Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip

Everyone has that friend who’s a little too nice. The guy who is somehow always the one holding the door open, or who just happens to be in the right place to help the lady with the stroller down the subway stairs. The guy who makes you feel like an inconsiderate self-centered jerk because he’s so radiant and golden and sincere to everyone all the time. This fall, on Monday nights the new NBC show Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip is that friend.

Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip is NBC’s golden child drama for the fall season. Literally. Almost everything in sight is lovingly bathed in a radiant, golden-hued glow. The show is set in the behind-the-scenes realm of a fictional live sketch comedy show, however, with all the loving shades of flax, sepia, sunrise yellow, and amber gold suffusing the air, it might as well exist in a perpetual sunrise where nothing bad could possibly happen.

Depending on your patience, the first twelve to sixteen minutes are an exhilarating experience to behold. Every frame exudes quality and attention to detail. The writing is a thing of crystalline beauty. In mere seconds you get thrown right into the heart of conflict, standing shoulder to shoulder with good-hearted people trying to do their best, despite the world’s best attempts to bring them down.

The opening scene of the pilot does just that. Judd Hirsch plays the executive producer of a Saturday Night Live styled show, and a network censor is forcing him to pull a sketch that he loves. In the deep lines of Judd Hirch’s face, we don’t just see the dilemma; we feel it because most of us live his silent agony on a daily basis.

Because we all have a job to do, and somewhere a pencil-necked censor is standing over our shoulder telling us to do it badly. We’re taught for our entire lives to do our best, and every day some twit in a suit tells us to do something badly, we die a little inside. Judd Hirsch’s character has been dying that death for years, and tonight he has finally reached the breaking point. In a brazen, beautiful act of rebellion, he attempts to redeem himself and his years of submission to mediocrity in a gloriously purging apology. His character steps in front of those TV cameras and for one sweet, thunderous moment he can raise his voice to the world and tell everyone exactly what is going on!

The empathy generated in this scene is primal, and the entire scene is executed to perfection and that’s exactly what’s wrong with Studio 60. It’s the television equivalent of cheeseburger served on seven-grain bread. It’s terrific for about two bites, and then you want it to stop being so god-damned wholesome and clog an artery. Every character on the show is so achingly sincere and brave and talented and good-hearted that they can’t possibly be human. Except that each character also has a lovingly crafted flaw, one Achilles heel that they must struggle with on a weekly basis. You don’t just want to like these characters, you feel like you could be these characters if you were just a better person. These people aren’t rogue secret agents, amoral housewives, or brilliant surgeons… they’re just supremely talented television producers who want to be just like you! They’re just human, dammit, but they’re going to do the best they can!

Take Jordan McDeere (played by the angular and tense Amanda Peet) as she begins a press conference by announcing her programming guidelines for what she will put on the air: “Do I like it? Do my parents like it? If I had kids would I let them watch it?” she boldly tells an audience of reporters. Really? Thank you for the lesson in how to make television better… if only people aired shows that were good, the world would be a better place.

Or take this breathless exchange later in the show. Minutes before going live on the air, the flustered actress corners the head writer (who just happens to be her volatile ex-boyfriend who is now her boss):”I got a laugh at the table read when I asked for the butter at the dinner sketch. What did I do wrong?”

The ex-boyfriend, rather than laughing off her concerns or backhanding her across the chops, puts aside his own emotions for the good of the show and consoles her:” It’s one laugh out of 30 you’re going to get tonight.”

“What did I do wrong?” She persists, because, dammit, I have to be the best.

“You asked for the laugh.” He answers, with a hint of professional smugness.

“What did I do at the table read?” She takes his setup; her mind and heart open for his wise counsel.

“You asked for the butter.” Winsome looks are traded. An ember of compassion, respect, and understand begins to glow. Something small is learned. And now it’s time to put on a show.

In other words, it’s The West Wing doing Saturday Night Live. These people producing and creating television simply aren’t human; they’re the heroes of Atlas Shrugged sent to deliver all of us from the clutches of poorly made television. Even the dialog moves along with its own other-worldly cadence. Phrases are spun out in fluid legato lines that repeat and restate like a complex melody. At any moment, these characters could break into song, and a chorus of headphone-wearing stage directors could materialize out of the wings because everyone is on the exact same page. Even antagonists perfectly understand every nuance, and there is no cognitive dissonance in Studio 60-land. There are no misunderstandings, petty resentments, slacking, or back-biting. This is the world of Ayn Rand gone amok… a John Galt inspired fantasyland of 20 experts trading skills and building a glorious world of clear understanding and clear intentions.

There will always be people who revere flawless craftsmanship for its own sake, and as such there will be people who will lionize the golden-hearted impossible nobility of Studio 60. However, such purity does not make for compelling television. True drama melds together the disparate and diametrically opposed, and vicariously let you experience both ends. Federal Agent Jack Bauer is a man willing to commit all manner of evil and anti-social acts all for the greater good. Torturing the innocent to capture the guilty is a wild extension of the headlines we read every day. Tony Soprano provides for his family with his criminal enterprises, but his familial love can run awfully close to what we would do for our families. Studio 60 brings friend and foe together in a golden spotlight of attainable perfection, and refuses to allow the petty half of human nature to spoil the party. It might be expertly crafted television, but it’s about as rewarding to watch as an expertly painted wall.