THERE’S A FORK IN SMALL-SCREEN ROAD
There are few winners during this pandemic, but streaming giant Netflix is surely among them. The company, which had expected to add seven million subscribers during the first three months of 2020, found itself with nearly 16 million new customers instead, as newly quarantined audiences struggled to distract themselves.
Netflix has always been in the business of comfort: It began as a company that mailed us DVDS so we didn’t have to amble over to Blockbuster, then by licensing popular movies and TV shows for members to stream at home. And, in 2013, when the company began rolling out original movies and series, it started with a very safe idea: a U.S. adaptation of the brilliant British miniseries House of Cards.
In the years since, despite some engaging and encouraging departures, Netflix has frequently reaffirmed its commitment to giving us more of what we already know we like: a quintet of mediocre shows based on Marvel Comics characters; another comedy from 30 Rock star and co-creator Tina Fey;
The Crown, a glossy period piece about the British monarchy; a couple of riffs on Archie Comics; giant long-term deals for Adam Sandler and Ryan Murphy; and countless adaptations.
The company does green-light some passion projects from great masters — such as Alfonso Cuarón’s Roma and Martin Scorsese’s The Irishman — in pursuit of the accolades that will help Netflix lure big-name filmmakers and showrunners into its employ. But it can be oddly deflating to see what artists actually do once they sign on the company’s dotted line.
Take Spenser Confidential, an action movie that evaporated from my memory almost as I watched it. The movie’s director, Peter Berg, and star, Mark Wahlberg, have made memorable movies together in the past, including the excellent Deepwater Horizon. Yet Spenser Confidential feels almost entirely written by algorithm: corrupt Boston cops + big star (Wahlberg) + beloved older character actor (Alan Arkin) + actor on the rise (Winston Duke) + a dash of nasty violence + generic drug-dealing villains = what, exactly?
Netflix does have its flashes of inspiration and bracing oddity. The company gave us Unbelievable and Mindhunter, two unusual and humane crime dramas, and The OA, a show about interpretive dance, near-death experiences and school shootings. They advanced the crime genre, which has stultified on network television, with a greater focus on victims’ experiences and the social context in which crime occurs. Or were the sort of experiment a company with deep understanding of its customers preferences ought to gamble on.
Still, Netflix’s artistic triumphs feel more like exceptions that the rule. For every Mindhunter, there is Lost Girls, an inept adaptation of Robert Kolker’s wonderful book about women who did sex work on Craigslist. For every Roma, there is a Bright, an inexplicable action movie starring Will Smith as a human cop with an orc partner.
Netflix can use its insights to give us exactly what we already know we’d like, or it can recommend something we’d never know to watch, but that we just might love. Familiar may be the safest. But different is a lot more fun.