Laura L. Swanbeck 3.18.14TV Criticism Professor John Caldwell

Confrontation and Contrition: Religious and Reality TV Tropes in Studio 60 On the Sunset Strip

30 Rock, “Plan B,” Season 5, Episode 18Aaron Sorkin: “I’m Aaron Sorkin. The West Wing. A Few Good Men. The Social Network—you know my work.”Liz Lemon: Studio 60?Sorkin: Shut up.

It took five years, but writer Aaron Sorkin was finally able

to square off against Tina Fey, lampooning the swift cancellation

that befell Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, his highly anticipated, but

short-lived, follow-up to The West Wing which aired in 2006.

Ironically, this interchange took place on Fey’s TV show, 30 Rock,

which premiered on NBC the same year as Studio 60, had a similar

setting albeit different tone, and ultimately gained the upper

hand, lasting for seven seasons. The much touted pilot of Studio

60, which chronicled the behind-the-scenes drama of a sketch

comedy show set in Los Angeles, brought in an average of 13.4

million viewers.1 However, this dropped substantially by 19% to

10.8 million by the second episode.2 Moreover, numbers decreased

in the second half of the show’s airing, indicating that

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audiences were perhaps taking fictional showrunner Wes Mendell’s

(Judd Hirsch) advice a bit too literally when he famously hijacks

the show-within-a-show in the pilot and urges viewers to “change

the channel.” After 22 episodes, with the final episode earning a

mere 4.2 million viewers NBC pulled the plug on the series, which

it had originally presented as the cornerstone in a marketing

campaign to rebrand the network after its notoriously weak 2005-

2006 season.3

While most scholars either criticize Studio 60 as

sanctimonious posturing or completely overlook it in Sorkin’s

televisual canon, the series offers a striking meditation on

theology, a proverbial olive branch to Middle America in which

Sorkin uses the love story between agnostic Jewish writer,

Matthew Albie (Matthew Perry), and devout Christian comedian,

Harriet Hayes (Sarah Paulson), as an idealized microcosm for a

deeply divided, post-9/11 America. In addition to the heated

religious debate at the heart of the show, Studio 60 evokes the

roots of reality television with its preoccupation with finding

“the real” in behind-the-scenes drama—a throughline present in

earlier Sorkin series, such as Sports Night and The West Wing, and

currently in The Newsroom. Moreover, the show adopts reality TV’s

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mantel of the “makeover,” the cornerstone of unscripted

programming which Brenda Weber explores in Makeover TV—Selfhood,

Citizenship, and Celebrity.4 While Weber addresses the physical and

emotional transformations of reality television stars, Sorkin is

the architect behind an aggressive industrial and consumer

makeover. With its unusual underpinnings of reality TV and

religion, Studio 60 is as much about reinvention as it is about

redemption, showcasing the revitalization of its characters’

careers in the show-within-a-show, the rebranding of its network

NBC, and the reaffirmation of Sorkin’s status as a televisual

auteur who, in a call to action, is trying to make over the

television industry as purveyors of culture and the audience

itself as consumers.

In tandem with the fictional show’s revamping comes a fresh

start for the creative and corporate team behind the National

Broadcasting System (NBS), a thinly veiled version of NBC. From

the start, Studio 60 vehemently announces itself with the fall from

grace of fictional showrunner, Wes Mendell, who goes on an angry

Howard Beale-like tirade after an executive forces him to cut a

sketch called “Crazy Christians” in fear that they will alienate

religious viewers. He fumes, “This show used to be cutting-edge

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political and social satire, but its gotten lobotomized by a

candy-assed broadcast network hell-bent on doing nothing that

might challenge their audience.”5 The camera, in an overhead shot

during this rant, paints Wes as a martyr who is willing to

sacrifice himself and his show so that new changes at both the

executive and creative level can be implemented to return Studio 60

to its former consecrated status.

