TV Studies 2024

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.

In my opinion, few television series have been able to achieve such massive success and popularity like Squid Game. Following Gi-Hun, a divorced middle-aged man who is addicted to sports gambling and struggles with debt, Squid Game centers around everyday characters like us, people who have problems and challenges and are sometimes just too tired of life. At its core, Squid Game is about ordinary people playing ordinary games, participating in a game of death to escape their mundane lives. 

Whether you may have realized it or not, this is actually the most central appeal of Squid Game. Exploring themes surrounding socio-economic status and intersectionality, Squid Game portrays the identities of the people of our society today that are each grappling with their own problems in life. Whether it is Gi-Hun and his debt, Sea-byeok and her attempts to find a new life outside of North Korea, or Abdul Ali grappling with his struggles as an impoverished immigrant worker, the players of Squid Game each come from different walks of life, yet all share one common thing: they don’t want to live like this anymore. There’s nothing special to it, just a relatable desire for a better life. 

Personally, I feel like Squid Game was such an important show to have been produced, especially given the context of Korean society. Being an extremely collectivist society with strong Confucius values and also being one of the most homogenous countries in the world, conversations about marginalized people and struggles are simply not talked about enough. In essence, I think Squid Game was so popular because it depicts ordinary people dealing with ordinary problems. 

Paramount Plus’s series Evil follows a trio of truth-seekers—a priest-in-training, a working-class tech wizz, and a Scully-coded psychologist—hired by the Catholic church to work through their backlog of investigation requests into various supernatural phenomena, from demonic possession to medical miracles. I started watching it for a few reasons. First, the first three episodes were available to watch on the plane home for spring break. Second, reading the series description faintly reminded me of an article my mom had sent me about it (she thought it seemed up my alley and she was correct). Third, and perhaps most importantly, I liked the poster advertising the show on the tiny TV screen implanted into the headrest of the seat in front of me. It was hyper-stylized, showing a closeup of a woman’s face turned toward the heavens, impossible things reflected in her tears.

Let me preface the rest of this post by saying I’ve watched a whopping four episodes of the entire show, whose last season airs in May. I’m reading this text based on the arcs I’ve seen develop over the first quarter of the first season. That said, with only four episodes under my belt, I’ve found myself thinking a lot about this show and the way it problematizes questions concerning science and faith.

Startlingly different readings of the series arise through the use of television studies theorist Stuart Hall’s definitions of three broad categories of interpretation, as outlined in his 1980 essay “Encoding/Decoding”: dominant, negotiated, and oppositional. A dominant decoding involves the television viewer ‘correctly’ interpreting the text; that is, deriving the meaning from it that the creators, producers, distributors, etc. encoded into it, whether intentionally or not. An oppositional reading actively resists a ‘clear’ or dominant understanding of the text, instead opting to “retotalize the message within some alternative framework of reference” (173). Finally, the negotiated reading exists between the realms of the dominant and the oppositional, flirting with both lenses and ultimately drawing a more dynamic, ‘complete’ conclusion than either of the other two can on their own.

A few different readings of Evil thus far, per Hall:

Dominant- Many superstitions and “miracles”/religion-based beliefs are rooted in ignorance and stigma around mental illness, as well as structures of power created and sustained to upkeep and emphasize the institution of Catholicism. Many “miraculous”/“unexplainable” things in the world can be explained through close observation and scientific reasoning. Earthly explanations. Science does not, however, explain everything—some things truly cannot be explained through empirical means, or at the very least humankind hasn’t caught up enough to effectively explore these phenomena.

Negotiated- This program is capitalistic in nature but still contains artistic merit and relevant/thoughtful discourse on the human experience and the various ways we make sense of the world around us—through empirical or subjective lenses, or, ideally, both.

Oppositional- Though Evil appears well-intentioned, it, like all television, is simply another cog in the capitalist machine disguised as a legitimate artistic/philosophical effort. It is a part of the same intricate systems of oppression it fictionalizes and seeks to explore. The fact that the three main characters in the series are all employed by the Catholic church exposes their corrupt intentions and morals in this seemingly charitable pursuit of truth and rightness, as well as their creators’ inability to truly challenge this system. Did the individuals involved truly care about debunking harmful religion-based societal assumptions designed to disempower those most affected by systems of oppression, they would refuse to work with the Church and instead strike out on their own as a nonsecular effort to right centuries of lies perpetrated by religions like Catholicism. This program, by having its protagonists employed by the Church, reestablishes the very systems of power it markets itself as challenging. It is nothing more than yet another money-grabbing, formulaic attempt by a dying streaming platform to stay relevant in a world increasingly populated by sensationalist media. True art is not for profit.

