven minute episodes and a notable lack of horror. The difference in what’s classified as adult animation only grows. Watch the raunchy, abrasive comedy South Park right after the mellow, strangely comforting Bee and PuppyCat or the serious, artistic revenge story of Blue Eye Samurai, and you’ll wonder how on earth an algorithm could think you’d be interested in watching them all back to back. The answer is simple—they’re all adult animation—but it’s not an answer that makes sense to me.

I think adult animation as a category, as a genre, only partially makes sense. I can understand using it to talk about influences and intertextual interactions. As my group discovered in class, Bojack Horseman lists about ten different animated shows as stylistic influences in a Rolling Stone article, so the category’s not useless. I do think Jodie Mack’s got a point, though; animation is more of a medium than a genre. Complicating the two might make us miss important points for analysis, and force us to make connections where there aren’t as many, simply because they share a “genre.”

Anyways. Talk to me about animation. School’s on a roll with it right now, and I plan to take full advantage of the momentum.

In my last post, I dared to suggest that Survivor was, in fact, not garbage. Today, I’m here to talk about another underappreciated TV masterpiece: Studio Fortiche and Riot Games’ brilliant Netflix show, Arcane. 

Sci-fi/fantasy? Check. Based on a video game? Check. Animated? Check. At a glance, the show is practically on its hands and knees begging boring people not to take it seriously. But unlike with Survivor, I don’t actually need to defend Arcane’s quality because every real human being who’s watched the show understands it to be phenomenal. 

Instead, I want to talk about why, despite Arcane’s irrefutable greatness, the show isn’t as popular as it deserves to be. Arcane should have been the next Game of Thrones; a lot of people who actually watched it even favorably compared the two. Both impeccably written shows feature a mature ensemble cast and tell a sprawling, political narrative set in a violent fantasy world. Analogous genres aside, there are of course differences between the two shows, but I refuse to believe that the massive disparity in popularity between the two is because GoT happens to have more naked people; I think it’s more likely because Arcane happens to be animated. 

Animation is still in such a weird place because- in a lot of ways- it’s treated like a genre, not a medium. Despite the fact that people have been making mature, animated works for decades, the medium seems perpetually relegated to G-rated status in the eyes of not only the general public but many critics as well. It’s common knowledge that any animated feature that doesn’t look, smell, and taste like a Disney or Pixar film is doomed once the awards season rolls around. Source: The Wind Rises losing to Frozen at the 2013 Oscars (kill me). And things aren’t much better in the realm of TV animation. Beyond programming targeted at kids, adult comedy is really the only other genre with an established place in the mainstream. 

Case in point, when Arcane deservedly won the award for “Outstanding Animated Program” at the 2022 Emmys, it did so by beating The Simpsons, Rick & Morty, and Bob’s Burgers. Now I’m not here to pass judgment on the depth or quality of the other nominees, but it shouldn’t have taken an entire panel of judges to recognize that one of those things was not like the others. There are exceptions, but the point is that the vast majority of popular animated television shows are defined by a consistent, limited set of generic terms- not to mention comparably similar, 2D animation styles. As creators, consumers, and critics we have collectively divined a self-fulfilling prophecy that restricts the types of stories allowed to be told through animation. Which is a shame, because as Arcane convincingly proves, the medium is capable of so much more. 

Arcane is a gem but that almost doesn’t matter because it currently sits at a medium/genre crossroads that frankly doesn’t exist yet; the show is masterfully pushing too many envelopes for its own good. I say almost, though, because I have faith that things will change. In the years since Spiderman: Into the Spiderverse dropped there’s been an uptick in mature animated films with unique art styles finding commercial success. Even if Arcane didn’t originally release to Marvel levels of cacophonous fanfare, I truly believe that it has the potential to become a similarly trailblazing piece of media. People just need to spot the damn flame. 

Even having set such a high bar for itself, I’m optimistic that future installments of Arcane will be incredible. And if the show continues to deliver, hopefully more people will start to take notice. Speaking of which, with the second season slated to drop later this year, there has never been a better time to check out Arcane. So if a violent, sci-fi/fantasy, political drama that happens to be animated sounds like your special stew, then give the show a try. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen. Although here’s hoping that won’t be the case forever. 

As a self-identified “foodie”, FX’s The Bear satisfies viewers through mouth-watering scenes of cooking. From a montage of noodles to the viral chip omelet scene, the show sticks true to its inspiration of owning a restaurant. The homage is continued with the portrayal of a hectic restaurant environment which drives the plot of the show, telling an unconventional story with an imperfect but lovable cast. 

