Let me tell you, the state of television right now is a masterclass in absurdity. We’re living in an era where a middle schooler’s iPad charging habits can spark existential dread, and a reboot of a Disney Channel franchise can feel like a dystopian prophecy. It’s a strange time to be a TV watcher, isn’t it? Personally, I think we’ve crossed into a realm where the line between nostalgia and self-parody has been permanently blurred. Take the recent Ted Lasso/Severance crossover, for instance. Sure, it’s technically a crossover, but isn’t it also a desperate attempt by Apple TV to remind us that their shows are still ‘relevant’? What makes this particularly fascinating is how it mirrors the larger trend of streaming platforms weaponizing nostalgia to mask the fact that original content is running out of steam. You know, like when they make a ‘welcome back’ video that’s longer than the actual episode. It’s almost like they’re trying to convince us that a two-year hiatus was just a brief intermission, not a full-blown exodus.
Now, let’s talk about aging. There’s something deeply ironic about a 25-year-old on Big Brother asking what a VHS is, right? It’s not just a generational gap—it’s a cultural chasm. And yet, this moment feels like a microcosm of our entire media landscape. We’re constantly being reminded of our age through media that’s either too eager to infantilize us or too cynical to acknowledge its own obsolescence. What many people don’t realize is that this isn’t just about technology; it’s about identity. When a show like Dancing With the Stars brings back a 18-year-old pro who once danced with children, it’s not just a casting choice—it’s a statement. A statement that says, ‘We’re still relevant, but only if we ignore the fact that we’ve become a relic.’
And then there’s the question of narrative fatigue. The Five Star Weekend Season 2 renewal feels like the Big Little Lies of the streaming era—exhausted source material, desperate for a second act. But here’s the thing: Big Little Lies worked because it had a self-awareness that Season 1 of Five Star Weekend lacks. What this really suggests is that we’re in a golden age of reboots, but not all reboots are created equal. The Descendants spin-off Hidden Heroes reads like a Disney Channel version of Stuart Fails to Save the Universe, which itself feels like a meta-commentary on how we’ve run out of new stories. It’s a bit like watching a Russian nesting doll of reboots, each one trying to outdo the last in terms of absurdity.
Let’s not forget the characters. Barry Sloane’s role in House of the Dragon is a textbook example of how TV has become a graveyard for talented actors. It’s not just that the character was underdeveloped—it’s that the showrunners seemed to treat him like a prop. And Maggie lighting the Statue of Liberty? That’s not just a plot twist; it’s a metaphor for how we’re all just waiting for the inevitable collapse of our own carefully constructed realities. What I find especially interesting is how these moments of narrative predictability are now treated as surprises. It’s like the audience is being asked to gasp at a punchline that’s been telegraphed for three seasons.
Finally, there’s the matter of cross-promotion. The A24 movie Primetime’s trailer featuring Jeff Zucker as himself is a masterstroke of self-awareness. But it’s also a reminder that we’re living in a world where everything is a brand extension. The Voice Celebrity feels like a rebranded Masked Singer without the mystery, which is kind of like having a party without the confetti. It’s not just lazy—it’s a reflection of how we’ve become addicted to the spectacle of recognition over the substance of storytelling.
In the end, all of this points to a single, inescapable truth: television is no longer about telling stories. It’s about creating a shared experience of confusion, nostalgia, and self-referential absurdity. And if you take a step back and think about it, that might be the most honest narrative of all.