Ironically Wes’ last day marks the first day of new NBS

President, Jordan McDeere (Amanda Peet). Based loosely off of

former ABC entertainment chief Jamie Tarses, Jordan is the kind

of impassioned executive who reveals that when she took the job,

she decided that she was going to pretend that she “only had a

year to live.” Additionally, she sets a plan in motion to bring

back former Studio 60 writer and director team, Matt Albie and

Danny Tripp Bradley Whitford), who did not part well with the

show and often butted heads with NBS Chairman, Jack Rudolph

(Steven Weber). When Jordan presents her plan to rehire them

following Wes’ disgraceful exit and encounters resistance from

Jack, she evokes religious ideology, pointedly explaining, “It’s

a tacit admission of guilt and a silent act of contrition, and

that’s what’s required here.”6 At the end of the pilot after

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she’s managed to convince the duo to come onboard, she also

insists that they open the next week’s show with the canceled

sketch, proving her commitment to quality television and creative

talent rather than Broadcast Standards and Practices. When Jordan

holds a press conference in episode number two, “The Cold Open,”

she launches into a loquacious speech in typical Sorkin fashion:

“I'll tell you what I do believe. I believe that the people who

watch television shows aren't dumber than the people who make

television shows. I believe that quality is not anathema to

profit.”7 Additionally, as she introduces Matt and Danny to the

press, she raises the bar by evoking the televisual makeover,

remarking, “They will return Studio 60 to its former glory as the

flagship program of NBS And NBS will return to its former place

as America's greatest broadcast network. And if you don't believe

me, tune in Friday night at 11:30.”8 Although Jordan receives

pushback throughout her tenure and is often unflatteringly

portrayed in the press, Sorkin frames her as a champion of

quality TV and proof of the kind of unwavering loyalty that he

imagines should exist at the executive level. In a review of

Studio 60 New York Times critic, Alessandra Stanley, even goes so

far as to allude to Jordan in religious terms when describing her

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appearance and otherworldly dedication to her job: “Her skin

glows and her eyes shine like Gene Tierney’s in Laura or Jennifer

Jones’s in Song of Bernadette. Jordan seems lighted from within, only

it’s not religious fervor; it’s the undiluted love of making good

television.”9 Ultimately, Jordan is Mary Richards all grown up,

which Sorkin alludes to when Jack says to her, “You know what,

you’ve got spunk. I hate spunk,” showing a begrudging respect for

Jordan as well as, in an atypical move, televisual history.10

Throughout the series, Sorkin subverts expectations of the power-

hungry, taste-less executive and even gradually reveals Jack’s

originally gruff character as a sympathetic advocate of the show-

with-a-show who secretly regrets firing Matt and Danny in the

first place.

In addition to “makeovers” at the executive level, Sorkin

rests the fate of Studio 60 on the shoulders of its creative team

led by Matt and Danny, who are themselves going through personal

as well as professional transformations. Jordan obtains

information that Danny, who is a recovering cocaine addict, has

relapsed and failed an insurance drug test, and, as such, cannot

get bonded to make the duo’s planned feature film until he’s been

clean for 18 months. Therefore, Jordan leaps at the opportunity

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to offer him and Matt a job to return to television and help

resuscitate Studio 60. Meanwhile, Matt has his own issues to

contend with, recovering from back surgery—which leads to an

amusing introduction of his character accepting a WGA award all

loopy from painkillers—and a breakup from Harriet Hayes, the star

of Studio 60. Throughout the series Sorkin has intrinsically tied

Matt and Danny’s own personal development with the evolution and

fate of Studio 60 itself. As Matt and Danny page all the cast and

crew to the stage for the first time, one of the production

assistants (Merritt Weaver) asks timidly, “Are you coming to save

us?”, evoking religious ideology yet again and leaving no doubt

that this duo is Sorkin’s second coming for the endangered

show.11 While brainstorming ideas for their very first sketch as

showrunners, Matt and Danny struggle with how to confront Wes’

indictment of Studio 60 and television in general with Matt

remarking that the cold open needs to be “an acknowledgement and

an acceptance” with one of the cast members, Tom Jeter (Nate

Corddry) piping in that it needs to imply that “we take this show

seriously, but we don’t take ourselves seriously” and that “we

screwed up but we won’t do it again.” This sparks an idea of

leading off with a grandiose musical number set to the tune of

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Gilbert and Sullivan’s Major-General’s Song, yet changing the

chorus to, “We’ll be the very model of a modern network TV show.”

With the cast dressed as angels (a nod to the religious right,

whom they are both confronting and offering contrition

simultaneously), the cast belts out self-deprecating lines,

including Harriet’s: “I am a Christian, tried and true, baptized

at age eleven so/Unlike the lib'rals, gays and Jews, I'm going

straight to heaven.” Meanwhile, another section serves as an

irreverent, self-referential send-up of their own TV producers

with the cast singing the lines, “We're starting out from scratch

after a run of 20 years and so/We hope that you don't mind that

our producer was caught doing blow!” Consequently, right from the

start, the fictional showrunners recognize the need for a clean

slate and a complete makeover for themselves as well as the show.