However, I believe the true reason The Bear received such high acclaim is because of its artistic serialized narratives–each which have different emotional beats and themes. As a result, the show demonstrates the topics from Jason Mittel’s paper about narrative complexity. For example, most of the episodes feature simple arcs about the wide cast of characters in only 20 minutes. However, in the episodes “Fishes” and “Forks”, The Bear upends preconceived notions about the show.

First, Fishes contradicts previous episodes by throwing the audience four years into the past without any context. Here, we learn about the main character’s messy family history and drama, which is brought up in later episodes but is not ever central to the plot outside of Fishes. The episode works as a satisfying stand alone episode and can even be skipped without any harm to the overall season arc. However, the episode adds new emotional depth to the film for dedicated viewers who praise the show for its narratively complexity.

Forks is also a mostly stand alone episode which introduces narrative complexity through only focusing on one character, Richie. Here, the episode is important for the rest of the season because Richie saves the restaurant during the finale using the skills he learned in Forks. However, the episode also interests long time viewers through introducing a different restaurant and setting. The audience can recognize similar themes to other episodes, however the novelty of a different cast and environment intrigue the possibility of a spin-off show.

Season 2 of the Bear is one of my favorite shows I have ever binged. It’s hard for me to pinpoint all the ways the show works, in many ways it feels like the show is overwhelmingly impossible to appreciate. Still, the relationship between episodes and the overall arc of the season is unique and leaves the door open for future narratively complex shows.

Reading the Gray, Jones and Thompson article made me think about The West Wing, which feels the antithesis of political satire. It opts for a more idealistic and earnest approach to political commentary than Colbert’s speech, Veep, and the TikToks in the Atlantic article. The series focuses on the staff of a fictional American presidential administration, essentially providing a revisionist version of the Clinton administration without all the scandals and triangulation. In the liberal fantasy the show presents, patriotism transcends party allegiance, impassioned speeches pass laws, and a group of self-righteous Ivy League grads re-envision the government as force for good. 

Thinking about political satire on television and how it functions within the episode of Veep we watched emphasized the shortcomings of The West Wing. I love The West Wing as a character-driven drama with narrative complexity, as Mittell outlined. But reading the show in conversation with real world politics, which it often explicitly asks for, highlights how satire is a more effective means of expanding and challenging conventional understandings. For example, in one episode, the DNC wants the president to include that line “the era of big government is over” in his State of the Union speech (a direct reference to the 1996 Clinton State of the Union address) and one staffer protests because he disagrees with the sentiment. After a rousing speech, everyone else gets on board and they remove the line from the speech. Clearly, this episode comments on the Democratic party’s embrace of neoliberal rhetoric, but the direct historical  revision feels heavy-handed and didactic, instructing viewers what to think rather than raising questions for viewers’ own social analysis. Especially since the structure and demographics of the government in The West Wing look remarkably similar to our own (without parodying them), the show doesn’t defamiliarize or re-contextualize naturalized systems and phenomena in the way that satire and parody can.

I’ve only watched a handful of Veep episodes, but I’ve seen critics compare it to The West Wing, noting how the former captures an exaggerated version of government as it is while the ladder presents a vision of what it could be (in a very Aaron Sorkin, shortsighted way). This distinction results from a difference in genre and form, but in terms of offering meaningful critique and raising questions for viewers to consider, Veep works a lot better for me. 

By: Kate Ward

When reading the Gray, Jones and Thompson piece for Tuesday’s class, the difference between satire and parody stuck out to me. Honestly, I had never thought critically about what those terms meant and suppose I may have mixed them up in the past. I now know that while satire is political, parody need not be. That does not mean parody is non-critical of the genre or text it assumes the norms of, that would make it pastiche. The first example that came to mind when learning about parody was from one of my favorite shows: Community. 

“Modern Warfare” is the episode that hooked me on Community. It’s ridiculous, funny and downright entertaining. The episode begins just like any other sitcom opening, but transforms into an action flick. Our main character Jeff, initially acts as the straight man, but then falls into place as the hardened, muscly protagonist (think: Bruce Willis in Die Hard). The moment of his switch shows the audience just how ridiculous this trope is– who would strip into a plain white tank top in a full-on paintball battle?!

Throughout the episode there are a myriad of action movie conventions: elaborate fight scenes, sacrifices, a makeshift fire-pit they all bond around, clever battle strategies by our ingenious but rugged protagonist, and of course, an elaborate final fight scene featuring a secret bomb! This episode is jam-packed. 

