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Alongside the host of procedural crime dramas, domestic sitcoms, and reality com- petitions that populate the American televi- sion schedule, a new form of entertainment television has emerged over the past two decades to both critical and popular acclaim. This model of television storytelling is distinct for its use of narrative complexity as an alternative to the conventional episodic and serial forms that have typified most American television since its inception. We can see such innovative narrative form in popular hits of recent decades from Seinfeld to Lost, West Wing to The X-Files, as well as in critically beloved but ratings-challenged shows like Arrested Development, Veronica Mars, Boomtown, and Firefly. HBO has built its reputation and subscriber base upon narratively com- plex shows, such as The Sopranos, Six Feet Under, Curb Your Enthusiasm, and The Wire. Clearly, these shows offer an alternative to conventional television narrative—the purpose of this essay is to chart out the formal attributes of this storytelling mode, explore its unique pleasures and patterns of comprehension, and suggest a range of reasons for its emergence in the 1990s. In trying to understand the storytelling practices of contemporary American television, we might consider narrative complexity as a distinct narrational mode, as suggested by David Bordwell’s analysis of film narrative. For Bordwell, a “narrational mode is a historically distinct set of norms of narrational construction and comprehen- sion,” one that crosses genres, specific creators, and artistic movements to forge a coherent category of practices.1 Bordwell outlines specific cinematic modes such as clas- sical Hollywood, art cinema, and historical materialism, all of which encompass distinct storytelling strategies while still referencing one another and building on the foundations of other modes. Kristin Thompson has ex-

Narrative Complexity in Contemporary American Television

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a tended Bordwell’s approach to television, suggesting that programs like Twin Peaks and The Singing Detective might be usefully thought of as “art television,” importing norms from art cinema onto the small screen.2 Although certainly cinema influences many aspects of television, especially concerning visual style, I am reluctant to map a model of storytelling tied to self-contained feature films onto the ongoing long-form narrative structure of series televi- sion and thus believe we can more productively develop a vocabulary for television narrative in terms of its own medium. Television’s narrative complexity is predicated on specific facets of storytelling that seem uniquely suited to the series structure that sets television apart from film and distinguish it from conventional modes of episodic and serial forms. Narrative complexity is sufficiently widespread and popular that we may consider the 1990s to the present as the era of television complexity. Complexity has not overtaken conventional forms within the majority of television programming today—there are still many more conventional sitcoms and dramas on-air than complex narratives. Yet just as 1970s Hollywood is remembered far more for the innovative work of Altman, Scorsese, and Coppola than for the more commonplace (and often more popular) conventional disaster films, romances, and comedy films that filled theaters, I believe that American television of the past twenty years will be remembered as an era of narrative experimentation and innovation, challenging the norms of what the medium can do. Thus for argument’s sake it is useful to explore how today’s television has redefined narrative norms in a series of ways that I label “complex.” Even though this mode represents neither the majority of television nor its most popular programs (at least by the flawed standard of Nielsen rat- ings), a sufficiently widespread number of programs work

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against conventional narrative practices using an innovative cluster of narrational techniques to justify such analysis.3

Obviously, the labels “conventional” and “complex” are not value-free descriptions, just as terms like “primitive” and “classical” signal evaluative standpoints in film stud- ies. While I have argued elsewhere for the importance of questions of value in studying television, a tendency that contemporary critical approaches dismiss, I do not propose these terms as explicitly evaluative.4 Complexity and value are not mutually guaranteed—personally, I much prefer watching high-quality conventional programs like The Dick Van Dyke Show and Everybody Loves Raymond to the narratively complex but conceptually muddled and logically maddening 24. However, narrative complex- ity offers a range of creative opportunities and palette of audience responses that are unique to the television medium and thus should be studied and appreciated as a key development in the history of American narrative forms.5 Arguably, the pleasures potentially offered by complex narratives are richer and more multifaceted than conventional programming, but value judgments should be tied to individual programs rather than claiming the superiority of an entire narrational mode or genre. Thus while we should not shy away from evaluative dimensions in narrative transformations, the goal of my analysis is not to argue that contemporary television is somehow better than it was in the 1970s but rather to explore how and why narrative strategies have changed and to consider the broader cultural implications of this shift. Television scholars have typically been reluctant to focus their analyses on the medium’s narrative form, as television studies emerged from the twin paradigms of mass communications and cultural studies, both of which tend to foreground social impacts over aesthetic analysis, although using markedly different methodologies. Analy- ses of conventional television narration are surprisingly limited, with classic work by Horace Newcomb, Robert Allen, Sarah Kozloff, John Ellis, and Jane Feuer representing the bulk of the field.6 Some early accounts of innovative narrative strategies by Newcomb, Christopher Anderson, Thomas Schatz, and Marc Dolan suggest the antecedents of contemporary narrative complexity in Magnum, P.I., St. Elsewhere, and Twin Peaks.7 More recently, Steven Johnson and Jeffrey Sconce have offered their own accounts of contemporary television’s narrative form, offering insights that I build upon throughout; I take these writings as a sign that media critics are turning attention to formal and

