An old, leisurely way to watch television drama is back in vogue
Summary
- On binge-watching v stinge-watching
Who wound up being murdered in the denouement of “The White Lotus"—and which of the show’s pampered sociopaths was the killer? In “Severance", meanwhile, did Mark, the hero, decide to ditch his workplace lover for his life and wife in the world outside—and what on earth was up with those goats? While we’re at it, who shot J.R.?
These questions have something in common: viewers had to wait for the answers. In the supreme cliffhanger of television history, in 1980 fans of “Dallas" endured or enjoyed eight months of speculation before the shooter’s identity was revealed. Visiting Britain during that febrile hiatus (extended by a writers’ strike), Larry Hagman, who played J.R., is said to have been quizzed about the mystery by the Queen Mother. For devotees of “Severance" and “The White Lotus" (pictured), the wait for the season finale was only a week. But for some people today, that seems like an age.
Once upon a time, it looked as if streaming had reconfigured TV drama for good. In 2013 Netflix released the first season of “House of Cards" in a single batch, an approach that appeared set to become the new default. In an era of one-click instantaneity, it fitted the expectations of audiences, the younger kind especially. Universal for decades, scheduled weekly releases began to seem as moribund as screens you couldn’t swipe. Yet today many streaming services have revived this antique rhythm for prestige dramas. Some viewers are irked. Are they right to be?
The staggered release, a form that dates back through network TV to the serialised novels of Dickens and Dostoyevsky, supplies resilient pleasures. The gaps between episodes can foster tension and discussion, if more often on Reddit threads than at water coolers. You are less likely to encounter spoilers before you reach the end. If “Dallas" came out on Netflix today, you might learn the culprit’s name osmotically before you knew J.R. gets shot (or had heard of him at all).
At its best, a great show’s weekly structure melds with the structure of your life. Time imbues the characters with an extra, humanoid dimension. Whether they are sympathetic (like Mark in “Severance") or villainous (like J.R.), they keep you company on your commute or at the gym. Rather than drifting through a series passively—because you didn’t switch off during an episode’s closing credits—it becomes an intentional fixture in your diary.
Then again, there’s a lot to be said for “binge-watching" too. That phrase makes gobbling up a show sound incontinent, which seems oddly pejorative if you compare TV viewing with the consumption of other art forms. No one thinks less of a moreish book or a reader who devours it, or insists on lengthy pauses between movements of a symphony. Nor is binge-watching only a recent habit. Still in circulation, the term “box set" is a relic of the antediluvian epoch of DVDs, through which many enthusiasts immersed themselves for lost weekends in “The Sopranos" or “The Wire".
“Stinge-watching"—or spacing out a show’s episodes—lets each be crafted and savoured discretely. But releasing a season’s-worth together opens up other creative possibilities. Less time is needed for recaps and expository dialogue. Story arcs twist and stretch more freely. You cohabit with the characters in a brief but passionate fling.
For streaming services, the choice between a weekly schedule, binge-dropping whole seasons, or (as some do) mixing the two models, is really a business decision. Amid fierce competition for eyeballs and revenue, eking out flagship shows helps streamers keep customers who might otherwise unsubscribe. Smash-hit binge releases like “Adolescence" make a big splash—but retaining viewers afterwards requires a deep reservoir of other offerings. Netflix has that; some of its rivals don’t.
That is the commercial dilemma. From a modern audience’s perspective, the question of binge versus staggered releases is ultimately about hierarchy and power. Who is in charge here, you or the show? To put it another way, is a TV drama a commodity like rice or soap, or does it, as art, somehow deserve a more exalted, less submissive status?
When J.R. was shot in 1980, that tussle didn’t arise. Punters got what they were given, and when. Now, with an ocean of content available on demand, the old weekly model makes an implicit but bold claim: that the story is good enough to fit your life around, rather than vice versa. When it isn’t worth the wait, it feels like a scam.
