Lately, I’ve been doing something of which I’m genuinely ashamed. Not cock-fighting, shoplifting or correcting punctuation on greengrocers’ signs. It’s worse than those, because I’m not in control. I’ve started shouting at people on the TV. I take everything on-screen personally now. “You’re being immature!” I’ll accuse the protagonists of teen drama Euphoria. “Hell of a job you did with those kids,” I berate Jamie Lee Curtis during The Bear, as if she and I are dragging each other through the divorce courts. I nearly went hoarse watching Djokovic in the Wimbledon final. “Why not joylessly grind out every point until you win, like a factory that makes trophies?” (When he lost, he made a touching speech to his family and I felt awful.)
Very charming, yes? I never used to be like this, a young-old man shouting at clouds. Is the problem that I can no longer handle jeopardy? I did an experiment, revisiting older shows I love and know inside out. Despite the lowered stakes, outcomes never in doubt – same crotchetiness. “Selfish and a bad friend,” I found myself concluding re Phoebe from Friends. I had a surprising amount of seigneurial advice to offer during a home projection of Lord of the Rings. Yet am hardly master of my own domain, sitting in the dark yelling “You’re a weak king!” at the wall.
To compound my shame, I used to look down on people who got agitated by entertainment. Who tutted at villains in the cinema, or kicked in their televisions when the Sex Pistols appeared. I scorned anyone who got swept up in a soap opera family feud, or campaigned to free Coronation Street’s Deirdre Barlow from prison, confusing make-believe with reality. Now look at me. Actually don’t.
I worry I’ll lose work as a critic, exposing myself as credulous or unhinged. Intellectually, I can tell you how drama works. Like a scarecrow in a top hat, I think myself sophisticated in this field. I know about story beats, character tropes, narrative arcs. I’m versed in the manipulations of writers, can identify the emotional journey an audience takes. Knowingness can feel like superiority. You won’t take me. Clearly, they will take me.
Technically, I’m in a parasocial relationship with the entire population of my TV. (Though we haven’t had the talk.) A buzzy term in our porous age, parasocial relationships are defined as intense, one-sided dynamics with people we don’t know. Social media is built on them. Feeds wilfully blur boundaries, celebrities’ personal posts sitting right alongside those of friends, colleagues and lovers, all of whom we engage similarly.
But this is the least enjoyable way to be a parasocial butterfly. While the Beyhive and Swifties enjoy sharing their passion in a community, and podcast devotees carry the feeling of friendship in their pocket, I’m simmering with frustration at the behaviour of people who mostly aren’t real.
Do you do this? Does shouting at the TV develop with age, like an appreciation of walking shoes? Is it cultural inheritance? When I visit my mother we watch movies together, and I’ve noticed she’s always piping up, too. But her backchat is different; always expressions of concern. “The dog has slipped the collar!” she’ll tremulously peep, or “Careful you don’t lose your baby!” She watches Finding Nemo like it’s Sophie’s Choice. I’m way more judgmental.
I think this is key to understanding how otherwise polite people can lose self-control and decorum, even rationality. A bespoke psychological trigger has to be activated. A deeply held value embodied or besmirched. Analysing my outbursts, which only happen when I’m alone, it seems I can’t bear to watch characters making bad choices. (A shame, as that’s how drama works.)
Why am I hypersensitive to characters being rude, ungenerous, making destructive decisions? Perhaps they echo my own mistakes, the weight of those crows coming home to roost. I think it’s broader than that. Our vulnerability as a society – as a species – is palpable. It’s evident we have to be our bravest, most far-sighted selves, good to each other, or else we won’t make it. Yet our fate is inextricably linked to the character flaws of individuals. Amoral tech billionaires who feed off division, narcissistic politicians who break the economy, keyboard vigilantes unleashing their ids. On a bad day, it feels like most of us mostly being our best selves won’t be enough. Maybe I’m not judgmental. Maybe I’m afraid.
If we are powerless to evade the choices of bad actors in our society, good actors on screen show us these choices in close up. They give us a focal point, right in our homes, to vent our anxiety. There is a consolation I allow myself, as I howl at the light. Emotional involvement is ultimately what stories are for. Rehearsing the drama and pain of experience, they give us lessons. Being culturally sophisticated, at a remove from the viscera, does not make one better. It usually means you’re missing out. Everything matters to me now.
Having said that, I’m not enjoying my stint as a spluttering, reverse Truman Show Cassandra of the airwaves. If you have any ideas on how I can staunch this disturbing new habit, please holler at the page or screen. I’m sure I’ll get the message.