Moreover, it is a nod to Sorkin’s own past drug addiction and a

vicarious, albeit indirect, apology to his audience. 12

Along with revitalizing and redeeming creative talent and

executive leadership, Sorkin also uses the impassioned on/off

relationship between the show’s central couple, Harriet and Matt,

to further plumb the depths of this idea of “the makeover” not

only for them as a couple, but also for the deeply divided

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American factions that they represent. In an interview, Sorkin

remarked, “This is a country that has been very polarised,

especially since 9/11. There's the left versus the right, and

religious people versus less religious people, and popular

entertainment has been in the cross-hairs for quite a while.

Hollywood's patriotism is always being questioned that we're too

liberal.”13 In the characters of Matt and Harriet, the show

posits the question whether two people with such different

fundamental beliefs in religion can work together, respect each

other, and love one another? Sorkin idealistically seems to imply

in the affirmative. In episode 5, “The Long Lead Story,” a Vanity

Fair columnist named Martha O’Delle (Christine Lahti) requests

access to Studio 60 to write an article detailing the rebirth of

the show and simultaneously get the scoop on Matt and Harriet’s

tumultuous relationship. Reflecting on this new beginning for

Studio 60, Martha delves into how each of them first got their

start. Backstage, Harriet reveals to her that when she was still

a child one time during a church play she broke into a Judy

Holliday impression to cover a flubbed line, causing both the

minister and her mother to burst out laughing. Harriet recalls,

“I looked and I saw the pride on my mother’s face and I told her

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I was ready to accept Christ and I was baptized.”14 Harriet’s

character is groundbreaking as an inherent contradiction with her

simultaneous ascendance as both a comedian and a Christian—two

roles that rarely are compatible, at least in left-leaning

Hollywood. Meanwhile, by relentlessly shadowing Matt, Martha

ultimately gets him to admit that he “broke” as a comedian

because he was trying to impress Harriet and get her more airtime

as a new cast member. In the second half of the season in the

episode, “K & R, Part I,” Sorkin uses a flashback montage of Matt

and Harriet’s heated debate about science versus religion against

the backdrop of 9/11 unfolding, which further underscores

Sorkin’s allegory of them representing a polarized American

society. Using Sorkin’s signature “walk-and-talk” device in which

two characters have a lengthy conversation en route to another

location, Harriet and Matt argue back and forth with the latter

questioning the former’s faith, asking if god exists then, “why

the hell didn’t he give the hijackers massive coronaries before

they reached for the box cutters?”15 While this might seem like a

fairly standard romantic/screwball comedy montage with bickering

lovers, it’s only by revisiting their history and the root of

their problems that they can reinvent themselves—which is also

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coded as bringing together coastal liberals in New York and LA

with conservatives in the so-called flyover states for a fresh

start.

Just as Sorkin uses the trope of new beginnings for the

fictional characters on his show-within-a-show, NBC was also

looking at Studio 60 as a vehicle for rebranding the network. In

fact, it had fallen to dead last in fourth place. Its fall from

grace was further evidenced by comedian and 2006 Emmy host, Conan

Brian, who in his opening monologue sang along to the tune of

Broadway’s The Music Man: “We got trouble, right here at NBC,

with a capital T and that rhymes with G, as in 'Gee, we're

screwed!'”16 With heavy competition from cable and new internet

platforms, NBC struggled to define itself in a “post-network”

era. “NBC’s 2005-2006 attempt to retrofit its broadcast

strategies to an interactive age—dubbed by executives as NBCU 2.0

—had failed to find a footing, and in a more defensive posture,

the network moved next to cut expenses by $750 million and its

workforce by 5%.”17 Furthermore, between 2005 and 2006 viewing

averages declined from a 3.0 to a 2.6 rating while the key

twelve-to-seventeen demographic (which guaranteed an active

presence on websites such as YouTube) dropped from a 2.4 to a 1.1

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rating.18 In 2007 following the demise of Studio 60 newly appointed

head of NBC Entertainment, Ben Silverman, challenged the

programming selection of his predecessor, Kevin Reilly,

particularly his decision to pick up both Studio 60 and 30 Rock, which

were thematically, if not tonally, aligned. Some scholars view

Reilly’s decision as a Hail Mary pass and a feeble attempt to

rebrand the network using its flagship series, Lorne Michaels’

Saturday Night Live, as a centerpiece. In theory, this would also

bolster SNL, which was in decline after its resurgence in the

1990s with popular headliners, such as Will Ferrell and Jimmy

Fallon. However, Barbara Williams, the senior programming Vice

President at Global Television, the Canadian distributor of SNL,

counters this, arguing that, “the kind of decision-making process

that goes into what you think will be a prime-time hit with your

core audience is a very separate decision from what you think

works in late night.”19 Regardless of the ultimate motivation

behind the pick up of both series, it does mark a shift in the

direction of seeking out “quality television” to rebrand NBC.