aesthetic issues that have typically been downplayed in the development of television studies as a field.8 Drawing upon this range of sources, we can establish a detailed account of the narratological form that contemporary American television offers as a true aesthetic innovation unique to its medium. This new mode, which I term narrative complex- ity, is not as uniform and convention driven as episodic or serials norms (in fact, its most defining characteristic might be its unconventionality), but it is still useful to group together a growing number of programs that work against the conventions of episodic and serial traditions in a range of intriguing ways. While some point to this emerging form as “novelistic” television, I contend that it is unique to the television medium despite the clear influences from other forms such as novels, films, videogames, and comic books.9

In examining narrative complexity as a narrational mode I follow a paradigm of historical poetics that situates formal developments within specific historical contexts of production, circulation, and reception.10 Following a historical poetic approach, innovations in media form are not viewed as creative breakthroughs of visionary artists but at the nexus of a number of historical forces that work to transform the norms established with any creative prac- tice. Such an analysis examines the formal elements of any medium alongside the historical contexts that helped shape innovations and perpetuate particular norms. So what are the relevant contexts that enabled the emergence of nar- rative complexity? A number of key transformations in the media industries, technologies, and audience behaviors coincide with the rise of narrative complexity, not func- tioning as straightforward causes of this formal evolution but certainly enabling the creative strategies to flourish. Although there is much more to examine about these various contextual developments, a brief overview of key changes in 1990s television practices points to both how these transformations impact creative practices and how formal features always expand beyond textual borders. One key influence on the rise of narrative complexity on contemporary television is the changing perception of the medium’s legitimacy and its appeal to creators. Many of the innovative television programs of the past twenty years have come from creators who launched their careers in film, a medium with more traditional cultural cachet: David Lynch (Twin Peaks) and Barry Levinson (Homicide: Life on the Street and Oz) as directors, Aaron Sorkin (Sports Night and West Wing), Joss Whedon (Buffy, Angel, and

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Firefly), Alan Ball (Six Feet Under), and J. J. Abrams (Alias and Lost) as screenwriters. Part of the appeal is television’s reputation as a producer’s medium, where writers and creators retain control of their work more than in film’s director-centered model. Additionally, as reality television has emerged as a popular and cost-effective alternative to scripted programming, television writers seem to be asserting what they can offer that is unique to fictional television; narrative complexity highlights one limit of real- ity shows, asserting the carefully controlled dramatic and comedic manipulation of plots and characters that reality producers find more difficult to generate.11 Many of these writers embrace the broader challenges and possibilities for creativity in long-form series, as extended character depth, ongoing plotting, and episodic variations are simply unavailable options within a two-hour film—note how Whedon’s film Serenity, which extended the narrative of Firefly, compressed an entire season’s plot into two hours, minimizing storytelling variety, character exploration, and ongoing suspense. While innovative film narration has emerged as a “boutique” form over the past years in the guise of puzzle films like Memento and Adaptation, the norms of Hollywood still favor spectacle and formulas suitable for a peak opening weekend; comparatively, many narratively complex programs are among the medium’s biggest hits, suggesting that the market for complexity may be more valued on television than in film. Certainly, shifts in the television industry have helped reinforce strategies of complexity. Traditional industry logic dictated that audiences lacked the weekly consistency to allow for serialized narratives, and the pressures of syndi- cation favored interchangeable episodes of conventional sitcoms and procedural dramas. But as the number of channels has grown and the size of the audience for any single program has shrunk, networks and channels have grown to recognize that a consistent cult following of a small but dedicated audience can suffice to make a show economically viable. The overall audience size of Buffy and Veronica Mars do not make these shows hits, but measured expectations of newer networks like UPN and WB as well as the youthful demographics and cultlike dedica- tion drawn by such programming encourage networks to allow such experimentations to grow an audience. Many complex programs expressly appeal to a boutique audience of more upscale educated viewers who typically avoid television, save for programs like The West Wing, The Simpsons, and The Sopranos—needless to say, an audience