Although this chaotic episode defies the norms of a regular Community episode, it still furthers the narrative of the show, addressing the sexual tension between Jeff and Britta. Their dynamic also fits into action conventions, with Britta as the badass, femme fatale to Jeff’s jaded macho man. 

I find it to be a very effective parody as it highlights the ridiculousness and unbelievability of the action genre while being clever, self-aware and entertaining as hell. Trust me, you’ll never watch an action movie the same again.

By Yoel Izaguirre

TV seems to be obsessed with trying to get this new generation of viewers hooked on the next BIG TEEN DRAMA!!! As someone who is a connoisseur of TV, I can confidently say that Netflix has hopped onto this trend and has put Heartbreak High (2022) as their submission to the Teen Drama Genre. Heartbreak High is a teen drama series that follows the lives of a diverse group of Australian high school students as they navigate the challenges of adolescence. The show explores themes such as friendship, love, identity, family dynamics, social issues, and personal growth, all the stuff that you would find in a typical teen drama.

Updating Classic Themes

Heartbreak High (2022) is a reboot of the 1990s series of the same name. The show not only revisits classic themes but also actively engages with new cultural discourses, reflecting the evolving landscape of youth culture and the dynamic nature of genre evolution within the media. One notable change from the original series is the significantly increased diversity in the cast of the reboot. The new cast includes representation from Asian, Black, and Blak communities, showcasing a more inclusive and representative portrayal of high school life in today’s society.

The Teen Drama Genre is a popular genre amongst young audiences, I mean the whole reason I even heard about Heartbreak High was because all my friends and TikTok wouldn’t stop talking about it. In this genre, high school settings become the backdrop for vibrant storytelling, where the lives of students and staff intertwine in a whirlwind of drama and excitement. It’s like the writers took a page from a Mad Libs page, weaving crazy yet relatable storylines that mirror the rollercoaster of adolescence. The formula sounds pretty basic. I can think of so many shows that follow this: Degrasssi (a long running Canadian show), Saved by the Bell (a staple in the category), Euphoria (a personal favorite), Riverdale (a personal love/hate), and Sex Education (a British take on teen dramas).

Engaging with New Cultural Discourses

What sets Heartbreak High apart is its fearless engagement with today’s cultural pulse. From social media’s influence and cyberbullying to the complexities of mental health and LGBTQ+ representation, the show dives deep into the experiences shaping modern youth. These themes reflect the concerns and experiences of today’s youth, making the show more relatable and impactful for its audience. One of the main storylines within the show centers on one of the Blak characters being racially profiled and assaulted by a police officer which leads to an examination of the police brutality that Blak folk face within Australia. In essence, Heartbreak High isn’t just entertainment; it’s a mirror reflecting the diverse and evolving landscape of youth culture

By: Theo Weldon

Among the greatest tragedies to befall me in these past weeks was the fact that I did not get the opportunity to share my analysis of the music video for Rihanna’s We Found Love with the class. I’m going to remedy that tragedy now by examining the discursive clusters that surrounded We Found Love in the broader social context of the year it was released (2011).

We Found Love sounds uplift. At a surface level, it could be read as conveying the message that “love triumphs all.” It should be noted, however, that the Rihanna says “we found love in a hopeless place,” she says nothing about love being a positive force and/or a solution to hopelessness. Just the opposite, she says “I’ve got to let it [her feelings] go.” The music video reflects this skeptical view of (hopeless) love, as Rihanna and her lover’s passionate romance descends into a cycle of drug use, explosive arguments, and reckless adrenaline hunting.

With the music video as context, We Found Love takes on a new meaning. Young love is passionate, but it can also be harmful and self-destructive, causing those who partake to lose their grip on reality. The two-toned message is clear… or is it? There is a good bit of extratextual context that is worth considering here. For one, the artist herself, Rihanna, suffered physical and emotional abuse in a highly publicized relationship 2 years prior to the songs release. Morbid as it sounds, the song “rewards” audiences for understanding the extratextual circumstances of the artist. We can take this further. Jason Mittell encourages us to situate genres and texts within prevailing social power structures and to look for “political implications and effects” in “seemingly nonpolitical case studies” (Mittell 19). We Found Love is a pop song, but it is a product of a specific cultural/political sentiment in the late 2000s/early 2010s. We could think of number of pop songs that carry upbeat tunes and darker messages: Outkast’s Hey Ya!, Foster the People’s Pumped up Kicks, Ke$ha’s Die Young. I imagine this historical genre as a product of rising cynicism in the 21st century. 9/11 and the War on Terror ended the honeymoon period the United States had experienced after the Cold War, and the 2008 financial crisis left a generation of youth fearing for their economic futures. Through this framework, we can view Rihanna’s hit single as emerging both personally and societally from a discursive cluster of disillusionment and loss of innocence, one reflected by hundreds of texts, musical or otherwise, produced since the early 2000s.

