No One Knows What Good TV Is Anymore

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The TV landscape right now is utter chaos.

All hail the queen, Padma Lakshmi.

The most delightful TV clip of the week.

The funniest joke from the funniest show on TV.

Another round of celebrity headline Mad Libs.

I Hate This for Us

The dystopian, suffocating, poisonous blanket of smoke that descended on New York this week shut down most of the city’s hallmark attributes, save for at least one: the instinct to loudly complain. (Unlike the hazardous air we were breathing, we rose to the occasion.)

Still, on Thursday, I received devastating news. Owed to the poor-quality air and abundance of toxins, I was only able to choke out a strained, muffled moan, when I had wanted to shriek in horror: After nearly a year in limbo, Showtime canceled the series I Love That for You after one season. To cancel a Molly Shannon series at all—let alone one this funny, with award-worthy showcases from her, Vanessa Bayer, and Jenifer Lewis—is a travesty. But to do it during Pride Month?! I’m calling GLAAD, the ACLU, and Andy Cohen. This must not stand.

Listen, it stings whenever a person’s favorite series is canceled. It’s been happening in droves this last year, as the presumed gold rush that was the streaming boom has seemingly dried up. But there’s something about I Love That for You being canceled now, in this weird and uncertain time in the industry—a Writers Strike combined with a streaming existential crisis—that seems particularly doomsday-y for TV fans. (Or, at least, this TV fan.)

Have we completely lost the plot of what a good show is? More, will we ever find it again?

I Love That for You was special: a weird, ballsy dark comedy by way of absurdist morality tale. Bayer plays an aspiring home shopping network personality who manufactures a cancer diagnosis to keep her job—yet somehow you still root for her. It was a series that was heartwarming and endearing, while being incredibly uncomfortable (again, fake cancer!).

The show was the kind of distinctive, unusual comedy that the age of #PeakTV was supposed to foster. That it might not be for everyone was the point; that the contingent who watched it, whatever size that viewership was, became rabid fans was supposed to be proof of its success.

The utopian ideal was that there would be many different versions of something great for every kind of taste to champion, rather than one thing that’s mediocre for everyone to merely tolerate. But misguided revenue models, unrealistic development practices, and an exhausting obsession with content that is “prestige” seems to have poisoned what had been great about this era of television.

Unique series like I Love That for You (and so many more) are being canceled. The refusal to pay writers what they’re worth has led to a necessary work stoppage, and no one really knows when existing favorite series, like Abbott Elementary,Grey’s Anatomy, Ghosts, or Young Sheldon will return. Streaming services are in a tailspin over how to regroup after years of a failed experiment. And the biggest series we’re all supposed to be watching and loving right now is…The Idol. God help us.

It’s all so bleak. The industry environment right now is one you might describe by comparing it to looking out a window and seeing a terrifying, apocalyptic orange haze where the charming, gratifying view of your street used to be. You couldn’t script a better backdrop. (Literally! Writers are on strike!)

This week, Josef Adalian and Lane Brown wrote a fascinating—which is to say depressing, unsettling, and instructive—piece for Vulture called “The Binge Purge,” about how “TV’s streaming model is broken.”

The article is full of telling interviews and anecdotes from TV creators, executives, and writers about how bad the situation is, and how clueless everybody seems to be when it comes to fixing the situation.

The ire has to do with how difficult it’s become to make any TV at all, let alone great TV: “This is the single worst time to be making anything in the history of the medium. It’s just as dark as it’s ever been.” There’s bitterness over how streaming services operate and how the way pay has been structured has decimated compensation, outside of the executive suites and highest-tier A-listers. “I think we may be in the world’s biggest Ponzi scheme.”

And there’s the observation that had me stand up from my computer desk, dance around the room in praise and shout, “Amen to that!” “Where’s my Alias? Where’s my West Wing? Where’s my 24? Where’s my Ally McBeal, Once and Again, and Brothers & Sisters? I have a friend who works at Netflix, and for years I’ve been asking, ‘When are all of you streamers going to get your prestige heads out of your asses?’”