Entering a bidding war with CBS over the Warner Brothers-

produced Studio 60, NBC ultimately won, spurred on by the high

production values, A-list cast, and quality pedigree offered by

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Sorkin and Thomas Schlamme, a frequent collaborator on Sports Night

and The West Wing. They paid a pretty price too, ponying up a $2

million per episode license fee with Warner Brothers kicking in

an addition $1 million, making it one of the most expensive shows

to produce in television history. The network also had a cultural

stake in winning distribution rights, exemplified by Reilly’s

confession that, “If [Sorkin] is going to [lampoon NBC], it’s

better that he does it on our air than on someone else’s.” In

addition to the hefty licensing fee, NBC also agreed to a minimum

13-episode order, a penalty fee for early cancellation, a $10

million dollar marketing budget, and the reassurance of no

creative interference. 20 To say that NBC had high hopes for the

show is to put it lightly. In an interview Sorkin gave prior to

the pilot’s airing, he said wryly, “The expectation of this show

is that it licks global warming.”21 Moreover, NBC had positioned

it as leading the way for a slate of new shows that all premiered

in 2006 and fell under the rubric of quality television,

including Fey’s 30 Rock, Jason Katim’s Friday Night Lights, and Tim

Kring’s Heroes. Shari Anne Brill, VP and Director of Programming

for the Carat USA media agency in New York, called it the best

development slate NBC had had in several years: “These shows will

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definitely outperform the ones they've replaced…You don't turn

around completely in one season, but they will have a reversal of

misfortune.”22 Brill’s confidence echoes Reilly’s that 2006 would

be a springboard for NBC that would raise the profile of the

network and make it synonymous with quality programming. Despite

attempts to embody this concept of quality television, Sorkin

pokes fun at it sardonically when fictional NBS Chairman, Jack

Rudolph, “riffs on the ‘quality’ show set in the United Nations

that Jordan snatches away from HBO against his wishes. ‘America’s

been waiting for a show about negotiating lasting peace in the

Sudan. I hope they’ll hold off on a debate about humanitarian aid

to Darfur until sweeps.’”23 Consequently, Sorkin manages to

elevate NBC with Studio 60’s inherent status as quality TV while

satirizing it on a metatextual level within the show-within-a-

show.

Picking up Studio 60 was a major feat not only as a move to

rebrand NBC, but also for what it meant in terms of reconciling

and acknowledging its mixed programming history. With Wes’

bombastic declaration of guilt and complicity in appealing to the

lowest common denominator in Studio 60’s pilot, NBC can also be seen

as somehow apologizing for past lowbrow programming choices while

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still airing reality TV, such as Deal or No Deal, simultaneously.

It’s telling that the shows that Wes references when he alludes

to eating worms for money and contestants idolizing Donald Trump

clearly evoke Fear Factor and The Apprentice—two shows that aired on

NBC at the time. Sorkin explained his decision to set the show

behind the scenes at a late-night sketch-comedy, remarking, “it

seemed like a good place for conflict in terms of the culture

wars. TV is important because we all watch it. It has the ability

to do damage and it has the ability to lift us up. In the US, the

Federal Communications Commission [FCC] and the religious right

have a comprehensive influence over broadcast television. They

are the law, and they have the networks on a very tight leash.”24

Consequently, rather than vilifying NBC executives, he recognizes

how they often find themselves between a rock and a hard place

when it comes to answering to the FCC and religious groups.

