The Sopranos Is The Closest Thing To Your Creative Writing Textbook on Television

Mr. Bile brought up Carnivale, and I wanted to add a few thoughts on the subject. Unlike Joe Rogan, I love critics, and yes, I even wanted to be one when I grew up. The proliferation of opinions on the Internet and my growing frustration with newspaper columnists eventually made the whole proposition seem irrelevant, but I digress. I love reading criticism, and as a whole I think television critics have a better perspective on their medium than their film counterparts. I have my pet peeves though, and one of my least favorite critical memes is "The Wire is the closest thing to a novel you'll see on television."

Setting aside the question of whether or not this is a good thing (um...sure?), it's a comparison that unfairly disparages the rest of what's out there as not being good enough to watch. It's akin to what writers who finally got on the Battlestar do when they lament trying to convince their elitist friends to join them. It says, "Television is beneath me, but I'm watching this, so it must actually be good!"

It also rankles me because I'm jealous. Where was the love for Carnivale? Oh, right. The same critics probably don't read those types of novels, either. Unless, you know, it's something like Lisey's Story.

Carnivale was The Stand without the excess, set during the Depression. The original season kept a slow-burning pace, but there was a lot going on for viewers who paid close attention. (Nothing in common with The Wire here. Move along, folks!) The characters were slowly revealed through their actions--we didn't even learn many of their names until late in the first run--and displayed a consistency in personality that Ronald Moore took with him when he went on to remake Battlestar Galactica. (Nope! Not like a novel!) And unlike a more traditionally structured TV show that builds hooks around commercial breaks and cliffhangers, Carnivale revelled in its mystery by presenting baffling images that slowly took on more meaning as the season progressed.

Instant gratification was not the point. Telling the story straight-forward, smacking viewers on the head with the Hammer of Mythos Exposition, and forcing the characters to do what they had to to get to skip to the end would have drained the series of everything that made it haunting.

Which, thanks the untimely departure of Mr. Moore, pressure from HBO for better ratings, and no assistance from television critics, lead to the abysmal second season. I believe Matt Roush summed it up the same way as he did the subpar Farscape mini-series: "Hey, at least you got a conclusion."