In my opinion, this show is an ambitious and complicated effort by makers legitimately interested in problematizing the world around them through the lenses of science and religion, exploring what happens when the two intersect. It is neither patronizing toward religion nor blindly trusting of science. It grapples with modernity through three strikingly different characters of different racial and socioeconomic backgrounds, asking more questions that providing definitive answers.

My family rarely watched television together. My parents liked the news, my younger siblings liked Disney Channel, and my older sister liked robotics meetings. However, there was one exception: The Amazing Race. My family and I watched each season religiously for over 5 years, I even had an amazing race themed birthday party in second grade. We were obsessed with thinking about which family members would make the best (or worst) teams and enjoyed fighting about who we should root for. I’m not exactly sure why The Amazing Race became our favorite show but to fund such an expensive show for 36 seasons clearly means my family was not alone. 36 seasons also means The Amazing Race is clearly profitable. 

At around 8:30 pm on April 3, Survivor players voted Mo off the island and credits began to roll. Then, The Amazing Race played and immediately everyone in the Weitz Cinema was bombarded by Expedia ads. It makes sense that the average viewer of Amazing Race would be enticed to travel from watching an episode. However, the bluntness of the programming and flow felt shocking to me. But then I had an epiphany–The Amazing Race is already an ad in itself.

Amazing Race sells a thirst for adventure and idealized view of traveling. Whether it’s eating an insane amount of foreign foods (to the point contestants would often throw up) or yelling at a taxi driver, “FAST, RÁPIDO, MUY RÁPIDO POR FAVOR”, or skydiving, it seems that contestants are being fully immersed in new landscapes and ways of life. The show is yelling at its audience to be free! We should just break out of our comfort zones, leave our jobs, and embark on a tour around the world!

Yet, in reality the contestants don’t seem to be enjoying their once-in-a-lifetime experience. Sometimes they don’t even seem to know what country they’re in. The show, quite ironically, strays away from a romanticized representation of travel by forcing their competitors to focus on superficial tasks, all for the goal of 1 million dollars. Locals are never interviewed during the episode. Oftentimes, they are literal mascots only to be seen at the finish line of each episode.

Looking back, I like to think my family enjoyed The Amazing Race not because of its consumerist themes about traveling and undertones of the exploitation that occurs in the tourism industry, but because of the message of teamwork it offers. Contestants are constantly put into infuriating positions (often traffic) or face a buildup of mental stress that is unleashed upon their partner. Only the teams that can tread the line between supporting one another while adapting on the spot can stay competitive in the race. 

At the end of the day, even with all the problems The Amazing Race has, I still loved watching my favorite childhood show. Decoding the show as a big advertisement doesn’t change the fact that the competition aspect of the show is very entertaining. And who knows, maybe one day I’ll compete on The Amazing Race and follow the footsteps of that one Carleton alumni who won 1 million dollars.

I watched Gossip Girl for the first time recently and it momentarily took over my life. I found myself unable to look away and aimlessly searching for some intellectual justification for my interest. As a contemporary viewer, primed by ubiquitous satirical content about rich people behaving badly, I looked for class commentary. What I found was scattered, inconsistent ideology. 

The aesthetics of luxury and excess—showy designer clothes, lavish galas, spontaneous international vacations on private jets etc.—immediately register for me as satire. But while the show is driven by over-exaggeration, it toes the line between satire and aspiration, both mocking and romanticizing ~the scandalous lives of Manhattan’s elite~. Unsurprisingly, soap and scandal power the show rather than a coherent message, which allows for broad appeal across ideological lines and leaves room for various dominant and oppositional readings. It is worth noting that the show premiered months before the Great Recession, which depending on your reading may have made its social critique more scathing or its glamorization of wealth more tone deaf. 

 My own negotiated readings goes as follows. The show is about fascination with celebrity. Gossip Girl, the blog that narrates the show, facilitates this obsession. Whether readers engage earnestly or ironically with the blog and whether they send in tips out of idolization or derision for the Upper East Siders, the proliferation of this content and its solidification of the characters’ icon statuses legitimizes their elite position. As much as these characters decry the exploitative and corruptive nature of the blog, they rely on it to take down their enemies and advance their interests. And outsiders use it as a means of gaining access to an exclusive world. 

