Since 9/11 and the subsequent wars on terror, there has been a fundamental shift in American dramatic television.
As of 2001, many programs have revolved around anti-heroes (Dexter, The Sopranos), conspiracy theories (Lost and its many facsimiles), the dark undercurrents of American social life (The Wire comes to mind) and the forces who serve and protect (24, NCIS).
Set in a brooding, dim and cynical world that exposed the villainy of the human psyche while glorifying the heroes dead set on catching these bad guys, television became as engaging as it had ever been. At the same time, news programs turned into entertainment, while entertainment programming turned into news.
Of course, a few programs got lost in the shuffle. One of those shows tried to do something different: it revolved around a bright, hopeful community dealing with the strains of their daily lives – and mostly succeeding.
It was a low-key, high-quality drama called Friday Night Lights, and even though it had much difficulty garnering an audience, it took five seasons and 76 episodes before it finally left the airwaves February 9, after a run on DirecTV (its final season will air on NBC, where the show's first two seasons were broadcasted, this April).
Friday Night Lights was inspired by a tremendously moving non-fiction sports book by H.G. Bissinger – which was also adapted into an impressively filmed if emotionally stagnant sports flick in 2004.
Its lack of exposure (and therefore, smaller budget) didn’t allow the show to revolutionize the medium of television. But, Lights was innovative, intelligent and intricate, a fascinating exploration of high school life that instantly ranked it as one of the finest shows on television.
For its first three seasons, Friday Night Lights dealt with a high school football team in small-town Texas called the Dillon Panthers. But the show was not about the plays, the hits and the glory of the touchdown as it was about two other elements: community and education.
In Dillon, there was no greater source of honour and respect than the Taylor family, consisting of the strict but deeply compassionate Panther coach Eric (Kyle Chandler) and his stoic and helpful wife, Tami (Connie Britton), a guidance counsellor and, later, principal of the local high school. Their daughter, Julie (Aimee Teegarden), had her father’s persistence and mother’s warmth, but also a tempestuous reluctance to authority. Or, as some would call it, adolescence.
The original young cast – which changed after seasons three and four, since teenagers do grow up and leave home – were given a giant blessing: the chance to play rich characters without succumbing to cliches.
These were ambitious characters, passionate and immensely likable but with the spontaneous insecurity and frustration that all teenagers have. Astoundingly, these characters transcended the typical high school clique conventions.
The main quarterback, Matt Saracen (Zach Gilford), was a gawky, endearing soul who cared for his ill grandmother as much as he studied the playbook. The handsome “bad boy,” Tim Riggins (Taylor Kitsch), was a saintly and understanding voice of reason, even if he slept around and should have opened up a liquor store in his kitchen. The stunning “naughty girl,” Tyra Collette (Adrianne Palicki), was vulnerable and aching to remove herself from the daily drudge of Dillon to make something of her life.
Most televised teenagers verge on extreme cliches, rarely allowing the actor to form any sort of complicated, multifaceted human being. Self-absorbed and superficial depictions of adolescence only contribute to keeping with the public’s view of teenagers as a shrill force of irresponsible indulgers and whiners. The writers of Friday Night Lights always took their teens seriously, refraining from treating them in a condescending light.
The teens on the show weren’t perfect, but they were on the pursuit to clean themselves up and become leaders, academically or on the field. It helped that the two figures primarily responsible for these changes were the coach and his wife. The Taylors, with their noble intentions, put much faith in their young community’s altruistic ideals.
It was easy as a high school student to relate to these undeniably complex characters. They were intimidated by the world outside their small red-state town yet daring to dream of the heights they could reach, and then persisted to make those dreams come true.
This all sounds sentimental and idealistic, but that’s what Friday Night Lights was at its best: a show that wore its heart on its tattered, muddy sleeve.
Interestingly, Friday Night Lights had a hard time picking up an audience likely due to its dismissal as a “sports drama.” Yet it was about football about as much as M*A*S*H was about combat.
The Dillon county was the most prominent character on the show. Its dusty fields, ramshackle homes and greasy local hangouts – staples of red state Americana – sheltered a community that seemed to have escaped the grandiose nature of the American dream. But Dillon did not feel like a setting – it was a small town whose purpose and specialty was to keep its residents close and connected.
To keep with this spirit and palpable sense of place, the crew of Friday Night Lights introduced a new way of shooting scripted drama - that of an American neorealist variety. The series was shot in the outskirts of Austin, Texas, mostly in pre-existing homes, bars and schools, with natural lighting by multiple cheap cameras that were shooting simultaneously. This allowed a more natural rhythm and pace for action and dialogue. And yes, there were a bit of “shaky camera” jitters, here and there.
The two “veterans” of the cast, Chandler and Britton, used this new shooting style to their advantage to create gut-wrenching realism – adding up to what has been repeatedly called by critics, and affirmed by myself, as the finest marriage on contemporary television.
The subtle changes in tone and the mild nuances in facial expression that a rushed series would skip over were all caught on camera. A scene between the two actors could only consist of understanding looks – whether a smile or a grimace – but it spoke volumes to viewers. For a medium that depends on “telling the audience,” Lights transcended the television conventions.
But what about the football, the prime reason many started watching Lights in the first place? Even with a low budget, the football sequences were tense and remarkably exciting, albeit succinct.
There’s a reason for this cut in length, though: it’s not the drama on the field we’re invested in but what happens off the field. Any creative venture in film or television that involves sports can only hope to stay true to that statement.
I don’t mean to make Friday Night Lights seem saintly in terms of its subject matter, since there were a plethora of provocative issues that the characters dealt with, episode to episode. Regardless, it is one of the only shows I can think of that deals with religion sympathetically, rather than as a mocking point.
In one of the show’s most memorable episodes, one of the coaches accidentally makes a racist comment to a reporter, and has to suffer the sting of the Black community, including some of the African-American characters, who desert the team. In another episode, a student comes to Tami for advice on whether or not to get an abortion. Tami tells her to get rid of the unborn child – and is subsequently fired, as a result.
Hot-button episodes are sometimes produced as a means to raise a show’s profile as an important teaching tool. Lights didn’t preach to its viewers by seeking to teach the audience ahead of the character, though, but did the opposite.
Friday Night Lights didn’t change television, but it did raise the bar of how to chronicle American life in a way that was both stunningly realistic and unequivocally hopeful. It managed to show the victories and the failures of a small Texas community with a searing honesty that resonated with its small audience.
What most resonates after five glorious seasons (well, four, considering the lackluster second season) is not the touchdowns scored but the cheers from the adoring community on the sidelines. Football was never the focus of Friday Night Lights. The strong, vocal, resilient community was.
It was about the motto of self-improvement that hung on the walls of the Dillon Panther locker room: “Clear Eyes. Full Hearts. Can’t Lose.” Maybe if we all stick together and dedicate ourselves toward helping our community, we can reach the pinnacle of our own strength. We can only reach those heights if we depend on each other – on our teachers, on our friends and on our families.
Friday Night Lights used its complex characters, compelling storytelling and innovative production values to become more than your typical television drama. It was, simply, a clear-eyed, full-hearted portrait of small-town America at its most sublime.
