Lifted by Cranes
An unexpected sitcom odyssey, and the revelation of family’s many forms
A few months ago, I started seeing a therapist.
Netflix recommended him.
He’s good; smart, well-read, cultured. Physically imposing, but generally optimistic. He’s anxious, balding, frustratingly indecisive, pretentious, and simultaneously deliberate, kind-hearted, generous, and charming. He’s human, and he knows it.
His name is Frasier Crane, and for the past eight weeks, and 11 seasons, he’s been with me night and day, right in my living room.
25 years ago, Frasier debuted as a spin-off of the popular Boston bar based sitcom Cheers. And I can’t really talk about one without the other.
I grew up watching late-night re-runs of Cheers on Nick at Nite and TV Land after I was supposed to be in bed. We had two TVs in my house. One in the living room, where my dad would hold the remote from the time he got home from work, until long after the rest of the house was asleep. The other was one of those clunky box TVs where the picture was kind of fuzzy, upstairs in my parents bedroom. The deal was that if my brother and I were good, we could go upstairs after dinner was cleaned up and chores were finished, and watch a show. The trick was, if we were quiet and didn’t go back downstairs for extra snacks, sometimes my parents would forget that we were still awake and we could stay up late watching nostalgia-fueled programming all night.
Cheers was the first sitcom that I ever fell in love with. At it’s core, it was simple. A show in a hometown bar about people — how we live, how we love, how we can hurt. But like any good art, it reflected life back to the us in a way that was accessible, authentic, and at times, a needed smack in the face. It felt familiar. It was, and is, one of those feel-good shows that — once you’ve watched the series once — you can pick up at any point in it’s 11 season run, and feel like you’re visiting old friends.
The first time I finished Cheers, I sobbed.
I’m a self-proclaimed sap, but even as a kid, the finale struck a chord. I hadn’t necessarily picked up on all the subtle themes or cultural nods as I was watching. I didn’t understand the accuracy with which they depicted the intricacies of relationships, and I would need a few more years before I had the context for their conversations around alcoholism and illness. But for the first time, I had characters, and their stories, that I was invested in. I wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye to my friends.
It’s been about 14 years since then, and I’ve loved a lot of shows in between — Friends, The Office, New Girl, Parks and Rec. But with each of them, I’ve been searching for that feeling that I had with Cheers. That familiarity. That life-lesson smack. That heart.
In retrospect, I’m not totally sure why it took me so long to dive into Frasier. Maybe it’s the same kind of retreat you make after your first heartbreak. It’s hard to go to the places, eat the foods, smell the things, or see the people that remind you of them.
I just needed time.
In early August of this year, I felt ready. Frasier and I had some catching up to do. I had grown up and been through some stuff, and it had been some time since he had left the bar in Boston and found a coffee shop in Seattle. But between me clicking the tile on Netflix, and Frasier’s first monologue, I knew I was back among friends.
“Six months ago, I was living in Boston. My wife had just left me, which was very painful. And then she came back to me, which was excruciating. On top of that, my practice had grown stagnant, and my social life consisted of hanging around a bar night after night. I was clinging to a life that wasn’t working anymore. And I knew I had to do something. Anything. So, I ended the marriage once and for all, packed up my things and moved back here to my hometown of Seattle…I took action…Move, change. Do something. And if it’s a mistake, do something else.”
Over the eight weeks that followed, I binged all 11 seasons — 5,800 minutes of television. I met Martin — Frasier’s dad, Niles — his brother, Roz — his producer, Daphne — Martin’s physical therapist, and I fell in love with each of them as they marbled their way into my daily routine. It was the same way that I had fallen in love with the cast of characters that gathered at that bar back home — slowly, and then unconditionally.
Except this time, I was aware it was happening — just like real life, I guess. I was more in-tune with the characters, more conscious of their dynamic, more cognizant of their feelings and where they come from, and much more aware of how they were shaping me in real time.
I immediately latched on to Martin. As the patriarch to the Crane clan, he’s the perfect foil for Frasier. He quickly breaks out as the moral compass of the show. He’s a voice of reason, while always encouraging. He’s embarrassing, and infuriating. He’s simultaneously your aspirational dad, and your actual dad.
Niles, on the other hand, I didn’t think I was going to like. The first time we meet him, he’s standing in the coffee shop, recounting a recent fight he had with his estate’s gardener. I was quick to judgement. By the end, as a result of numerous one-liners, heartfelt moments, hours spent pining for unrequited love, and hysterical physical comedy, Niles ended up being my favorite character. Like the good ones always do, he sneaks up on you.
Roz and Daphne are the show’s leading ladies. I don’t mean to lump them together here, but as I was watching this male-driven franchise, I was so struck by the writing of these two. They are empowered, driven, self-sufficient women, but they present with varying degrees of sweetness, sexiness, and femininity. Roz is a promiscuous, antagonistic, take-charge personality that reminds me a lot of the women in my own family, whereas Daphne is the quirky, kind-hearted, psychic, caregiver type. Individually, and dynamically, they exemplify the complexity of being a working woman trying to balance toughness and being taken seriously with flexibility and sexiness, all while proving that there is not a one-size-fits-all archetype for female characters on TV sitcoms.
Frasier, himself, is a hard character to love right away. He’s grandiose, pompous at times, and endlessly wishy-washy. You really have to give him a chance to show you his heart. How good he can be. How well he knows his people, and is able to show them love in the way that they need. How he shows up for them no matter what. He takes a long time to fully grow into himself, and trust his instincts. But eventually, he learns what you know all along, which is that he feels his strongest, most sure, and fullest when he’s doing right by and surrounding himself with his people. Something I think everyone can learn to get better at.
With Cheers, I was a kid imagining my life when I would be old enough to drink, and be in love, and what kind of mistakes I would make by then. With Frasier, I’m an adult, watching an adult world that feels like mine. I can drink, I can be in love, and I have a whole slew of mistakes under my belt.
On a Thursday night in late September, I finished Frasier for the first time, and I sobbed.
I sobbed because I was overwhelmed. I was going to miss my friends, and I knew that I was never going to see them new again. I sobbed because I was so happy for them, and so proud of what they had achieved. I sobbed because I was so grateful for what they taught me. I cried for a long time, and then I fell asleep.
Like any worthwhile art, what Frasier teaches you, is up to you. And it’s always going to evolve. It’s like that quote from Heraclitus — “You can’t step into the same river twice” — you change, even if the show doesn’t. You’re always going to get something new from it.
On the first pass, what Frasier gave me was permission.
Everyday, I could dive into this space where people were living through hard things, and fucking up, and loving each other anyway. I had permission to sit down and be still, and take it all in.
When you watch a story that is so regular — so everyday, so normal — unfold over 11 seasons, you realize that TV shows like this really do reflect life. You don’t show up to the pilot with all the answers. A good love story doesn’t happen in one season. You never know what plot twists are coming. All you can do is show up. And Frasier gave me permission to have patience while life plays out around me.
I have permission to not have it all figured out right now, and have that be okay. I’m allowed to make mistakes, because that’s where the story comes from. I’m allowed to prioritize my people over everything, because it’s what I want. I have permission to give myself some grace, but never to yield.
