We watched the pilot for Studio 60 on Sunset Strip last night, the cancelled show conspicuously written by Aaron Sorkin. Having read a Vanity Fair article on Sorkin in the wake of The Social Network's release, it is easy to remained convinced that this man is a Writer. This is perhaps not the space to consider exactly what major television and film writing means, or to contrast any of Sorkin's production to say, Chuck Lorre's gifts, but one does note the contrasts, even if one is never quite convinced that there is a real difference.
That is to say, the opening sequence of Studio 60 throws down the gauntlet on this question of high art and low commerce rather like a frat boy tugging at the bra strap of a benumbed coed. Heady references to Network, and its late auteur Paddy Chayefsky, aside, the zooming and kinetic camera moves all over a soundstage where a SNL-esque show is in the immediate danger of going live. In the frenzied activity of production, the camera finds Judd Hersh (ur-mensh) being bullied by some network clone in an armani suit and slicked-backed hair, who as the representative standards VP tells producer Hersh that one of the skits has to be cut due to its insensitivity to american religious groups (we later learn that its called 'Crazy Christians').
Hersh doesn't have the power to overrule the network brass, and so the skit is cut. The contrast here is quite explicit. On the one hand, we have the old-school leftist Hersh, who has been producing politically-engaged theatre and television since this yuppie scum was shitting yellow. A real Gramscian, he looks wise and weary in the face of the corporate fascists he's been subverting and engaging for forty years. On the other, we have the standards and practice suit, who has subtly been drawn as the henchman to a corporate oligarchy. Sure, he's wearing an Armani suit, but its baggy and slightly rumpled. His hair, while slicked back, shows obvious thinning, especially at the front. All in all, the guy looks like the unhappy son of a rich bastard who knows only the masochistic rituals of submitting to authority because he desperately doesn't want to lose his place in the world.
This all comes to the surface when Hersh stumbles onto the live stage, a la Network, and delivers a polemic screed on the craven profiteering of corporate media, whose only objective is to push quasi-pornographic junk on an America addicted to lobotomized entertainment. Any reader of the New York Times or Time magazine should recognize the contours of this antagonism, particularly in the Return of the Jedi stage of the culture wars witnessed in the late 90's: Natural Born Killers, Infinite Jest, Truman Show, etc. While Hersh rants on live television, the yuppie brass goes apeshit and bursts into the control room demanding that the 'director?' (Timothy Busfield) cut the feed. The director hedges for 53 seconds, an eternity for an unscripted live feed featuring a ranting producer, before the network dude threatens to ruin the loyal director's career, "you got two kids in private school, right?"
This opening sets the stage for the return of a writer/director team, played by Matthew Perry and Bradley Whitford, who were earlier fired from the fictional show four years prior. The narrative guts of the show involve these two men, the upper level network brass, and the three stars of the show. Each set of characters is introduced by a dramatic title card, which apparently was a popular riff among smart television writers of this period (Frazier solely comes to mind). On the night of the incident, new network president Jordan, played by Amanda Peet, swings into action immediately from a creepy ultra-rich dinner party in the hills, and does damage control like a ballerina giving a blow-job (and yes, Jordan's grace, sexuality, and competence are writ large in the episode). Perry and Whitford have found great success in film after being fired, but both have had problems with substance abuse, which is also at issue in the plot resolution of bringing them back to Studio 60.
Although I find these plot reenactments to be terribly boring, it is sometimes necessary to establish the terrain in order to offer an observation. The conspicuous division between the talent and the network suits is drawn with aplomb and efficiency, and Sorkin does handle the binary with an appropriate degree of subtlety and nuance. However, despite the clear liberal bias of his writing, which is admirably manifest, Sorkin consistently proffers a kind of libertarian notion of natural talent and greatness. From Tom Cruise's preternatural skills as a prosecutor, to Jeb Bartlett/Andrew Shepherd's Jeffersonian genius as stewards of American democracy, to Mark Zuckerberg's prodigy-like computer programming skills, Sorkin writes about characters that have a unique talent and gift for leadership and success. In Sorkin's world, wealth and privilege are the merely the accouterments of genius, the reward for special talents. The way that the network standards yuppie is distinguished from the cologne-ad yuppie-ism of Perry and Whitford is the silent text of Sorkin's world. Everyone here is rich, but some clearly deserve it more than others. In other words, there are network hacks like Lorre who make television for AARP; and then there is Sorkin, who makes television for the Writer's Guild.
From this perspective, corporate group-thought and nepotism are negative features that stifle individual creativity and heroism. A natural class of leaders are the best 'Shepherds' of american democracy. A JAG lawyer saves loyal Marines from corrupt commander; Socratic President defends the less-fortunate/environment against bigoted religious right; Jewish computer prodigy implodes WASP secret society. The implicit antagonism is always directed at a populist fundamentalism: those who believe and those who are parasites upon this belief are at odds against those who deserve belief because of their ability. For this reason, I wish that Sorkin would actually write a script that goes against his convictions, and touches the core of his true beliefs. I wish he would have written the screenplay for Atlas Shrugged.
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