| Good riddance to bad 'friends'
Adam J. Ferington
Commentary Editor
Burying a friend is the worst thing you can do. But sometimes, it's long overdue.
After 10 years of convoluted plotlines, shabby characters and raggedy writing, NBC is finally turning over a few shovels of dirt and putting "Friends" into the ground. It's about time.
The American big media engine has been on the decline over the better part of the 20 years, and the deterioration has reached an immeasurable point of density. Everything has become compacted. And though it may be difficult to admit without a healthy degree of trepidation, the media landscape has finally caught up with a certain authenticity of the human condition; one where no two people will see eye to eye on exactly what comprises the 90 percent of absolute and utterly unredeemable crap. So default dictates that we play to the lowest common denominator-anything that seems safe and warm, without any shred of intelligence or enterprise is thrust onto the public like a decaying corpse because mediocre people can't recognize anything beyond mediocrity.
Media has become increasingly fetishized; you can find anything that fits your particular taste if you look hard enough. But you still have to look, and therein lies the problem. Creative control at major networks and studios has always been about the bottom line-an ugly, small cabal of people devoid of creativity who control the majority of entertainment; business school assholes who think that Casablanca would've benefited from robot dinosaurs and Nazi strippers.
"Friends" was the epitome of this-a soap opera written by dimwits for dimwits, rehashing every tired plot device and character archetype since the stereophonic, dragging its heels in American culture while people gushed over the actresses' hairdos, relationships and failed box office vehicles. The worst part is, we may actually get to the point when "Friends" becomes a nostalgic gleam in our eye; the heyday of scripted television before the airwaves became overrun with reality television clones. In between our channel surfing programs like "Syphilis Island," "Who Wants to Poison a Millionaire" and "Surgically-Disfigure-Me-Because-My-Daddy-Didn't-Love-Me," we'll long for the idiotic ramblings of a group of creepy 30-somethings who bed hop, whine incessantly and do nothing except languor on a couch in a trendy Manhattan coffee shop. They're not suffering for their art, you are.
"Friends" wasn't bad because it was representative of all that's swollen and damaged with contemporary adult relationships; it was bad because audiences end up laying their emotions down on the table when they watch it, casting their lot in with whichever character appealed to their underdeveloped sense of self the most in the hopes of redemption. Do you want to be a doofus? A slut? A former fat girl? "Friends" had it all. And don't use the excuse that you're only a passive viewer who likes to watch because of how bad it is. That's culture slumming, and you should be doused in Ortho-Novum because of it.
Hear me people: This has become your religion. And like all religions, it is fallow, outdated and more damaging than beneficial. Television cannot offer you benediction, it cannot make you a better person, and it cannot solve your interpersonal problems for you. The series finale will not be a glorious Deus Ex Machina that magically transfigures the rest of your life. Those things require that you actually go out and live your life. "But," you say, "there's nothing wrong with wanting to be entertained. Life is difficult and I just want to relax." That's all fine and good, but only swine jump into a manure pile when they need a bit of respite. You can't root around in shit and then expect to be taken seriously.
It brings a smile to my lips when I think of the long and useless future that lies ahead of these soon to be washed up actors: Appearing at used car lots, cameos on "Hollywood Squares," an E! movie of the week about drug addiction. Maybe even a poorly shot sex tape featuring saggy dismounts and heroin being shot between manicured toes. The sky's the limit.
So get on with it. Tip a 40-ounce or write a poem or talk about how you wish Monica would've strapped one on for Chandler or whatever. But accept it: It's over, and we're all a little richer for it.
Now go do something constructive, for Christ's sake. |
