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Broadcast television is a notoriously restricted art form; its economy depends on advertising dollars and, in turn, mass-appeal programming. But the tricky thing is not to call expectations for such series reduced. Restrictions make the creation of great art far more difficult, but they can also set the contours for unique and subversive narratives.
CBS' The Good Wife, a legal procedural with an unusual amount on the mind, is one such example. Its early episodes radiated a bracing intelligence; they looked and sounded like stock CBS programming, but their ambitious intent was, still, immediately evident. In the pilot, audiences were introduced to Alicia Florrick (Julianna Margulies), the wife of a politician newly caught in a sex scandal and simultaneously arrested on separate corruption charges, as she stood by her man at his decisive press conference: the camera on her, the surrounding soundscape that of a political circus. Given the circumstances, she was forced to return to work, joining Chicago's prestigious Stern, Lockhart and Gardner -- where one boss, Diane (Christine Baranski), would challenge her worthiness, and the other, Will (Josh Charles), charm her romantically -- and learning her way through a case-of-the-week dynamic.
The Good Wife never rested, though. Through their initial formula of resolving quirky cases by an hour's end, series creators Robert and Michelle King developed their characters and built their world. Diane and Will were fleshed out as big-city power-players of enviable ability and questionable morals; Alicia’s adversary Cary Agos (Matt Czuchry), a fresh-out-of-law-school newbie with whom she’d competed for a permanent job, was rendered sympathetic and equally (if not more) talented. Even as the show chronicled a crumbling marriage, husband Peter’s (Chris Noth) fatal flaw was revealed to be related more to sleazy corruption than marital infidelity. By season's end, the Kings unveiled The Good Wife as not a story of heroism, or one woman’s reclaiming of herself, but of something far more complex. For reference, consider the small but pivotal season one finale moment that fed into the rest of the series: Alicia defeated Cary for the coveted job not because she deserved it, but because she could bring the power and connections to the law firm.
This detailing is important because, in season six, The Good Wife has evolved into a drama of a prestige style and great narrative depth. It’s mostly serialized, overtly character-driven, heavily image-based, sublimely morally-minded and unwaveringly ambitious. It’s strange how a show once praised for its craftiness in using the broadcast model to its advantage has now broken out of any conceivable network formula. Five-and-some seasons in, The Good Wife is not only better than ever, but knowingly better than ever, showing off on an episodic basis and going to places of unprecedented cynicism and messiness -- even for cable.
But, critically, The Good Wife has not abandoned its DNA, and gone for something more streamlined simply because its audience has been entrenched. Conversely, its early days are intrinsic to its present state. A season one case introduced drug kingpin Lemond Bishop (Mike Colter) in a slightly peripheral manner; a season two case put the firm up against Neil Gross (John Benjamin Hickey), the founder of a fictionalized Google (amusingly titled ChumHum); and a season three case found Alicia and the firm defending a wrongfully-suspected Muslim terrorist, Danny Marwat. Fast-forward two years: the entire fifth season was framed around NSA spying, and how the firm’s extremely loose connection to Marwat allowed the agency to listen in on Alicia, and then the firm, and finally then-governor Peter. Meanwhile, Alicia left the firm to go out on her own (with Cary, of course), only because her season-by-season work against (and eventually with) Mr. Gross and ChumHum impressed, and she was thus able to take their hundreds of millions in billings along as a client. And now, in season six, Alicia is running for office herself, following in her husband's footsteps. The bombshell? The money that made it possible came entirely from Mr. Bishop’s empire, which over the years became integral to Alicia’s professional development.
The “education of Alicia Florrick,” as one could subtitle The Good Wife, is a bleak foray into ethical compromise and moral impossibility. The show’s initially light, somewhat innocuous aesthetic reflected the comfortable ethical area Alicia dared not drift beyond. She was a “good” person, a thoughtful one -- and yet here were drug dealers and cyber-bullies, coming to her firm, bringing in money. “Isn’t this wrong?,” Alicia would naively ask. Not so in later seasons, however: she stopped inquiring about, or struggling with, the ethically-dubious people occupying space in her life -- even Mr. Bishop. As she gained power, she lost innocence; as she mastered politics and the law, she became desensitized to its individual and collective horrors. She got used to it. As viewers, we got used to it.
Alicia’s development as a character has been, to a great degree, about her natural limitations. She underestimates herself, and puts on the confidence hat with her intent a shred too obvious. Having been taught to value herself against others -- she is The Good Wife, after all -- she lacks a sense of identity. Indeed, her definition as both a housewife and, subsequently, a rising attorney was consistently themed by her relationship to her husband. Alicia confronts that journey in the aftermath of Will Gardner's death, a jolt to the series' narrative: the way she used to dress, the way people used to treat her, the way she'd still get criticism for “standing by” her husband. And she doesn't like what she sees. When trying to enlist the business of the feminist entrepreneur Rayna Hecht (played by Jill Hennessy), Alicia's asked, “What do you want?” Her answer is inauthentic; Rayna consequently goes with the zany but self-assured Elsbeth Tascioni (Carrie Preston in a deservedly Emmy-winning performance) instead. Alicia digs deeper into her profession, and eventually into politics, but not because it’s who she is: it’s what she knows, to follow a path and slap on a smile.
How The Good Wife (and Alicia) has evolved in tone and structure is no better explicated than in its ongoing treatment of Alicia’s atheism. It was always there -- Alicia didn’t respond well to her daughter’s turn to Christianity -- but never stated, never acknowledged. But a few seasons ago, Alicia radically turned: she became a capital-A Atheist without any internal struggle, without the remote possibility that she'd change it for her husband’s (or her own) political aspirations. She lives in, as she puts it, a world where “God cannot exist.” Now, part of the reason this character trait took as long as it did to be articulated is, no doubt, the ambivalence of a standards-and-practices-abiding network like CBS. But, again, this limitation worked to the show's advantage: as Alicia immersed herself more deeply into the legal and political world, the moral and ethical sacrifices became unbearably clear. Her atheism was no longer something to doubt -- it couldn't be doubted. In came her negotiation with her faith, her beliefs, her worldview -- that with what she has learned and encountered, this must be so.
Atheism is a word not generally used in popular entertainment, for whatever reason; I can’t count many explicitly non-believing protagonists on television, cable or broadcast. Nor can I think of many shows that have gone after issues involving abortion, homophobia, sexual assault, the political-technological complex or the drug war with such bold-faced command. Again, it was in the DNA from the beginning -- and now, with greater freedom, The Good Wife is able to tackle these issues, our moral soul, with forceful intensity. The series has become thrillingly unpredictable. Characters move around, relationships change, ideas build. But at the center remains Alicia Florrick, in perpetual negotiation, trying to win herself over -- a person without a definable sense of self, thrust into an enrapturing account of the relationship between politics, law, business and technology. And that world -- our world -- is one of moral compromise and rotten with injustice. Alicia, as someone unable to nail down who she is and what she wants, is the perfect person to embrace such a world -- and maybe even do a little good in it. She just had to realize that nobility was for chumps.