In Jonathan Gray’s article, “Television Previews and the

Meaning of Hype,” he explores the relationship between paratexts

and their original sources, focusing primarily on two shows that

emerged onto the scene in 2006 with high expectations only to

fall by the wayside—namely, Raven Metzner and Stuart Zicherman’s

Sig Degrees and Sorkin’s Studio 60. Analyzing a widely circulated promo

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of Studio 60, Gray assesses that by privileging a single scene—Wes

Mendell’s monologue—over the course of the first two minutes,

which is unusual for a short featurette, “NBC seemingly endorses

it allowing the disgruntled fictional writer-director to preach

not only to his audience but directly to the preview’s real-life

audience. In doing so, NBC lays down a gauntlet of sorts,

accusing American television of being filled with junk. The

lengthy jeremiad goes beyond the fictional frame, to implicate

NBC’s own schedule, and American television’s lineup more

broadly.”25 The promo serves as a rare example of television

attacking itself as well as ironically commending itself for

doing so. Gray also delves into the implications of the modern-

day proliferation of paratexts and how meaning is generated

before the text itself even arrives. He argues that pre-textual

hype actually worked to the detriment of Studio 60 as its referent

text could not measure up and was far more “character-based” than

“mission-based” as its preview proposed.

In addition to network rebranding, Studio 60 also marks a

career makeover for showrunners, Sorkin and Schlamme, as well as

certain members of the cast. Plagued by rumors of late scripts

and difficulties on set, Sorkin was summarily dismissed following

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the fourth season of The West Wing. Additionally, his 2001 arrest at

Burbank Airport for cocaine, marijuana, and mushrooms, did not

help his public relations problems with NBC. Eager to turn over a

new leaf with his return to TV with Studio 60, Sorkin vowed to stay

more on top of deadlines, penning the first five episodes before

the pilot even aired. Furthermore, the character of Danny,

despite his role as director and producer of the show-within-a-

show, is a thinly veiled stand-in for writer Sorkin with his own

troubled past and drug relapse. Meanwhile, Schlamme’s

cinematography and signature “walk-and-talk” style, which

showcased the lavish studio set built specifically for the show,

helped make further reparations for the damage done to Sorkin’s

reputation, and by extension the packaged title of Sorkin and

Schlamme. The character of Matt Albie, meanwhile, offered actor,

Matthew Perry, the opportunity to break away from the role of

Chandler Bing in his first television role since Friends.

Struggling with painkillers while going through his breakup with

Harriet, the character of Matt’s dependency closely mirrors

Perry’s own real-life addiction to Vicodin during the run of

Friends. Harriet, as a fervent Christian comedian, also bears a

remarkable resemblance to Sorkin’s ex-girlfriend, actress Kristin

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Chenoweth. By incorporating such autobiographical details, it

allows Sorkin to live vicariously through his characters and

return to a relationship, which soured when Chenoweth went on Pat

Robertson’s 700 Club to promote an album of spiritual music,

similar to Harriet. Not only that, but it also allows him to

rewrite history, so to speak, using Matt and Harriet to confront

regrets over his relationship with Chenoweth and give them the

couple makeover and happy ending that he never had in real life.

Consequently, the personal manifesto that is Studio 60, no matter if

Sorkin protests otherwise, serves as Sorkin’s atonement for the

behind-the-scenes difficulties on The West Wing and an attempt at

rebranding himself, Schlamme, and his cast and crew through their

fictional counterparts.

In addition to the mutual rebirth that Studio 60 offered, the

show also marks the return of the cult of the auteur in which

Sorkin has transformed into a god-like figure, attempting to

remake the audience, or at least their viewing practices and

taste in television, in his own image. Just as viewers of

Network’s fictional news show elevate Howard Beale to deity

status, so too have audiences entrusted Sorkin to serve as the

morality police, fighting on the frontline of the culture wars

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and holding networks and showrunners accountable for the

“mediocre” programming they allow on their air. As an auteur, an

Aaron Sorkin script is singular and easy to identify both

formally and thematically: “The legendary walk-and-talk staging,

characters constantly repeating themselves, chaotic behind-the-

scenes intrigue, a harried female producer, a magical elder

statesman, an arrogant young hotshot, a courageously reckless,

truth-to-power speech that throws everything into flux, people

talking over each other with such spectacular coordination that

it sounds like a Robert Altman opera libretto.”26 These are some

of the lynchpins to Sorkin’s quality TV brand. The New Yorker’s Adam

Sternbergh reflects that:

“Network TV is not a medium that fosters auteurs, but Sorkin fits the description best. Unlike, say, David E. Kelley, whose fizzy shows (Ally McBeal) have spawned a nursery full of clones (Grey’s Anatomy), Sorkin’s trademark tics are hard to replicate. And he’s followed the British model for creating TV, single-handedly churning out entire seasons, at times during infamous drug-chugging marathons, hunkered down in a hotel room.”27

Sternbergh hints at the darker side of Sorkin’s auteurship not

only referencing Sorkin’s past drug use, but also alluding to an

obsessive nature and egotistical streak. This is particularly

exemplified by how Sorkin notoriously hires researchers instead

of a team of writers while reserving all the real writing for

himself. Despite his harried, neurotic reputation, Sorkin did

contribute to and empower the idea of the cult of the writer

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auteur in the 1990s, popularized by a new wave of TV powerhouses,

including David Lynch, David Chase, Joss Whedon, and J.J. Abrams.

