The first time it happened was during the strike. A writer came up to me on the picket line to tell me that their 13-year-old loved “The Rookie.” Since then, I’ve heard that same sentiment over and over again (with the age often lowered to 10 and 11). I have several theories on why “The Rookie” has found purchase with an increasingly younger audience, starting with how popular our clips have grown on TikTok. But at its heart, I see our success as part of a larger (and longer-unfolding) phenomena: Network television has become comfort food for the anxiety generation.
Before I dig in, let me define my terms. “Anxiety generation” is not specific to Gen Z or Millennials, rather kids growing up and coming of age over the last 20 years. It’s no secret that the world has been an evolving dumpster fire since the financial crash of 2007, which left college students with a crippled job market just as they were dipping their toes into adulthood. Then there was the COVID pandemic, where quarantine robbed kids of a year of their academic and social lives. Mix in the presidency (x2) of Donald Trump, where chaos and cruelty are constant, and the whiplash of a cultural push for increased civil liberties, followed by an immediate and violent snapback against them.
All of these factors have unfolded against a tragic and constant background of school shootings, the toxicity of social media and the existential dread of the worsening climate crisis. You really have to wonder how these kids even get out of bed in the morning. I believe that part of the answer is that they found a path to self-care through the comfort of old school TV. Namely, watching and rewatching current and retired network television shows. I’ve seen this firsthand with my four kids (ages 17-28) who, over the last decade plus, have watched and rewatched (and rewatched and rewatched) a large number of broadcast shows. The list is too long to fully lay out here, but they include “The Office” (188 episodes), “Parks and Rec” (125 episodes), “Bob’s Burgers” (286 episodes and counting), and “New Girl” (146 episodes). And it’s not just comedies that comfort. Shows like “Grey’s Anatomy” (466 episodes and counting), “Criminal Minds” (324 episodes and counting) and “Law and Order: SVU” (570 episodes and counting) fill out the rotation, even though they tell dark stories about serial killers and sexual violence.
How can those dark stories be comfort food?
Because the comfort is in the familiarity of the world and the characters, not the tone. It’s in the close-ended structure of episodic storytelling where a comedic problem or a criminal investigation is launched, and both can be solved by episode’s end. And it’s in the sheer number of episodes. That factor is key. You can disappear in a show that has 100-plus episodes, rewatching whole seasons or jumping around from favorites to favorites while doing homework, putting on makeup or cooking dinner. You can’t do that with streaming shows — at least not yet.
As popular as streaming shows are, whether it’s “Stranger Things” (34 episodes and counting), “The Boys” (32 episodes and counting), “Emily in Paris” (40 episodes and counting) or “Squid Game” (16 episodes and counting), a show that has six-, eight- or 10-episode seasons, spaced two years apart, are limited in the escape they can provide. And that limitation is baked into the mechanical difference between producing television on network versus streaming.
For those who might not know, network television is an air-as-you-go model. Historically, the writers’ room begins in the late spring, production starts somewhere in July and episodes begin to air in the fall. But production quickly starts to catch up to post the later you get into the season, shortening the turnaround between making it and airing it. At the extreme, episodes have aired three to four weeks after they wrapped production. Make no mistake, it’s an exhausting schedule. (Literally, once production begins, a network drama needs a new script to prep every eight business days. For eight months.)
