Around the same time NBC announced that Jay Leno, instead of decamping to do late-night comedy for ABC, would remain at NBC and move to a 10p.m., Monday-through-Friday slot, the creator of the network’s fading hit series Heroes took a public swan dive into hard concrete.
Speaking at a screenwriter expo in Los Angeles, Tim Kring struggled to defend his sci-fi-tinged show, which has endured two seasons of faltering ratings. Heroes is presented in a serialized format, meaning that stories “arc” over the course of an entire season rather than conclude at the end of each episode, as in a sitcom, or a police procedural such as CSI or Law & Order. The serialized format is “a very flawed way of telling stories on network television right now,” a blogger quoted Kring as saying, “because of the advent of the DVR and online streaming. The engine that drove [serialized TV] was, you had to be in front of the TV [when it aired]. Now you can watch it when you want, where you want, how you want to watch it, and almost all of those ways are superior to watching it on-air.”
Then, in a fit of pique for which he is still apologizing, he said: “So on-air is [relegated] to the saps and the dipshits who can’t figure out how to watch it in a superior way.”
Kring later claimed that his quote had been “slightly mangled,” but the damage was done. He was blasted by fans and critics (“Try, you know, not sucking,” Time’s television blogger, James Poniewozik, bloggishly advised him), and certainly there was something gloriously self-destructive about a 50-something show creator, at the apex of his career after decades of slogging through hack work, publicly attacking the very people who are keeping him in business. But his profane evisceration of his own viewers is of a piece with NBC’s decision to sully the sanctum sanctorum of prime time with a talk show: both are signs of an old television order dying and a new one starting to come into focus.
The mere fact that moving a talk-show host from 11:30 to 10p.m.—a banal decision, on the face of it—has occasioned so much breathless coverage is more a sign of how change-resistant network television has traditionally been. But whether the Leno decision stemmed from desperation (by most gauges, NBC is now the fourth-ranked broadcast network), PR bravado (this is show business, after all), or just an unsentimental recognition of the need to make lemonade out of lemons, it will be only the first of many such moves. Amid an economic downturn that’s calling into question most old-school business strategies, the underpinnings of much of the mainstream television business are coming unstuck—and the first casualty may be the profusion of triple-decker, lavishly produced, scripted television that we’ve all taken for granted.
The problem is a relatively simple one: networks no longer make as much money on television shows as they used to. This makes the economics of scripted television—which is much more expensive to produce than reality or variety shows—far trickier and riskier than ever before. A show like Heroes can be an eight- or nine-figure gamble for its backers (usually a combination of a network and a studio), and the return is far from certain. As the television advertising market—the multibillion-dollar behemoth that makes possible all those excellent explosions and location shoots in Fiji—softens, the makers of TV shows are scrambling to find this money elsewhere. Content owners have traditionally found it in foreign syndication, DVD sales, and merchandising, among other revenue streams. But these markets are either plateauing or softening. This accounts for the rise of “integrated marketing” (all those name-brand products you see showing up in the middle of shows), and the rush to place programming on sites like hulu.com (a partnership between the parent companies of NBC and Fox) or to sell it through, say, iTunes. But neither Hulu nor iTunes offers—yet—a real business model.
This is the “sell side” problem. On the “buy side,” the problem is what I’d call cultural attention-deficit disorder, which afflicts the consumer bombarded with choices: more TV networks (the Emmy Award–winning show Mad Men is broadcast on AMC, a channel previously known only for showing movies), more video games, more Web sites, and more ways to consume shows than ever before (VOD, DVD, PPV, etc., etc.). And all of this is compounded by the loss of the social effect: the fewer people who consume any given piece of media, the fewer people there are to tell you how awesome The Life & Times of Tim is and how you simply have to watch it. Amid the chaos, it’s difficult for a media consumer to care enough about any one thing to stick with it—and for a network trying to build allegiance to a brand, convincing anyone that what you’re showing matters becomes almost impossible. (In the current television season, for example, only one new network show, CBS’s The Mentalist—a procedural, as it happens—became a bona fide hit, despite the tens of millions all the networks spent on promotion.)