Emmy nominations were released this morning. AMC’s Mad Men again led the way with 19 nominations, including Best Drama. The show is angling for its fourth win in the category in as many years, but will face challenges from three shows on premium cable (HBO’s Game of Thrones and Boardwalk Empire and Showtime’s Dexter), one from CBS (The Good Wife) and one odd hybrid (Friday Night Lights, on NBC and DirecTV).
Now, I’ve seen the majority of these programs, and I can vouch for their artistic (if not ethical) quality: They’re all sharply written shows with compelling characters and such.
So why, then, am I fondly reminiscing about Gilligan’s Island this morning?
On July 12, two days before the Emmy noms were announced, I learned that Gilligan’s creator Sherwood Schwartz died at the age of 94. Time television columnist James Poniewozik said that Gilligan’s Island, along with Schwartz’s other notable creation The Brady Bunch, “were practically critical shorthand for ridiculous and/or lightweight comedy. Therefore, naturally, those were also two of the ’60s and ’70s sitcoms most fondly remembered today by the adults who watched them decades ago.”
It’s weird. I’ve always kinda thought that when it comes to entertainment, quality stuff has the longest shelf life. Sure (I tell myself), Two and a Half Men and The Real Housewives of New Jersey may have viewers now, but people won’t be watching this tripe in 2030. Will they?
And yet, when I was a kid, I ran home from school every day to watch Gilligan’s Island, a show whose only hope for an Emmy would have been to having one mysteriously wash up on shore.
In 1967, the last year Gilligan’s Island was taped, The Monkees won the Emmy for best comedy. Now, I like “I’m a Believer” as much as anyone, and an old friend of mine had a Monkee poster or two hanging up in her room. But I’ve never seen a single episode of The Monkees. I think I’ve seen every episode of Gilligan’s Island. Twice.
Now, perhaps this illustrates that I misspent my childhood. I’m certainly not arguing that all those critics were wrong about Gilligan’s Island. It’s a pretty dumb show, and I think I even had an inkling of that back then. But it does make me wonder … what reruns will we be watching 20, 30, 40 years from now (assuming we still all have TVs and aren’t absorbing all our entertainment through flashdrive ports in our noggins)? Will Mad Men—the last season of which, ironically, depicts 1964 America, the first year Gilligan’s Island was on the air—be must-see TV? Will this little-watched darling finally break into the mainstream in 2035 by virtue of afternoon reruns?
Hopefully not. As artistically good as Mad Men is, I’m hoping my future great-grandchildren won’t be tuning in to get their daily dose of moddish drinking and philandering. Then again, I don’t wish Two and a Half Men on them, either—which has all the problems of Mad Men without any of the technical brilliance. Frankly, there’s not much on television right now that I’d wish on my great-grandkids after a hard day at future school.
I guess I’ll have to hope one of two things: That my great-grandchildren spend their afternoons more wisely than I did, playing catch and reading and perhaps getting ahead on their homework. Or, if they absolutely must turn on their iPad tellies, perhaps they’ll rediscover an 80-plus-year-old sitcom, filled with fake palm trees, coconut radios and exasperated shouts of … “Gilligan!”
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