By frequently and adamantly claiming explicit authorship of The

West Wing, Sorkin cemented the role of the writer auteur in both

public and industry consciousness, paving the way for acclaimed

showrunners, such as Matthew Weiner (Mad Men) and Vince Gilligan

(Breaking Bad), to take center stage in the new millennium. With

each new project, including the Oscar-winning film, The Social

Network, the cult of Aaron Sorkin has only grown, informing the

power of the writer auteur and building a dedicated, almost

zealous, fanbase.

Thus, when news of Sorkin’s forthcoming series, Studio 60,

circulated, audiences were just as excited, if not more so, that

he was returning to television as well as stars, Matthew Perry

and Amanda Peet. Sorkin ultimately creates series that are not

only confrontational, but also aspirational: “In Sorkin Land,

every worker is smart, every decision important, everyone works

deep into the night, and every conversation is as crisp as a good

stump speech, rattled off without notes. Studio 60 preaches the

same religion.”28 This again underscores Sorkin’s dedication to

quality TV as akin to religious fervor. However, Sorkin remains a

rare showrunner in that his respect for television is only

matched by his disdain, as evidenced in Studio 60. This question of

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whether his esteem or derision will ultimately win out carries

over to his perception of American audiences as well. In an

interview with Broadcasting and Cable, actor Bradley Whitford

(The West Wing, Studio 60) commented on recent auteurs mostly

springing up on cable channels in the late ‘90s and 2000s,

observing, “…there are guys like David Chase (The Sopranos), David

Milch (Deadwood) and Aaron Sorkin, who are going on the

assumption that the audience is as smart and funny as they

are.”29 However, while perhaps this was the case in The West Wing,

Studio 60 marks a clear delineation in Sorkin’s career in which he

seems more demagogue, than god, preaching his moral agenda from a

pulpit, using his characters as mouthpieces to do so, and

lecturing to what ostensibly is a passive, ignorant public.

Consequently, with fewer parameters placed before him with

his shift to cable with HBO’s The Newsroom, these combative

tendencies against his audience are only amplified. It’s no

coincidence that both Studio 60 and The Newsroom start with

oratorical fireworks from their leads berating viewers both

onscreen and off that their standards aren’t high enough in terms

of sketch comedy and the nightly news respectively. Of course,

this is making the condescending assumption that audiences need

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to be confronted and educated about their perceived passivity in

the culture wars. The formal structures that once seemed

innovative and electrifying in Sports Night and The West Wing,

including the long-form monologue and the walk-and-talk, now seem

dated, and repurposed as a framework for Sorkin to simply hang

his political opinions on. The Newsroom epitomizes the hubris and

contempt Sorkin has come to develop toward his audience and his

need to confront them with the “truth” so they may be absolved of

the greatest of all sins in Sorkin’s book—a lack of civic

engagement. The fact that the show is set in the near past only

exacerbates the problem as each week he inevitably uses Will

McAvoy (Jeff Daniels) and his scrappy news team to demonstrate

what he would have done different, what he would have done better.

His antihero Will, who’s a Republican—a transparent conceit at

attempted nonpartisanship, throws his weight around, determined

to hold politicians accountable and viewers responsible for how

they consume the news in this media-saturated era. Will also

displays a penchant for patronizing phrases and derogatory

mottos, such as, “I’m on a mission to civilize” and “Speaking

truth to stupid,” which is particularly disconcerting when

considering his role as a Sorkin stand-in, as is the case of

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Joshua Lyman (Whitford) on The West Wing and Matt and Danny on Studio

60. Sorkin’s zeal to makeover his audience, which originally

started with the purest of intentions exemplified by the Bartlett

administration in The West Wing, has since led to Sorkin

underestimating viewers’ intelligence and inundating his shows

with self-righteous soliloquys beginning in Studio 60 and only

intensifying in The Newsroom.