My own relationship with Gossip Girl (the show) mirrors the characters’ relationships with Gossip Girl (the blog). Ideologically, I hate the characters and everything they stand for, but my affect keeps me emotionally invested in their lives even as they manipulate and exploit. The show has the potential to interrogate class structure. For example, one character constantly grapples with his outsider status, even as he becomes increasingly insider-y, moving from the slums (read: a spacious Brooklyn loft) to a penthouse in the Upper East Side. The native Upper East Siders understand their inherited wealth as deserved and protect their elite statuses by policing the line between insiders and everyone else. Although the show is rife with material for social commentary, I find myself rooting for the morally bankrupt characters who illustrate the need for critique rather than engaging in the critique myself. 

I can’t help but return to one of my all time favorite shows, Veronica Mars, which coincidentally stars the voice of Gossip Girl, Kristen Bell, as a teenage girl who doubles as a vigilante detective. The 2004 series delivers more precise and effective class commentary than Gossip Girl. It constructs its ideology through its aesthetics and inventive use of genre conventions. Blending film noir and teen drama (e.g. using voiceover narration which is staple of both genres), it creates a prevailing sense of injustice, cynicism, and disorder while granting access to the interior life of a girl navigating her social life, grappling with trauma, and figuring out her identity. As the hard-boiled detective/teenage protagonist, Veronica operates outside and between social worlds, revealing connections between wealth, power, and sexual violence. Unsurprisingly, Gossip Girl aired for six seasons and Veronica Mars was canceled after three due to low ratings.

I don’t think I like Survivor very much, and I don’t think that’s the show’s fault. Have I only seen one episode? Okay, yeah. Am I coming into this with a pre-existing distaste for reality TV and secret plots that pit people against each other? Kinda, yeah. Depends on the show. I’m not claiming to be the grand judge, jury, and executioner of Survivor, and I don’t believe my personal taste to be important or impactful in any way here, but the context is important here. Cause what unsettled me the most is that I couldn’t distinguish between my dislike towards the show’s premise and their designated hateable characters.

Take Venus, right? She’s one of the names I ended up writing down the most in my notes, along with Mo. They’re both portrayed as people who’re power hungry and “play the game,” which sets up somewhat of an odd, gendered take. Venus brings it up herself and says she doesn’t want to vote out another woman, saying Mo’s not a threat, which makes her somewhat of a shit-stirrer to the already-decided members of her team. 

And then a lot of contestant interviews describe Mo and Venus as dangerous, because they’re manipulative people who’d like power. Mo’s favorite Survivor contestant was someone who burnt bridges left and right, which is something the show makes sure we learn, because it’s juicy gossip and something to read into. And on the one hand, I get it; I’m not a fan of manipulative people, because I’m shit at telling when I’m being manipulated and I like to know where I stand with people. But, on the other hand, I couldn’t stop trying to figure out how much of their interviews were Mo and Venus being manipulative people, and how much of their interviews were the show and the writers editing footage to highlight that facet, to better fit the decisions voted on by the tribes.

It’s not just the editing, either: a lot of the structure of the show is designed to pit people against each other, whether that’s through contests of physical ability or strategy. And, as much as I dislike using this phrase as a dismissal of consequences, Mo and Venus were “playing the game”: using what they considered their strengths to their advantage. I dunno. I ended up in this weird position where I recognized that they’re competing with their own skillsets, in a game that’s engineered to pit people against each other, and yet I still having trouble sympathizing with them, because the number of clips and interviews shown make them really unlikeable. This is not a new idea in television studies: the idea of affect, and what’s real versus manipulating the audience a la The Network.

But it’s worth asking, whose values are being shown here? Those of Venus and Mo, who prioritize their own survival through social manipulation? Or is it the editors and producers of the show, who want to set up an “honest” alternative to Mo and Venus like Ben and Tim—two players who didn’t want to reveal any information about their teams and allies until pressed. The show unsettles me because even though I disliked it and didn’t take it at face value, I still ended up influenced by the show; I still was hoping either Mo or Venus got voted out, and I still thought it strange that Venus had some kind of gender loyalty towards Mo when it goes against the rest of her allies. So, unsettling show, though I only blame Survivor for part of my reaction. It’s one thing to read about how shows are constructed to affect audiences; it’s another to know this and still be affected.

I probably will not be watching the next episode; I still don’t have a lot of interest in reality TV. I may, however, read a recap article or two once the next one comes out because regrettably, Survivor is good at what they do.

