Six Season Magic
In the midst of quarantine, I decided to journey into a couple of new TV series, rather than just rewatching my old comfort shows. I’ve had a line-up since I was fourteen that I cycle through as background noise, usually while doing my homework or cleaning my room. Some shows I don’t even enjoy anymore-- they’re just familiar. I’ve seen The Office at least twelve times through. The shows in my roster aren’t necessarily my favorites, but they’re just familiar enough to work.
After rewatching Parks and Recreation, all 15 seasons of Criminal Minds (again), and The Office through twice, I decided to venture into the world of Community. It seemed like a pretty safe bet, given that two of the shows consistently in my line-up had some of the same writers. The Office, Parks and Rec, and Community are the hallmarked trinity of work- (and school-) place comedies. The following encompasses all of my thoughts on Community: it was okay. It had a great start, an okay end, and that was it. It was both disappointing and incredibly entertaining. I’ve come to realize that’s how I feel about most shows. By the end of the third season-- if not sooner-- it’s lost its magic. While I could blame it on bad writing or awkward scene structure, I honestly don’t think that’s the case. I loved the writing in Community. I loved the episodes that were shot like cartoons or video games. I loved how nonsensical and utterly unexplained it was. It was a great show, but season three marked the plummet of my interest. The simple truth, as I saw it, is that people just aren’t that interesting. No one can be nuanced or complicated enough for more than three seasons of a show.
If we follow the example of the typical six-season TV show, the arcs usually contain a similar structure: the first season is introductory, the second season plants the seeds for the primary love interests, and, in the third season, the love interests get together. From here, the fourth season can either detail a breakup or intense relationship conflict. By the fifth season, the couple emerges amicable from whatever relationship issues they were having, whether it be as a couple, or as friends with incredible tension. The sixth season ends with a proposal or the couple being reunited after seasons apart. Interspersed throughout this timeline, the secondary couple (usually the best friends of the primary couple) are on-and-off-again-- most likely peaking in seasons one and three to create tension when the primary couple is being relatively uninteresting.
I’ll use one of my first comfort series, Gossip Girl, as an example. Chuck and Blair are introduced as love interests in season one, and are an established couple by the season two finale. They date in season three, but break up when nearing season four. They become amicable shortly after their breakup, and-- with some trepidations throughout seasons four and five-- end with a Bonnie and Clyde sort of proposal and whirlwind marriage in season six.
Again with Parks and Rec, Ben Wyatt is introduced to the series briefly in season two, planting the seeds for his and Leslie’s relationship. They have their first kiss in season three, break up due to Leslie’s political ambitions, become amicable, and get back together in season four, then commit to getting married at the end of season five. These structures may not mirror each other perfectly, but it’s hard to deny their similarities. All of this begs the question: is the human experience really that interesting? If, boiled down, all these series essentially have the same structure, aren’t these relationships just holding up a mirror to each other, which, in turn, reflects the mundaneness of human relationships?
With that being said, I recently finished New Girl. If there were ever a series that encapsulated the six-season structure, it would be this one-- hold for the seventh season. It also happens to be the biggest supporter of my timeline. Under the assumption that Nick and Jess are the primary couple, and Cece and Schmidt are the secondary couple, the typical six-season structure fits to a tee. Nick and Jess meet in season one, have realizations about their feelings for each other in two, date and break up in three, remain amicable through four and five, and are reunited by the end of six. Cece and Schmidt are caught in the back of Winston's car in season one, peak again in three with the cheating storyline, and are engaged, settled, and uninteresting by four. Therefore, the primary couple, Nick and Jess, are used as agents of tension for the remaining seasons.
Though the idea that art reflects other art is nothing new, much less revolutionary, it is interesting to see how we consume these series. I habitually watch shows that aired before 2015, so I constantly feel like I’m playing catch-up with Netflix. And yet, every time I watch a new series, I feel as though I’ve seen it before. I can more or less predict the plot points, the relationship struggles, and the finale-- and am somehow still enamored. These series parrot the same structure again and again, and each time, we feel like this is the best show we’ve ever watched. Of course, we’ve watched it before in some sort of round-about way, and we’ll watch it again when we finish this series. It’s almost like some kind of ideal life that we’re hooked to, needing to ingest more of it, just with different characters.
Here’s where the (somewhat uncomfortable) seventh season is introduced. As people, we tend to over-consume, and we’re just as glutinous when it comes to our favorite characters. Two of the aforementioned series-- Parks and Rec and New Girl-- follow the six-season structure, but sneak in a seventh season at the end that feels a tad unnecessary. The premise of each is
largely the same as the rest of the series, but they further detail the lives of our favorite characters. I was disappointed by New Girl’s seventh season, and generally think ending season six with Jess and Nick reuniting was all we needed-- but that’s because I’m not a ‘Jess.’ Unlike Jess, I generally don’t form close relationships with men. I don’t have the patience to teach children, and I’m not good at being nice when I’m angry. I loved Jess’s character, but I didn’t want more of her because she wasn’t someone I aspired to be. So while New Girl didn’t scratch any itches for me, Parks and Rec certainly did.
Even in season seven, Leslie still had life. She was still hot on the political trail, pursuing new avenues in her long and accomplished career. She had a husband and triplets, yet none of that mattered. Alongside a brewing conflict between Leslie and a former co-worker, Ron Swanson, her undying passion and ability to thrive kept me hooked. I could’ve watched Parks and Rec forever and never gotten bored. It was reassuring to me to see my fears of romance derailing my career to be unrealized in the case of Leslie Knope. She was also a beacon of hope that I wasn’t wasting my life with each year I aged. I hate justifying my existence with every birthday. With Leslie, it was like she never had to. Her career in politics began later than most, but again, it didn’t matter.
Parks and Rec wasn’t anything radically new, but I felt so bonded with the characters. I identified with Leslie, wanting to be a politician myself one day. I wanted her undying optimism and practically unachievable work ethic. I wanted to love and care for people with the selflessness she did. This is the only series that defies my third season disinterest, and for no other reason than that I saw everything I wanted to be in Leslie Knope. This realization is what cracked the code of the six-season structure for me. Everyone wants to see their greatest fears and biggest insecurities realized on screen, just to know that they won’t matter in the end.
We are all in season one-- for the most part, anyways. We are only just being introduced to the real world and everything that comes with it. Everything is scary and uncomfortable, and people are awful, so we need to find a source of comfort. We need to convince ourselves that, despite everything, we will succeed. Whatever that means. And so, we’re presented with the six-season structure. These series show us that we’ll go through rough patches, fail to meet expectations, get heartbroken, and completely fall apart. We’ll be awkward, uninteresting, and sometimes the dumbest person in the room. These series are so comforting because we quite literally get to watch ourselves get through it. It’s some odd form of manifestation. It’s a reassurance that we’re going to make it to the end. These relatable characters with mirroring stories can absolutely be mundane, but they reassure us that, by the finale, everything will be okay.