One-Shot TV Magic
Maybe We Don’t Need a Season Two.
Stranger Things is awesome.
I spend a lot of time watching the first fifteen minutes of pilot episodes on Netflix. Most of the time I don’t make it through. Sometimes I’ll get to the third or fourth episode before I lose interest. This isn’t an indictment of the shows or a comment on the quality of entertainment today. I’m just a bit neurotic about how I spend my time.
I’m perfectly happy to watch shows that aren’t trying to be art; many of the shows I enjoy aren’t (Chuck or Gossip Girl, for instance). Frequently, though, I’m on the prowl for something else. I’m looking for a show I want to share.
I love television, but what I love more is the shared experience. I get excited introducing someone to a show they’ve never seen before, and more still in anticipation of the scenes and moments that won me over in the first place. I can’t watch Battlestar Galactica again for the first time, but I can live vicariously through you while you do, and that’s close enough for me.
So when word got out that Stranger Things would not only be returning for a second season, but that it would also be a continuation of the season one story, I was ecstatic. At first.
It doesn’t take very long daydreaming about season two to discover the problem. Much of what we adore about these characters is the product of elements that can’t (easily, anyway) be replicated.
Spoilers below.
First and foremost: we love them because we didn’t know them. Free from audience expectation, the characters in Stranger Things could explore different sides of themselves. Without a history to judge them by — moments we loved or decisions that helped us define them — every action and reaction has the opportunity to come across as fresh and authentic.
When Nancy cool-kids Barb so she can hook up with Steve it isn’t completely surprising, but it does feel like betrayal. Up to this point we have no reason other than context to assume what Nancy will do. We haven’t witnessed her in enough situations to anticipate her behavior, so whether she makes out with Steve or ditches with Barb it feels entirely authentic. Schrödinger’s Nancy. Similarly, when Jonathan stomps Steve we may have inklings beforehand, but we lack evidence, and it’s this lack of evidence that gives the characters flexibility.
As stories progress, the characters necessarily become more typical. Changing only in ways that conform to their trajectory and coincide with the plot. Any “real” surprises happen behind the curtain — between the authors and their creations — which are then factored into the story in ways that either fail or succeed.
Eventually the audience is no longer rewarded by the growth and development of the characters, but by their consistency. We don’t want Gob Bluth to become a less selfish, more compassionate person. Not really. We want infrequent and momentary ruptures — moments where he shows qualities we assume he has (because we impose a third dimension onto the shows we watch) — but typically only to punctuate his next selfish and awful line or decision.
None of this is novel, but it does raise important questions for those of us who care about things that don’t really matter.
What kinds of stories work in perpetuity?
Why can we watch Leslie Knope try to balance the scales between thoughtless perfectionist and perfect thoughtful friend forever without getting bored of it? And does this work for shows like Stranger Things?
I don’t think it does.
Maybe Arrested Development and Parks and Recreation aren’t the best comparisons. We can bring in your Mad Men and your Breaking Bads and other artfully executed shows with intricate plots and multidimensional characters, but I’m not sure that changes anything.
Season one of Breaking Bad didn’t end cleanly. Strewn about the season were loose-ends and hints at deeper histories and side plots. Halfway through you are swaddled by the show — you understand, implicitly, that this is going to be a long ride. Look at The Sopranos and Mad Men and, really, any other beloved show that ran for multiple seasons and you’ll find the same thing: intent.
Now, the Duffer Brothers said they have plenty of material to work with and that the hope for Stranger Things was to tell a much longer story, and that’s probably true, but it doesn’t feel true. They prepared and executed a season one which could stand on its own, ostensibly because they weren’t sure if they’d get a season two, and that plays a big part in why Stranger Things is so great. It tells a complete story and delivers a satisfying ending.
Are there rocks unturned and details unknown? Sure, but the Duffer Brothers never deliberately draw our attention to them. They’re simply the byproducts of good worldbuilding.
“But what about Hopper and the waffles!?”
C’mon. You know what about Hopper and the waffles. I’m betting the smile on your face when you saw that scene will be more satisfying than actually seeing what’s up with Eleven in season two — even if season two is excellent in its own way.
Stranger Things is awesome. Let it be.