Now that the reality TV makeover trope has been established

throughout Sorkin’s television oeuvre, it’s interesting to

reflect on his metatextual treatment of this genre within the

show-within-a-show. In Studio 60 he introduces Hallie (Stephanie

Childers), the head of alternative programming (also known as

unscripted television) at NBS, who immediately butts heads with

Jordan who disdains reality TV. Hallie even goes behind Jordan’s

back to Jack to try to get shows approved, using her charm and

comely appearance to improve her standing with the male

executives. While Jordan later admits that she provoked her by

belittling her job, calling Hallie’s department, “illiterate

programming,” Sorkin still firmly sides with Jordan on the

detrimental effects of reality TV. Later when successful reality

TV producer, Martin Sykes, pitches a new show that seeks to

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scrutinize the private lives of couples, Jordan dubs it “bad

crack in the school yard” and passes, despite acknowledging that

it will inevitably be a hit show…just for some other network.

Meanwhile, Sorkin continues this attack on reality TV in The

Newsroom, with Will railing against Bravo’s Real Housewives and

gossip columns which are disturbingly framed as merely female-

centric interests. In one scene in which Will realizes his date

in front of him is a fan of Real Housewives, he exclaims, “Thank

goodness you met me in time,” further underscoring Will’s and

Sorkin’s savior complex. When she defends her viewing practices

as a guilty pleasure, Will retorts, “Dessert is a guilty

pleasure. Reality television is human cockfighting.”30 While

Sorkin codes his criticism of reality programming in moral terms

as fundamentally unhealthy for audiences, he also has a personal

stake in protecting scripted programming—his livelihood—as sacred

territory. In defending scripted programming, he is also

protecting the patriarchal tradition of male showrunners in

television as arbiters of culture onscreen and off. While in his

shows women can exhibit roles in positions of power in scripted

television—predominantly producer roles, they are inevitably cast

as the muse or champion of male talent (i.e. Dana Whittaker

24

(Felicity Huffman) in Sports Night; Jordan McDeere in Studio 60;

McKenzie McHale (Emily Mortimer) in The Newsroom). However, the

one exception in Sorkin’s fictional world is that women can

occupy the sphere of unscripted television, a programming

division for which he openly reserves nothing but disdain and

resentment.

The ultimate irony of Sorkin’s critique of reality

television is that much of his career owes a debt to the

fundamental principles behind “makeover TV” and the blurring of

fact and fiction embodied in the behind-the-scenes worlds of

Sports Night, The West Wing, Studio 60, and The Newsroom. In her book,

Makeover Nation, Weber thoughtfully observes that the, “makeover

relies both on shaming and love-power to accomplish its

transformations.”31 In the case of Sorkin, the long-form

confessional monologues directed at audiences both on and off-

screen fulfill both objectives, clearly delineated into a shaming

message followed by an altruistic, idealistic call to action.

However, Sorkin’s shaming has long since overpowered any loving

or protective impulse he formerly displayed toward his audience

with his piercing words serving as a catharsis par excellence and

a stigmata upon American cultural consciousness. In The History of

25

Sexuality Michel Foucault discusses the role of such confessionals—

imperative in both religion and reality TV—as agents of power and

truth in Western society:

The Confession is a ritual of discourse in which the speaking subject is also the subject of the statement; it is also a ritual that unfolds within a power relationship, for one does not confesswithout the presence (or virtual presence) of a partner who is simply not the interlocutor but the authority who requires the confession, prescribes and appreciates it, and intervenes in orderto judge, punish, forgive, console, and reconcile;…a ritual in which the expression alone, independently of its external consequences, produces intrinsic modifications in the person who articulates it: it exonerates, redeems, and purifies him; it unburdens him of his wrongs, liberates him, and promises salvation.32

Sorkin’s televisual confessionals are problematic for the very

reason that there is no public discourse or “interlocutor.” It is

a discourse of one. While the confession might be self- generated

(i.e. Wes in Studio 60) or in response to a simple question from

the audience as to, “Why America is the greatest country in the

world?” which sets up Will to go off on a tirade in the pilot of

The Newsroom, there is never any reciprocal dialogue or expressed

rejoinder from the Studio 60 audience or the audience attending the

political debate in The Newsroom. In their confessionals, Wes and

Will each address fictional audiences, who serve as stand-ins for

their real-life counterparts, and have the agency to articulate a

26

response, but, tellingly, they do not (or at least they don’t

onscreen). Consequently, Sorkin is undermining his objective of

creating active viewers and a democratic discourse by having Wes

and Will give the audience’s confession for them, which, as it

turns out, is more of a condemnation than a confession. In the

end, Studio 60 and The Newsroom offer the possibility of a makeover

for their creators, networks, and fictional showrunners and

newscasters respectively. Sorkin may suggest that his intention

is to make over his viewers’ tastes and media consumption

practices. However, what he ultimately desires is for them to

perform a silent act of contrition without the actual interchange

necessary following a therapeutic confession for them to make

over themselves.