comprised of viewers who watch little other television is particularly valued by advertisers. For cable channels like HBO, complex programs like The Wire, Oz, and Dead- wood may not reach Sopranos-like status, but the prestige of these programs furthers the channel’s brand image of being more sophisticated than traditional television and thus worthy of a monthly premium (and generating fu- ture DVD sales). While many complex shows like Firefly, Boomtown, Wonderfalls, and early innovator My So-Called Life were never granted time to establish a core audience, all of these short-lived programs have emerged on DVD, as their dedicated fandoms embrace the collectability of television in this new form, a trend that the media indus- tries are eager to capitalize upon by creating programs with maximum “rewatchability.”12

Technological transformations have accelerated this shift in similar ways. For the first thirty years of the medium television watching was primarily controlled by networks, offering limited choice of programming on a tightly de- limited schedule with no other options to access content. While reruns proliferated in syndication, typically, programs were shown out of order, encouraging episodic narratives to accommodate an almost random presentation of a se- ries. Since the mainstreaming of cable and the VCR in the early 1980s, the balance has shifted more toward viewer control—the proliferation of channels has helped routin- ize repeats, so that viewers can catch up on a program in chronologically aired reruns or view missed premium cable shows multiple times throughout the week. Time-shifting technologies like VCRs and digital video recorders enable viewers to choose when they want to watch a program, but, more important for narrative construction, viewers can rewatch episodes or segments to parse out complex mo- ments. While select series have been sold on videotape for years, the compact packaging and visual quality of DVDs have led to a boom in a new mode of television viewing, with fans binging on a show a season at a time (like the frequently reported attempts to watch a season of 24 to match its diegetic time frame), and encouraging multiple viewings of what used to be a mostly ephemeral form of entertainment. Technological transformations away from the televi- sion screen have also impacted television narrative. The internet’s ubiquity has enabled fans to embrace a “col- lective intelligence” for information, interpretations, and discussions of complex narratives that invite participatory engagement—and in instances such as Babylon 5 or Veronica

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Mars, creators join in the discussions and use these forums as feedback mechanisms to test for comprehension and pleasures.13 Other digital technologies like videogames, blogs, online role-playing sites, and fan websites have of- fered realms that enable viewers to extend their participa- tion in these rich storyworlds beyond the one-way flow of traditional television viewing, extending the metaverses of complex narrative creations like Buffy’s Sunnydale and the Simpsons’ Springfield into fully interactive and participatory realms. The consumer and creative practices of fan culture that cultural studies scholars embraced as subcultural phenomena in the 1990s have become more widely distributed and participated in with the distribution means of the internet, making active audience behavior even more of a mainstream practice. While none of these new technologies directly caused the emergence of nar- rative complexity, the incentives and possibilities they provided to both media industries and viewers encourage the success of many such programs. While claims that programming trends are a direct re- flection of audience tastes and viewing practices are gross oversimplifications, there is no doubt that many of the innovations comprising narrative complexity have stuck because they have been actively embraced by viewers. Using the new technologies of home recording, DVDs, and online participation, viewers have taken an active role in consuming narratively complex television and helping it thrive within the media industries. As suggested below, this programming form demands an active and attentive process of comprehension to decode both the complex stories and modes of storytelling offered by contemporary television. Audiences tend to embrace complex programs in much more passionate and committed terms than most conventional television, using these shows as the basis for robust fan cultures and active feedback to the television industry (especially when their programs are in jeopardy of cancellation). The rise of narrative complexity has also seen the rise in amateur television criticism, as sites like televi- sionwithoutpity.com have emerged to provide thoughtful and humorous commentaries on weekly episodes.14 Steven Johnson claims that this form of complexity offered view- ers a “cognitive workout” that increases problem-solving and observational skills—whether or not this argument can be empirically substantiated, there is no doubt that this brand of television storytelling encourages audiences to become more actively engaged and offers a broader range of rewards and pleasures than most conventional

