There isn't a more quintessentially American form of relaxation than resting your feet on a coffee table after a long day at work and turning on the tube. After all, what better way to take your mind off of the job you left just a few hours earlier than by watching a TV show?
Unless, of course, that TV show is The Office. NBC's mockumentary sitcom, which concludes its ninth and final season on Thursday, flipped the TV-as-a-distraction-from-real-life paradigm by setting the action in precisely the type of workplace many people long to escape. The gambit worked brilliantly, and proved that a weekly television show could be the perfect medium to tell stories about contemporary work culture—for a while.
Set in Scranton, Pennsylvania, in the sales office of a nearly obsolete paper company, the show's characters at first didn't develop as much as stagnate. Like their dead-end jobs and the dead-end lives that inevitably spring from such jobs, these people were just passing time, one prolonged meeting at a time. Just as reality television soothes a viewer's inner narcissist by telling stories of even more pronounced narcissists wreaking havoc on their surroundings, The Office made its audience feel better about their professional lives by showcasing a workplace with even drabber décor and more grating coworkers.
Season One, which premiered in the spring of 2005 and consisted of only six episodes, tried to replicate the tone of the British series of the same name that inspired it. It didn't translate well. But by the show's second season, its creators had found an original voice—a more optimistic take on work and life than that of the acerbic British series—and what ensued were two of the most fascinating seasons in the history of television comedy.
In its early years, the show offered white-collar catharsis by making funny, meaningful storylines out of everyday office-worker woes. At Dunder-Mifflin Scranton, lagging sales constantly threaten the branch's existence. Underutilized salesman Jim learns that a company branch manager cares as much about a video game as he does about selling paper. Hopeful temp worker Ryan quickly discovers that his boss has little to teach him about modern business. Stanley Hudson describes his approach to the workday by telling a co-worker, "This is a run-out-the-clock situation."
The second and third seasons of The Office also meditated on the tribulations that arise when a group of people who occupy the same space out of necessity rather than choice try to form meaningful social connections. Jim and Pam's innocent yet unavoidable flirtations turned into an unstoppable romantic force; Michael's inability to take the temperature of the room belied a desperate desire to be liked; Dwight's gruff exterior couldn't hide the fact that he'd be a lost soul without his coworkers.
In this sense, though, The Office was always doomed to produce diminishing returns. The original theme it explored—office work sucks—is only funny if the characters never grow. What made the early episodes so dryly funny and morbidly relatable was that the seasons and the names of the meetings changed, but the paper-pushing remained the same. Just-another-cog-in-the-wheel syndrome only engenders pathos if the wheel spins indefinitely and the cogs stay put. But writers can only use constructed bonding experiences, like an awkward sexual harassment training session or an impromptu "Office Olympics," so many times to illustrate the lengths to which white-collar drones will go to survive another excruciating day. In television, things have to change.