(Read more of the article here. It’s definitely worth it if you’re a TV fan trying to understand what in the world is going on right now.)

I’ve been thinking a lot about that last point this week, a week in which yet another bloated, stakes-less prestige drama series starring major celebrity award winners and Marvel superheroes premiered on a streaming service and no one seems to know it exists. Funnily enough, it’s also a week that featured the release of what may rank as the piece of entertainment I’ve been most excited to watch in years: original Grey’s Anatomy stars Katherine Heigl and Ellen Pompeo interviewing each other for Variety’s “Actors on Actors” series. (Watch it here.)

The conversation was loaded with more than a decade of baggage, stemming from all the tabloid gossip surrounding Heigl’s departure from the series in 2010, the industry’s misogynistic branding of her as difficult and ungrateful her after candid comments she had made about her career and projects, and, now, the reconsideration of that period and a vindication: Not only was Heigl mistreated, she actually was right.

The “Actors on Actors” installment is juicy, illuminating as to the pressures the two actresses faced, and nostalgic, when it comes to what seems now like a bygone era of TV.

I think about how influential that period was for me as a TV fan, and now as an entertainment journalist. “Obsessed” doesn’t even begin to describe my relationship to early Grey’s, Brothers & Sisters, Desperate Housewives, The West Wing, Ugly Betty, The Office, Arrested Development, Scrubs, Will & Grace, Malcolm in the Middle…the list goes on. Obviously TV is constantly changing, and that time seemed radical compared to ones before—just as today’s content seems to have evolved compared to those series. But there’s a spirit to those shows that I miss, as the industry sped ahead and metastasized.

Was it thrilling to watch as TV changed on the backs of Mad Men, House of Cards, and the streaming explosion? Of course! But in this age of #TooMuchTV and overwhelming options of what to watch, it’s striking to me that—just as the point was made in that Vulture piece—shows like those broadcast hits are missing. Whether it’s a focus on streaming mediocrity (the Netflix shows you put on while folding laundry and scrolling through Instagram) or the pressure to make everything prestige, we’re missing what I think is a vital part of the television landscape: quality, mainstream series that people actually enjoy watching.

Now I gear up for a weekend of having to watch another episode of The Idol, the crowning achievement of empty provocation, false importance, and auteur narcissism. It’s a show wrought by the collision of the streaming rise and prestige pandemonium, like a garish sonic boom. This is what years of formulas, algorithms, production budgets, and changes in how TV is made and consumed ruled is the kind of TV we not only want, but would think is good. I hate it.

My favorite tweet of the week kind of relates to all of this. It offers a Sliding Doors scenario: What if instead of wondering how we got here, we just never even tried?

I guess basically what I’m saying is that we should all give up on new things and just watch reruns of The Golden Girls.

Pack Up Your Legacy and Go

The longest, healthiest, and most intimate relationships I’ve had in my life are with my beloved reality TV hosts.

Some of them have been with me, week after week, going on 20 years. I have cried in front of them. I have been at my worst in front of them: sobbing into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s while watching Cat Deeley hug a contestant on So You Think You Can Dance. I have experienced my highest highs before them, like just recently, applauding ecstatically when Jeff Probst announced Yam Yam as the winner of Survivor.

They have made me feel safe and secure—there is no greater comfort than Tim Gunn and Heidi Klum appearing together on a TV screen. And they have been foundational to the very fabric of who I am as a person, as I’m reminded each of the 20 to 30 times a year I rewatch the clip of Ryan Seacrest announcing Kelly Clarkson as the first winner of American Idol.

Then there’s Padma Lakshmi, who for the last 17 years has presided over the convergence of the two greatest loves of my life: reality TV and food.

