While soap operas are traditionally associated with long-running daytime television produced for the consumption of women within domestic spheres, the melodrama expected from such “low culture” forms as soap operas have, in recent decades, made their way into high value, arguably “prestige television” intended for younger, and less gendered audiences: the infamously popular and increasingly ubiquitous teen drama genre. From CW’s scandalous Gossip Girl (2007–2012) and Skins (2007–2013) in the UK to attempts at more serious looks into teen life with Netflix’s 13 Reasons Why (2017–2020) and HBO’s Euphoria (2019 – ) to the unapologetically campy CW’s Riverdale (2016 – ) and Pretty Little Liars (2010–2017), to name only a few, the excesses of melodrama have become expected in teen and young adult content. Indeed, in the way that Feuer describes of Douglas Sirk’s melodramas, such camp can create a Brechtian separation from the content for critical viewing. For example, not even the least media literate can view Riverdale seriously; unfortunately, though, Riverdale barely attempts social commentary. A better example of this can be seen in Gossip Girl, a voyeuristic review of the audacity and misery of the children of New York’s elite. Their excesses — as even the show’s resident “poor man” Dan Humphrey struggles little with financial hardship — are meant to be viewed with scorn. As Elsaesser describes of the contradiction with serialized programs, without a clear ending, it remains unclear if the story should be read as critical or simply as an indulgence (Feuer, 7). Indeed, when the 2008 recession hit just a year into the show and its audience was for the most part witnessing their families’ financial demises, the appeal turned instead to that of escapism. Dan’s previous position as the disadvantaged middle class perspective shifts in later seasons to the periphery in favor of ultimate snobs Blaire and Chucks’ redemption arcs, while Dan becomes the show’s villain — yet none of these characters are ultimately held accountable for their various crimes, all enjoying happy endings without compromising their positions as America’s one percent, their triumphs and tribulations being personal rather than political.
In 2020 came yet further hunger for not only the excessive emotion and pathos present in Douglas Sirk’s melodramatic work of the mid 20th century (Feuer, 5), but the fantasy of escapism into lavish lifestyles, worlds where complex sociopolitical issues can be resolved through internal mediation within personal relationships. Millions justified their indulgences into the fantastically excessive worlds of pandemic-era shows such as Emily in Paris and Bridgerton as needed escapes from lockdown-induced misery, excusing themselves from the implications of such a problematically clean, wealthy, and white rendering of Paris or historical erasure of racism, colonization, and slavery. In such worlds, Emily does not bear witness to the racial tensions, urban decay, and eruptive protests that have plagued Paris for the past decade, instead providing a window through which middle class viewers, stuck at home, can enjoy infinite expenditure on clothing, food, vacations, their only struggle being love triangles with impossibly gorgeous foreigners (oh to have such problems!). Meanwhile, as revealed in Season 1 Episode 4 of Bridgerton, Britain’s centuries-long bloody history of colonization and slave trade could, in an alternate reality gone unexamined, be instantly resolved simply when a king fell in love with a Black woman, making way for a racial egalitarian utopia — yet one in which the patriarchal structures prevail. Like Feuer describes of soaps, socioeconomic problems that plague the outside worlds and likely consumers’ lives are relocated to the characters’ internal affairs, and therefore are made resolvable (Feuer, 7). While Emily in Paris is ongoing, it can be assumed that her difficulties will never amount to more than being caught juggling multiple dream boyfriends and dream jobs, and given its status as a comedy will likely not end in much hardship. Meanwhile, Bridgerton’s format as anthology gives insight into the so-far always happy endings (despite no one ever really stopping them, the men finally get over their daddy issues and marry the woman of their dreams!). By Elsaesser’s taxonomy, these two programs fall into escapist, rather than subversive categories, which can be read as especially damaging given their situation within real and highly contested settings, worlds through which millions dealing with economic disparity and Covid lockdowns can imagine that love, not reform, conquers all.
But more importantly, a very stressed out guy with a lot of responsibilities:
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