Tuesday’s premiere of the FX anthology drama The People v. O.J. Simpson: American Crime Story drew 5.1 million viewers live, and that number is expected to skyrocket when taking DVR, on-demand and streaming viewing into account. It’s the biggest launch for an FX series in the network’s history, handily outperforming the similarly-anticipated Fargo and American Horror Story franchise debuts. But all three can now be considered critical and commercial successes – FX has gotten plenty of mileage out of this new “event series” format – and, from there, the future should be looking awfully bright.
O.J. Simpson, produced by Ryan Murphy and written by Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski, is an ideal event-series vehicle: the premiere alone is atmospherically contained, assured in its pace, topical, pulpy and rich with juicy performances. As the medium slides further and further into this new realm of awards bait – the star-studded, expertly-produced anthology – this will likely stand as a prime example of how to do it conventionally right. (For examples on the film side, see David O. Russell’s post-Fighter, pre-Joy filmography.) Indeed, next year’s Emmy contest for Best Limited Series is already shaping up to be one hell of a battle between Fargo, so externally perfect that it left me a little cold, and American Crime Story, which gives TV’s new true-crime fad some socially-conscious backbone.
We really are in a brave new world when the risky, bold, avant-garde antidote to a seamless product like O.J. Simpson is on a broadcast network – in fact, on the Disney-owned ABC. The show is American Crime (no, not FX’s American Crime Story – blame the networks if you’re confused), and it’s another ambitious, well-cast anthology. In its second season now, it stars acclaimed character actors Lili Taylor, Regina King, Felicity Huffman, Timothy Hutton, Hope Davis and André L. Benjamin – and further, like O.J. Simpson, it strives for topicality and button-pushing. Last season, creator John Ridley took on insidious racism and the War on Drugs; this year, he’s exploring education, sexuality and the fluidity of privilege. But American Crime rejects glossy polish. It’s an experimental show in search of truth and humanity, of answers and complexions in the grey areas of life defined by their ambiguity. The show is often a million things at once, and yet Ridley’s singular voice is unifying. In spite – or perhaps because – of its idiosyncrasies, American Crime comes together like a vital tapestry of contemporary American society.
I’ll have a review of the series next month when it concludes – and the same goes for O.J. in April – but the fact that it’s airing on a broadcast network is something I still can’t wrap my head around. American Crime is the very opposite of safe – it’s daring and upsetting and like nothing else I’ve seen. It feels too strange and too deep for broadcast television. Its ratings are pretty bad (lower than O.J.’s in fact), but critics are praising the show and awards bodies have taken note, too. It’s unlikely to take down an FX giant come Emmy time, but American Crime’s nominations haul was healthy last year, and Regina King managed to come away with a surprise win as well. (Like Horror Story, many of the show’s actors return from season to season, playing new characters.)
I don’t mean to disparage what FX is doing – O.J. has the potential to be their best limited offering yet – but it feels like the formula has reversed here. ABC also released Madoff this week, a far more traditional network miniseries that none were too impressed by; FX is preparing to bring back The Americans, which most concede is the best ongoing drama on television and yet is still ratings- and awards-challenged. The side-by-side existence of American Crime and American Crime Story is, in that regard, illuminating: the divide between the two is demonstrative of a dramatic shift in the paradigm. Critics, audiences and the clickbait machine that is Internet journalism were all relentlessly zeroed-in on FX’s new show, as ABC’s programming hasn’t experienced in a very long time – Shonda Rhimes’ Thursday night empire being excluded, of course. American Crime is the little, radical sibling getting attention in certain corners – a “groundbreaking” claim here, a “best show you’re not watching” one there – and is free to wander into controversial, unchartered territory as a result.
Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? Isn’t cable where all the risky business deals close? Of course, that hasn’t exactly changed – you don’t get Rectify or UnREAL or The Leftovers or BoJack Horseman or any of the dozens of TV’s other odd little shows on CBS or NBC – but there is something to be said on the broadcast side of things for the proliferation of streaming giants and cable mechas. American Crime is the first miniseries on one of the Big Four broadcast networks to receive the top Emmy nomination in more than a decade – and the timing is not coincidental. Networks are looking for new ways to stand out, and it’s presenting a thrilling opportunity for content that’s family-friendly, but also smart, original and bracingly unusual. With the more “sophisticated” audiences migrating to cable, there’s an untapped, if relatively small, market to capture. American Crime is not a hit, exactly, but it’s operating separately from shows like Fargo and The People v. O.J. Simpson. This new dynamic is opening up a new avenue for storytelling.
One network that’s wholly embracing of this phenomenon is The CW. Their Monday night lineup of sophomore Jane the Virgin and newbie Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is as exciting and boundary-breaking as any cable network’s seasonal slate of programming. Jane the Virgin conflates specific family drama with the conventions of telenovela – as adapted from a Venezuelan series, it seeks to adopt the formal eccentricities of a popular-yet-dismissed genre and place them within a context that’s both grounded and realistic. In effect, the show manages a startling balance of authenticity and bonkers, demonstrating keen self-awareness in the process. After a bumpy first season that ended strong, Jane the Virgin has settled into a groove, balancing love triangles and criminal conspiracies with a comprehensive focus on new motherhood. It moves with confidence, prioritizing fun and nuance while also skillfully weaving together an impossible number of high-stakes, high-drama plotlines.
Its younger lead-in, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, is an even stranger concoction. Essentially, it’s Enlightened-meets-musical-comedy-meets-feminist-sitcom: a high-powered lawyer in New York also happens to be a clinically depressed obsessive, and she moves back to sunny West Covina, California (“It’s only two hours from the beach! Well, four in traffic...”) in the hopes of wooing her summer fling from high school. It’s disarmingly satirical, often via extremely effective musical interludes, but also poignant, sweet and a little melancholy. (The opening credits sequence should indicate whether or not it’s for you.) This first season has notably struggled to balance crazy and sane, but it seems to have figured itself out somewhat since returning in January, and each episode is filled with some brilliant set-pieces regardless. Both Crazy-Ex and Jane are anchored by tremendous comic actresses in Rachel Bloom and Gina Rodriguez, respectively – they’re ushering in new brands of funny, and between the musicality that Bloom carries and the telenovela dramatics that Rodriguez plays, there’s satisfying depth to both performances.
Like American Crime, neither of these shows are big commercial successes. But the youth-oriented CW has been a ratings disaster since splintering off from The WB, and that lack of attention has forced them into innovative new programming spaces. Enough can’t be said about Crazy Ex-Girlfriend particularly, which – tellingly – was developed at the pay cable network Showtime before being turned down and re-developed for The CW. You don’t see that very often. These series are not especially controversial, but they’re far from ordinary – both are a hard sell to anyone not interested in expanding the range of content they consume. (“Telenovela meets grounded family drama!” is a better pitch for a critic, in other words.) But they’re more than worth a try: these are sharp, clever and fresh shows that drive the medium in new directions.
Much of what networks are churning out remains mediocre and formulaic. But ABC is pushing its brand forward in the half-hour space, too, with comedies like Black-ish and Fresh Off the Boat, and they’re recognizing the uniquely-PG territory that they can occupy. Even NBC is trying new things: the oft-mocked Peacock is bringing back the terrific Carmichael Show in the spring, and they launched the sprawling Sky One co-production You, Me and the Apocalypse last month. Even if the latter isn’t very good – despite the marquee cast, it leaves very little impression beyond an exceedingly bright template and faux-witty humor – it’s an acknowledgment that in this ratings-challenged climate, experimenting with new modes of storytelling is a viable endeavor. The system can still seem intractable. But as shows like American Crime and Jane the Virgin prove, there’s a new kind of opportunity for distinct programming – and, already, it’s yielding profound artistic rewards.