The other day, I was trying to find a show to watch with my friend, and I stumbled upon Veneno, a Spanish biographical drama television series that premiered in 2020. It tells the story of Cristina Ortiz Rodríguez, better known as La Veneno, a transgender icon and television personality who was really big in the 90s in Spain. I’ve seen this show multiple times and love it so much that I didn’t have a problem watching the first episode again with my friend.

The show’s aesthetics are beautiful and larger than life, reflecting the upbringing of its protagonist, La Veneno. Part of the show is about La Veneno telling a life story to a writer, so from childhood to adulthood, we hear what she went through. These flashback scenes are the most iconic parts of the show and the reason being because they’re the most exaggerated parts that satisfy the queer needs and wants of its audience. There’s a scene in which La Veneno is reminiscing about going through her first communion; this scene is one of my favorites because she’s walking down the aisle of this church in front of her town, having cut up her outfit into the shape of a dress while a folk rock song is playing, altogether a different vibe than you would expect in a church. Then feathers sprout from her. You should definitely watch this scene; I love replaying it. It’s the second episode at the 28-minute mark.

At its core, Veneno explores themes of identity, acceptance, and resilience, mainly focusing on the LGBTQ+ experience in Spain during different periods. It delves into gender identity, discrimination, and the quest for self-expression and authenticity. One of Veneno’s storylines that spans throughout her different lives is the fact that her mother still sees her as her son rather than her daughter and demonizes the person that her son has become.

The show’s aesthetics and ideological content often work harmoniously, enhancing the storytelling and emotional impact. For example, the vibrant aesthetics can amplify moments of joy and celebration in the characters’ lives. However, there are also instances where these elements may work at odds. For example, the glamorous aesthetics might romanticize certain aspects of the LGBTQ+ experience, potentially glossing over the harsh realities and struggles faced by the community. There’s a montage scene in episode 3 that does a great job of showing this. Veneno is telling her experience with depression as a result of leaving home and finally being herself but missing her community, and this is contrasted by the montage being her in the same dance club through the 80s, so we have pop music and very 80s-like neon lights glitter the whole shebang.

Veneno skillfully bends genre conventions, blending drama, comedy, and documentary-style storytelling elements. This style encourages viewers to engage with the show’s portrayal of LGBTQ+ experiences, recognizing its strengths in representation and potential biases inherent in its storytelling approach, given that La Veneno is sometimes an unreliable narrator.

By Theo Weldon

A new episode of Survivor goes through months of editing and postproduction before it is broadcast to millions of fans on CBS. When it does hit the airwaves, Jeff Probst has a plan. Jeff knows where to put the commercial breaks. Jeff can draw us in with promises of conspiracy and interpersonal drama before blindsiding us with a bombardment of advertisements for pharmaceuticals, insurance packages, and an endless number of skincare products. Jeff (read: the executives at CBS) has tailored the flow of Survivor to hook viewers on the content of the episode such that they are willing to suffer through seven commercial breaks to see how it all ends. 

Watching S46E6 of Survivor live on CBS revealed to me just how well this strategy had been perfected over the last 24 years. The episode, as I understood it, was split into three “parts”: the introduction, the challenge, and the tribal council. Each part led with 10-12 minutes of uninterrupted content to pique the viewer’s curiosity. The latter half of each part was conversely saturated with 2-3 commercial breaks separated by only a few minutes, relying on the viewer’s established interest in the story to carry them through the wall of advertisements. This strategy is not very subtle; when CBS cuts to commercial moments before Jeff reveals who would be voted off the show, I know exactly what’s going on. 

Still, I can’t deny the effectiveness of Survivor’s commercial flow. I was thoroughly invested in the show’s drama, and I was willing to watch a few ads to see how things played out. Even so, watching CBS’s meticulous plan unfold left me with some burning questions. What happens when networks don’t have months of production time to plan the flow of a program? In the context of live television, how do networks strategize to keep viewers engaged when they themselves might not know what’s coming next?

In hopes of answering these questions, I spent the evening of April 4th watching a nationally televised NBA game between the Denver Nuggets and Los Angeles Clippers. I’m a pretty big basketball fan, so I didn’t need much convincing to sit down and watch 2 1/2 hours of the best teams in the world competing. It seemed to me that TNT, the network broadcasting the game, realized this fact, taking advantage of my love for the game by sneaking advertisements into every pause in the action. Every time a coach called timeout, a commercial break was coming. Every time a player stood at the foul line to take free throws, the game’s commentators would rattle off a 15-second plug for Nationwide Insurance, Chevrolet, or Wendy’s.