By virtue of my job, I get asked all the time what is the best show on TV, or what is my favorite. The answer to both questions, reliably over at least the last decade, has been Top Chef. It is exquisite. I won’t miss an episode. It is thrilling, emotional, and stunning to look at. It is educational about cultures and traditions, often quite funny, and has managed to evolve in a way that never betrays what the show is at its core.

Lakshmi is crucial to that long-running success. This week, Bravo aired what will be her last episode as host and judge of the series. It’s an impressive legacy, one that deserves being memorialized.

She epitomizes the tricky balance of what makes Top Chef work.

She is incredibly knowledgeable about food and cooking techniques from all over the world, and of a spectrum of skill sets from home cooking to fine dining. She brings that authority and warranted gravity to her presenting and judging, but she also understands the direct pathway from the heart to the plate that the chefs create with. When Top Chef began embracing the emotion, memories, and life experience—tangible and intangible—that are inextricable from food, the series elevated to an unmatched level of reality TV competition.

You can tell that Lakshmi was a driving force of that. Her interactions with the contestants and their food are approached from a place of curiosity and, often, great humor. Like any long-running, committed relationship, like the ones I fancy myself in with my cherished hosts, it’s hard to imagine going on without her—excuse me, the show going on without her. But she’s earned this new chapter. And, by the way, if you haven’t watched her other series Taste the Nation with Padma Lakshmi, do so immediately. It’s one of the best non-fiction series on TV.

This Is Me

Sometimes you go through life lost, feeling alone, wondering, “Does anyone really know me? Do I even know myself?”

And then a meme account will surface a video of Sarah Jessica Parker being interviewed on The Rosie O’Donnell Show before the first season premiere of Sex and the City, during which she and O’Donnell duet to a song from Annie, with new lyrics about Parker’s no-nudity clause. (Watch it here.)

Eleven different people sent me that video. It occupied space in five different group chats.

Now, more than ever, I feel seen. (Also, Parker has always been—and still is—the most charming talk show guest.)

A Perfect Joke

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again…probably three to four times a day, usually out loud to no one. But I’ll say it anyway: The Other Two is the funniest show on TV right now.

This week’s new episode has what may be my favorite joke of the season so far, which is high praise. On the biting showbiz satire, talentless pop superstar Chase Dreams (Case Walker) expresses his distrust that his manager, Chuly (Wanda Sykes), and his sister/co-manager, Brooke (Heléne Yorke), know what they’re doing. They released his last album on Jan. 6, the day of the insurrection, after all.

Then the truth comes out. “We didn’t release your album on the day of the insurrection,” Chuly says. “Your album was so bad, I created the insurrection!” She explains that she knew the album would ruin his career, so she “spent months radicalizing people to storm the Capitol on the day it dropped.”

“Chase,” she says, pointing at herself, “I’m Q.”

Everything, from the surrealist lunacy of the bit to Sykes’ line delivery, is perfect. (Watch it here.)

Now It Makes Sense

When I first learned that Kelis and Bill Murray were reportedly dating, I didn’t know what to make of it. Thankfully, this tweet from Bossip explains it perfectly.

More From The Daily Beast’s Obsessed

The Never Have I Ever finale will make you cry, and reading this interview about it with Jaren Lewison, who plays Ben Gross, will make you smile. Read more.

Phil Dunster, who played Jamie Tartt on Ted Lasso, knows that everyone wants him and Roy Kent to kiss. Read more.

The (garbage) premiere of The Idol raised pressing questions: How offensive is it? Why are they calling mental illness sexy? Most importantly: Why does everyone have atrocious hair? Read more.

Never Have I Ever: A touching end to one of modern TV’s great teen shows. (Now on Netflix)

Based on a True Story: Kaley Cuoco and Chris Messina in a series together as charming as you’d imagine. (Now on Peacock)

Transformers: Rise of the Beasts: It takes a really bad movie to make you think, “I miss Michael Bay.” (Now in theaters)

The Crowded Room: To squander this many talented, very famous stars is truly an accomplishment! (Now on Apple TV+)

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