programming. While it would be hard to claim that any of these industrial, creative, technological, and participatory developments explicitly caused the emergence of narrative complexity as a narrational mode, together they set the stage for its development and growing popularity. So what exactly is narrative complexity? At its most basic level, narrative complexity is a redefinition of epi- sodic forms under the influence of serial narration—not necessarily a complete merger of episodic and serial forms but a shifting balance. Rejecting the need for plot closure within every episode that typifies conventional episodic form, narrative complexity foregrounds ongoing stories across a range of genres. Additionally, narrative complex- ity moves serial form outside of the generic assumptions tied to soap operas—many (although certainly not all) complex programs tell stories serially while rejecting or downplaying the melodramatic style and primary focus on relationships over plots of soap operas, which also distances contemporary programs from the cultural con- notations of the denigrated soap genre.15 While certainly soap opera narration can be quite complex and requires a high degree of audience activity to parse out the web of relationships and backstory evoked at every plot turn, narratively complex programming typically foregrounds plot developments far more centrally than soaps, allow- ing relationship and character drama to emerge from plot development in an emphasis reversed from soap operas. Historically, this move toward complexity dates to the late 1970s and early 1980s, as prime-time soap operas like Dallas and Dynasty (as well as parodic predecessors Soap and Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman) were popular innovations, and more critically hailed (though initially ratings-chal- lenged) shows like Hill St. Blues, St. Elsewhere, and Cheers imported serial storytelling into the generic forms of cop shows, medical dramas, and sitcoms, respectively.16 Unlike soap operas, these prime-time serials are not uniformly dedicated to delaying narrative closure, as typically these shows feature some episodic plotlines alongside multi- episode arcs and ongoing relationship dramas. These early programs tend to allocate episodic and serial stories as tied to typical generic norms—relationship stories carry over between episodes, as in soap operas, but the police and medical cases are generally bound within one episode or serialized as a two-parter. Thus unlike soap operas, indi- vidual episodes have a distinctive identity as more than just one step in a long narrative journey. Similar divisions be- tween serialized relationships and episodic plots continued

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to late 1980s programs like Moonlighting, thirtysomething, and Star Trek: The Next Generation, all of which incorporated innovative narrative devices that would become more common in the 1990s. The programs of the 1990s and beyond build on 1980s innovations by expanding the role of story arcs across episodes and seasons. Early attempts at this long-form arc storytelling in the mideighties, notably, Wiseguy and Crime Story, did not catch on with audiences or foster imitators until the breakthrough of Twin Peaks in the early 1990s. This cult hit, whose influence was far more long-lasting than the series itself, triggered a wave of programs em- bracing its creative narrative strategies while forgoing its stylistic excesses and thematic oddities. Effectively a cross between a mystery, soap opera, and art film, Twin Peaks of- fered television viewers and executives a glimpse into the narrative possibilities that the episodic series would mine in the future. While Twin Peaks was ultimately a ratings failure, the positive buzz and accolades it received opened the door to other programs that took creative liberties with storytelling form in the early 1990s, most notably, Seinfeld and The X-Files, both of which added key facets to the repertoire of narrative complexity with more ratings success. The X-Files exemplifies what may be the hallmark of narrative complexity: an interplay between the demands of episodic and serial storytelling. Complex dramas like The X-Files, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, and The Sopra- nos often oscillate between long-term arc storytelling and stand-alone episodes. As Sconce discusses, any given X-Files episode might focus on the long-term “mythology,” an on- going, highly elaborate conspiracy plot that endlessly delays resolution and closure, or offer self-contained “monster-of- the-week” stories that generally exist outside of the arcing scope of the mythology. Although The X-Files features an influential array of narrational innovations, the show’s eventual creative and critical decline highlights one of the key tensions inherent in narrative complexity: balancing the competing demands and pleasures of episodic and se- rial norms. According to many X-Files viewers and critics, the show suffered from too great a disjunction between the overly complex and unsatisfyingly deferred mythology versus the detached independence of monster-of-the-week episodes that might contradict the accrued knowledge of the conspiracy. For instance, the highly regarded (and quite parodic) episode “Jose Chung’s From Outer Space” mocks the show’s nested conspiracies, while the events it presents