This heavy-handed, abrasive commercialization indicated a major difference in broadcasting strategies between TNT and CBS. I imagine TNT execs did not feel the need to hook me on the NBA product the way that CBS did with its opening sequences in Survivor. My guess is that they assumed their audience started watching the game with the intention of seeing who would win and how their favorite players would perform, something they would have been sold on before the even turned on their televisions. In short, while the flow of Survivor is tailored to captivating new audiences, the NBA broadcast seemed inaccessible to non-basketball fans, aiming instead to inundate a commited, pre-existing audience with as many advertisements as possible.

Because NBA games are live television, this maximization of commercilization can create some dramatic tonal swings that strike me, as Raymond Williams would put it, as “irresponsible.” The Nuggets vs. Clippers game I watched ended up being close down the stretch, with the Clippers leading by just 5 points with 90 seconds remaining. The Nuggets had the ball, bringing it up the floor in a hurry as they tried desperately to close the gap. Reggie Jackson passed the ball to Nikola Jokic, who lined up a three point shot and scored, cutting the lead to 2 points. The crowd erupted. I was only able to process what was happening for a few moments, however, because as soon as the Clippers coach called timeout so that his team could plan their next attack, I found myself listening to a corporate jingle as I stared at a Pfizer ad. I was still excited to see how the game would play out, but by immediately taking me out of the arena the broadcast had killed the momentum of the moment somewhat. Still, the tonal whiplash from this moment didn’t even come close to the egregiousness of the following sequence.

The Clippers missed their next shot, giving the Nuggets the ball with the chance to tie. Nikola Jokic dribbled the ball across half court, the announcers enthusiastically commentating his every move:

“The score is 102-100, Clippers lead. Nikola Jokic brings the ball across half-court. Hands it off to Aaron Gordon. Gordon’s got a lane to the basket–he takes it. Gordon drives! Oh! Gordon is down… he slipped on his way to the basket… and Gordon is holding his ankle, writhing in pain next to the stantion… we’ve got a timeout on the floor…”

Aaron Gordon had slipped on a wet spot as he drove to the basket. His knee had buckled, his ankle had rolled, and head had crashed into the hardwood floor. I had just witnessed someone suffer a potentially serious injury on live television, and the image of Aaron Gordon holding his leg with his face twisted in pain faded to black only to be immediately replaced with a Taco Bell ad. It was a comical as it was disturbing. Thankfully, it turned out that Gordon had suffered only a minor ankle sprain, but in the moment I couldn’t help but reflect on how the callous flow of the broadcast was seemingly oblivious to the actual tone of the content it was showing on screen.

The tonal whiplash of these final minutes revealed to me a potentially critical difference in “flow” between live and preproduced television. No commercial break from Survivor felt nearly as forced or out of place as those from TNT’s broadcast because they were meticulously planned out long before the episode was aired. In a sense, the CBS broadcast accomodated the viewer with the predictable and less disruptive pacing of its advertising. The live NBA game was unpredictable, the progression of its “narrative” could not be planned for ahead of time. Thus, the network has to assert itself onto both the game and the audience, taking advantage of stoppages in play, whatever the context might be, to run advertisements. This approach creates a somewhat jarring and emotionally inconsistent viewing experience, and I’m curious as to whether that exprience extends to other areas of live television, such as concerts or news broadcasts.

Now you may be wondering: why would such a clairvoyant, handsome viewer like myself sit through more than 20 seasons of a show like Survivor? For love, dear reader. For love. While I can’t claim to have ever auditioned for the show (or taken swim lessons to prepare for it), I do actually adore Survivor.  

“But it’s not even that real,” you say. You only see a fraction of what happens- the stuff the people making the show want you to see,” you feebly protest. 

Exactly. 

Don’t get me wrong I’ve had plenty of fun binging Survivor with friends and just laughing at the silly people in the TV show being horrible to each other. But I genuinely believe that the show is a fascinatingly nuanced work of creative brilliance. For me, watching Survivor is an intensely negotiated exercise in piecing together fragments of truth to make inferences about where the show is headed and who will eventually win. It’s a whodunnit. And like any good mystery, it still works even once you’ve peeked behind the curtain. 

Because it’s true: there’s so much that happens during those 39 (or 26, sigh) days that you as a viewer never see. But that means that what you do see is there for a reason. Part of the show’s core appeal is indeed the illusion that you’re watching real people do real things. But really, when you watch a season or even an episode of Survivor you’re engaging with a version of reality that those making the show have intentionally crafted for the sake of narrative. When you consider that- for any given season- Survivor’s editors sift through hundreds of hours of real, random footage and piece it all together into something coherent, you start to recognize Survivor for the creative undertaking that it truly is. And given that the brilliant minds behind the show have been performing this feat for 25 years across 46 seasons, you can bet they’re fucking good at it. 