By Jonathan Nguyen

Let this be clear–I have never seen an episode of BoJack Horseman. Aside from a handful of clips of the show on various social media and excitedness from my friends, my scope of what the show entails is limited to existential audio quotes and adult animation. Thus, having seen BoJack Horseman’s sixth episode of season five, “Free Churro,” on a big screen at the Weitz Cinema at Carleton College, my expectations were exceeded. 

From an aesthetical analysis of “Free Churro,” there is a lot to unpack. The seemingly endless monologue of BoJack giving an eulogy at his mother’s funeral almost feels like I’m drowning in a constant flow of word vomit. This style of narrative story telling in combination with Netflix’s lack of commercials feels like I’m being forced to gulp down everything that’s being feeded to me. Additionally, the aesthetics of BoJack Horseman can also come at odds with its ideological content. Its pure monologue can cause the audience to become bored at times (at least, this was the case for me during my first watch through). 

Furthermore, the lack of major visual changes and the overall minimalistic approach to shot sizes and framing throughout BoJack Horseman’s “Free Churro” guides me to fully interpret the content and words that BoJack is saying. BoJack discusses real-world topics such as coming to terms with the death of a parent (an estranged parent, that is) that transcends the boundaries of the television screen. I honestly found BoJack’s eulogy (or rant?) pretty introspective despite my previous preconceptions of the show (or lack thereof). For just being an adult animation, BoJack Horseman does a pretty good job of bending and twisting and molting together so many different types of genres to create something unique to its brand.

By Florence Basile

Jobs are hard to find in the film industry. Many aspiring filmmakers say they’ll work on any set they can get, even those of reality television. After watching the pilot of UnReal, I’m not so sure. I’ve worked as a production assistant on a few commercial sets and while it is clear that the show exaggerates the poor treatment of production assistants, it is a drama after all, other instances were quite frightening. This made me wonder: is it that simple to categorize a dynamic show like UnReal into the genre of a drama? As Jason Mittell explains in his essay, A Cultural Approach to Television Genre Theory, “linking together these numerous discourses will begin to suggest more large-scale patterns of generic definitions, meanings, and hierarchies, but we should arrive at these macro-features through as analysis of micro-instances” (9). I’d like to take Mittell’s views of television discourse and apply it towards UnReal.

Production discourse was prevalent in this drama, commenting on the making of reality shows like ABC’s Bachelor and Bachelorette (in UnReal, the show was called Everlasting). It’s all a forced reality. At one point, the main character, Rachel, played by Shiri Appleby, blended into the set and used the contestants’ personal information to manipulate them into creating drama. With the help of Rachel, the producer of the show, Quinn, played by Constance Zimmer, strives to please consumers, making characters such as “the villain” and “the MILF” out of the contestants’ actions. Racial discourse was also apparent through the production discourse in the pilot of UnReal, with Quinn claiming that viewers want to see a white woman presented first to the bachelor. Who’s to blame? This is what consumers want, right?

The power dynamics presented in the pilot are another example of production discourse, made clear through the relationship between the creator and producer of the show. The creator, Chet, played by Craig Bierko, is presented as a bit of a slob. While his relationship with the producer of the show is unclear in the first episode, there is a scene where they’re having sex after Chet calls her to his office. It is not loving, with Chet in a dominant position as Quinn is turned away from him. Instantly, I viewed Chet’s character as a representation of powerful men in the industry who use their power to take advantage of women working below them, like Harvey Weinstein. Having watched the pilot nine years after it came out in 2015 and after the MeToo movement began in 2017, according to Mittell I watched the show with a certain historical perspective. As women didn’t start speaking up about Weinstein until two years after the pilot aired, this scene emphasizes how instances like this had been a problem for a longtime. This “micro-instance” was a piece of the “macro-feature” of the show, exposing production discourses in reality television.

The show UnReal exposes the discourses of reality television through a fictional narrative. It’s a drama, commenting on reality television. After watching the show, I’m not quite sure that I’d work as a production assistant on the set of a show like Everlasting – especially if they’d make me pick up trash in disguise as a convicted crew member. But, that’s just me.