seem to undermine some of the revelations of the ongoing mythology concerning alien presence on Earth. Despite viewers’ cultish devotion to unraveling the mysteries driv- ing Agent Mulder’s endless quest, this episode (as well as many others) left viewers unsure as to how to consistently fit events into the storyworld. Viewing tastes thus divided between conspiracy buffs, who saw the sometimes reflexive and tonally divergent monster-of-the-week episodes as distractions from the serious mythological mysteries, and fans who grew to appreciate the coherence of the stand- alone episodes in light of the increasingly inscrutable and contradictory arc—personally, I found myself in the latter camp before abandoning the show entirely. Buffy and Angel are arguably more adept at juggling the dual demands of serial and episodic pleasures. While both shows (together and separately) present a rich and ongoing mythology of a battle between the forces of good and evil, plotlines are centered upon season-long arcs featuring a particular villain, or “big bad,” in Buffy’s parlance. Within a given season, nearly every episode advances the season’s arc while still offering episodic coherence and miniresolu- tions. Even highly experimental or flashy episodes balance between episodic and serial demands; for instance, Buffy’s “Hush” features literal monsters-of-the-week, known as The Gentlemen, who steal the voices of the town of Sun- nydale, leading to an impressively constructed episode told in near silence. Yet despite the episode’s one-off villains and highly unusual wordless mode of storytelling, “Hush” still advances various narrative arcs, as characters reveal key secrets and deepen relationships to move the season-long plot forward; many other Buffy and Angel episodes simi- larly offer unique episodic elements with undercurrents of arc narration. These shows also interweave melodramatic relationship dramas and character development with story arcs—at its most accomplished, Buffy uses forward plot momentum to generate emotional responses to characters and allows relationships to help drive plots forward, as ex- emplified by how “Hush” simultaneously offers closure to a monster-of-the-week, furthers the relationship between Buffy and Riley, and adds new wrinkles to the season-long arc concerning the Initiative. But narrative complexity cannot simply be defined as prime-time episodic seriality; within the broader mode of complexity, many programs actively work against serial norms but also embrace narrative strategies to rebel against episodic conventionality. For instance, Seinfeld has a mixed relationship with serial plotting—some seasons feature an

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ongoing situation, like Jerry’s NBC sitcom pilot, George’s impending wedding, or Elaine’s new job. These story arcs work primarily to offer backstory for in-jokes and self- aware references—George suggests a potential story for an episode of his and Jerry’s sitcom “about nothing” based on the night they waited for a table at a Chinese restaurant, the actual plot of an earlier episode. However, these arcs and ongoing plots demand little explicit knowledge from episode to episode, as actual actions and events rarely carry across episodes—arguably because of the infrequency of significant actions and events on a show committed to chronicling minutiae and insignificances. While certainly appreciation of the show’s storyworld is heightened the more you notice ongoing references like Art Vandelay or Bob Sacamano, narrative comprehension does not require the engagement in any long-term arcs as with The X-Files or Buffy. Yet Seinfeld offers a wealth of narrative complexity, often through its refusal to conform to episodic norms of closure, resolution, and distinct story lines. Many episodes leave characters in an untenable situation—Kramer ar- rested for being a pimp, Jerry running into the woods after becoming a “wolf-man,” George stuck in an airplane restroom with a serial killer. These unresolved moments do not function as cliff-hangers as in serial dramas but rather as comedic punchlines not to be referenced again. Seinfeld and other narratively complex comedies like The Simpsons, Malcolm in the Middle, Curb Your Enthusiasm, and Arrested Development use television’s episodic form to undercut conventional assumptions of returning to equilibrium and situational continuity while embracing conditional seriality—some story lines do in fact continue, while others are never referred to again. Arrested Develop- ment, a more explicitly serialized comedy, subverts these conventions even more, as most episodes end with a “next week on Arrested Development” teaser, showing scenes continuing that episode’s stories. However, regular viewers soon learn that future episodes will not show these scenes, nor will they have actually occurred within the ongo- ing storyworld (although in the second season the show varies this norm by allowing some of the teaser material to occur diegetically). Likewise, The Simpsons generally embraces an excessive and even parodic take on episodic form, rejecting continuity between episodes by returning to an everlasting present equilibrium state of Bart in fourth grade and general dysfunctional family stasis.17 However, there are exceptions to these norms, such as Apu’s marriage and parenting of octuplets, that suggest at least two years