Like anything airing on television, Survivor needs you to keep watching it. The methods by which it achieves this on an episode-to-episode basis or even within a single episode’s runtime are pretty straightforward: cutting to commercial break on a cliffhanger, showing teasers of next week’s juicy action at the end of every episode, etc, etc- you’ve seen it all before. But it’s through careful cultivation, of the personalities and arcs of contestants who go the distance- especially the eventual winner- that Survivor works its real magic. 

After all, any good story needs a satisfying conclusion. If you the viewer invested in the narratives of season after season of Survivor only to be continually subjected to winners who were shown to be unlikeable people or undeserving contestants, you’d probably get fed up and drop the show. The game’s mechanics work to circumvent this outcome to an extent, but it’s the editors’ responsibility to make you root for, like, or at the very least understand the winning contestant and their gameplay enough to be satisfied when they inevitably bring home the million. 

Watching Survivor with this understanding transforms the way you interpret literally every on-screen interaction in literally every scene; it becomes a constant game of analysis that involves interpreting your own readings of everything that happens throughout the season to predict its outcome. 

I will grant that the average Survivor viewer is probably not quite as neurotic as yours truly. After all, millions of people still tune in every week to watch the show and I can’t imagine they’ve all read Stuart Hall’s chapter on encoding and decoding. But I think if a piece of art can be enjoyed at such wildly varying levels of engagement, that has to count for something. Some reality TV may be trash. Survivor, however, is good trash. 

By Jonathan Nguyen

As an avid fan of the acclaimed series, How I Met Your Mother, investing my time in watching its latest spin-off series How I Met Your Father was inevitable. I had become emotionally attached to watching Ted Mosby and his group of life-long friends grow and develop as characters. I mean, after nine seasons, wouldn’t you? 

So, after approximately 8 years since How I Met Your Mother’s final season aired and we at last finally see [SPOILER ALERT] Ted Mosby meeting The Mother and his coping with her unexpected and controversial death [SPOILER ALERT], I was eager see how this spin-off would live up to the original. Though How I Met Your Father had some fun moments, I believe it ultimately fails to deliver the charm Ted Mosby and company had. 

Through Stuart Hall’s dominant, negotiated, and oppositional readings of television text, I explore why How I Met Your Father’s stint on air may have been so short-lived. 

The potential dominant readings of How I Met Your Father is that this is a sitcom set in contemporary times, intricately weaving in references to the technologized, modern world. The clear contrast with having a female lead versus the original series’ male lead alongside a supporting cast ranging from multiple gender and ethnic identities would suggest to a viewer how the television industry is striving towards diversity and inclusivity. The show ultimately aims for its audience to see how the diverse group of friends organically form a friendship that blossoms in parallel to the original while Hillary Duff’s character, Sophie, searches for her soulmate.

An oppositional reading however, might potentially leave viewers finding this contemporary take as dishonoring the original series. How I Met Your Father’s theme of friendship is drowned out by what some viewers may interpret as diversity for the sake of diversity. How I Met Your Father’s cast consists of a white American man, an adopted sister who identifies as Asian and lesbian, two south Asian characters who met in medical school, a British man hailing from a wealthy and aristocratic family, and a hispanic woman all becoming friends with one another while the white American woman searches for the love of her life. Is this diversity or tokenism?

A negotiated reading of How I Met Your Father encompasses aspects from both the dominant and oppositional readings. The expectations for How I Met Your Father–and really, many other spin-off shows from popular series such as Better Call Saul deriving from Breaking Bad and AMC’s The Walking Dead giving rise to Fear the Walking Dead–are set high. No one likes it when the new taints the old. How I Met Your Father had big shoes to fill, naturally. In combination with the high standards set by its predecessor and the series’ need to provide a modern and diverse approach when writing its characters, it’s understandable why a negotiated reading may blend together the show’s periods of enjoyment with projections of modern society’s unattainable ideals.

Though I did enjoy watching How I Met Your Father, my viewing of the show was nothing more than a “filler” I would watch during my meals. I didn’t feel as connected to the spin-off series as I did with the original. Seeing now that the show got canceled, I must say I am a little bummed they didn’t tell us who the father is. With that said though, Jessie is most definitely the father.