27

Laura L. Swanbeck 3.18.14TV Criticism Professor John Caldwell

Endnotes

1. Scott Collins. “Channel Island.” LA Times, 26 Sept. 2006. Proquest.

2. J. Max Robins. “A Show About Show Biz.” Broadcasting and Cable. 2 Oct. 2006: 6. Proquest.

3. Benjamin Toff. “Farewell, Studio 60.” New York Times. 30 June. 2007. Proquest.

28

4. Brenda Weber. Makeover TV: Selfhood, Citizenship, and Celebrity. (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009.)

5. “Pilot.” Studio 60 On the Sunset Strip. NBC. 18 Sept. 2006. Television program.

6. “The Cold Open.” Studio 60 On the Sunset Strip. NBC. 25 Sept. 2006. Television program.

7. “The Cold Open.” Studio 60 On the Sunset Strip. NBC. 25 Sept. 2006. Television program.

8. “The Cold Open.” Studio 60 On the Sunset Strip. NBC. 25 Sept. 2006. Television program.

9. Alessandra Stanley. “Pitting Their Idealism Against Show Business.” New YorkTimes. 18 Sept. 2006.

10. “The Cold Open.” Studio 60 On the Sunset Strip. NBC. 25 Sept. 2006. Television program.

11. “Pilot.” Studio 60 On the Sunset Strip. NBC. 18 Sept. 2006. Television program.

12. “The Cold Open.” Studio 60 On the Sunset Strip. NBC. 25 Sept. 2006. Television program.

13. Stephen Armstrong. “The War on Culure.” New Statesman. 21 May 2007.

14. “The Long Lead Story.” Studio 60 On the Sunset Strip. NBC. 25 Sept. 2006. Television program.

15. “K & R: Part 1.” Studio 60 On the Sunset Strip. NBC. 25 Sept. 2006. Television program.

16. Ben Grossman. “For the First Time in Years the Peacock is Strutting.” Broadcasting and Cable. 4 Sept. 2006: 14 Proquest.

17. Nick Marx, Matt Sienkiewicz, and Ron Becker, eds. Saturday Night Live and American TV. (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2013), 135.

18. Marx, Sienkiewicz, and Becker, eds. Saturday Night Live and American TV, 135

19. Marx, Sienkiewicz, and Becker, eds. Saturday Night Live and American TV,138-139.

20. Marx, Sienkiewicz, and Becker, eds. Saturday Night Live and American TV, 140.

29

21. Andrew Billen. “Google, The Horseman of the TV Apocalypse.” New Statesman. 4Sept. 2006.

22. Grossman. “For the First Time in Years the Peacock is Strutting.” Broadcasting and Cable. 4 Sept. 2006: 14 Proquest.

23. Alessandra Stanley. “Behind the Scenes and Above the Rest” New York Times. 30Nov. 2006.

24. Armstrong. “The War on Culure.” New Statesman. 21 May 2007.

25. Jonathan Gray. “Television Previews and the Meaning of Hype.” International Journal of Cultural Studies. Volume 11(1), 44.

26. Philip Maciak. “Old Media: On Aaron Sorkin.” LA Review of Books. 8 July 2012.

27. Adam Sternbergh, “The Aaron Sorkin Show.” New York Magazine. 18 Sept. 2006.

28. Sternbergh, “The Aaron Sorkin Show.” New York Magazine. 18 Sept. 2006.

29. Ben Grossman. “Whitford Spreads his Wings.” Broadcasting and Cable. 1 May. 2006. Proquest.

30. “I’ll Try to Fix You.” The Newsroom. HBO. 15 July 2012. Television program.

31. Brenda Weber. Makeover TV: Selfhood, Citizenship, and Celebrity. (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009.), 82.

32. White, Mimi. “Television, Therapy, and the Social Subject; or, the TV Therapy Machine.” Reality Squared:

Televisual Discourse on the Real. Friedman, James, ed. (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2002), 313.

30

Laura L. Swanbeck 3.18.14TV Criticism Professor John Caldwell

Bibliography

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Billen, Andrew. “Google, The Horseman of the TV Apocalypse.” New Statesman. 4 Sept. 2006

Collins, Scott. “Channel Island.” LA Times, 26 Sept. 2006. Proquest

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