have passed in Springfield’s life cycle—yet nobody else has aged. Often making jokes about the need to return to equilibrium state, The Simpsons offers ambiguous expec- tations over which transformations are “reset” after each episode—frequent losses of jobs, destruction of property, and damaging of relationships that will be restored by next week’s episode—and that will be carried over serially—like Apu’s family, Skinner and Crabapple’s relationship, and Maude Flanders’s death. Thus these complex comedies selectively engage the norms of serial form, weaving certain events into their backstories while ambiguously discard- ing other moments into the more commonplace realm of forgotten episodic histories, a distinction that viewers must either overlook as inconsistency or embrace as one of the sophisticated traits of narrative complexity—evidence of fan practices online suggest that the latter is more common once audiences accept the shifting rules as one of the so- phisticated pleasures offered by these complex comedies. Seinfeld typifies another facet of narrative complexity, offering a more self-conscious mode of storytelling than is typical within conventional television narration.18 The show revels in the mechanics of its plotting, weaving stories for each character together in a given episode through unlikely coincidence, parodic media references, and circular structure. In conventional television narratives that feature A and B plots the two stories may offer thematic parallels or provide counterpoint to one another, but they rarely interact at the level of action. Complexity, especially in comedies, works against these norms by altering the relationship between multiple plotlines, creating interweaving stories that often collide and coincide. Seinfeld typically starts out its four plotlines separately, leaving it to the experienced viewer’s imagination as to how the stories will collide with unlikely repercussions throughout the diegesis.19 Such interwoven plotting has been adopted and expanded by Curb Your Enthu- siasm and Arrested Development, extending the coincidences and collisions across episodes in a way that transforms serial narrative into elaborate inside jokes—only by knowing Larry’s encounter with Michael the blind man from Curb’s first season does his return in the fourth season make sense. Likewise, Arrested expands the number of coinciding plots per episode, with often six or more story lines bouncing off one another, resulting in unlikely coincidences, twists, and ironic repercussions, some of which may not become evident until subsequent episodes or seasons. While this mode of comedic narrative is often quite amusing on its own terms, it does suggest a particular set

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of pleasures for viewers, one that is relatively unavailable in conventional television narrative. The viewers of such complex comedies as Seinfeld and Arrested Development not only focus on the diegetic world offered by the sitcoms but also revel in the creative mechanics involved in the producers’ abilities to pull off such complex plot structures, a mode of viewing Sconce labels as “metareflexive” but that warrants more detailed consideration. This set of pleasures suggests an influential concept offered by Neil Harris in his account of P. T. Barnum: Harris suggests that Barnum’s mechanical stunts and hoaxes invited spectators to embrace an “operational aesthetic” in which the pleasure was less about “what will happen?” and more concerning “how did he do that?”20 In watching Seinfeld we expect that each character’s petty goals will be thwarted in a farcical unraveling, but we watch to see how the writers will pull off the narrative mechanics required to bring together the four plotlines into a calibrated comedic Rube Goldberg narrative machine. There is a degree of self-consciousness in this mode of plotting not only in the explicit reflexivity offered by these programs (like Seinfeld’s show-within-a- show or Arrested Development’s winking acknowledgment of television techniques like product placement, stunt casting, and voice-over narration) but also in the awareness that viewers watch complex programs in part to see “how will they do it?” This operational aesthetic is on display within online fan forum dissections of the techniques that complex comedies and dramas use to guide, manipulate, deceive, and misdirect viewers, suggesting the key pleasure of unraveling the operations of narrative mechanics.21 We watch these shows not just to get swept away in a realistic narrative world (although that certainly can happen) but also to watch the gears at work, marveling at the craft required to pull off such narrative pyrotechnics. The operational aesthetic is heightened in spectacular moments within narratively complex programs, specific se- quences or episodes that we might consider akin to special effects.