TV's triumphant overclass

Television continues to grow positively filthy with the filthy rich. And where is the middle class? Demeaning itself for money on reality and game shows, of course

Editor's note: On Monday, Salon begins a week of special TV coverage leading up to the Primetime Emmy Awards on Sunday, Sept. 16.

By Heather Havrilesky

Read more: TV, Arts & Entertainment, Reviews, Heather Havrilesky, TV Week, TV Week 2007

Photo: ABC

Bonnie Sommerville, Lucy Lui and Frances O'Connor in "Cashmere Mafia"

Sept. 10, 2007 | From the "The Brady Bunch" to "Home Improvement," from Ralph Kramden to Ray Romano, the middle class has always had a comfortable spot on our TV screens, and Americans always seemed to prefer it that way. Remember in the late 1980s, when the couples on "thirtysomething" were considered self-absorbed whiners with too much time and money on their hands? People seemed rattled by these families who were, with their two incomes and conspicuous consumption, relatively more affluent than the viewers at home. What happened to jeering those greedy bastards on "Dallas" -- or at least giving the raspberry to "The Beverly Hillbillies'" pompous banker, Mr. Drysdale?

Well, hold onto the arms of those threadbare La-Z-Boys, because this fall's lineup makes the Steadmans of "thirtysomething" look absolutely destitute by comparison. The filthy rich aren't caricatures anymore, and the default for TV characters is no longer middle-class like it was 20 years ago. Gone are the battered couches of "All in the Family," the teenagers with summer jobs of "Eight Is Enough," and the grumbling and penny-pinching of Mr. C on "Happy Days." Even the upwardly mobile jubilation of George Jefferson seems positively provincial, in light of the flawlessly designed lofts and finely appointed multimillion-dollar homes inhabited by your average TV character today.

Today's TV denizens aren't just comfortable, they're loaded. Even as the mortgage crisis exposes the fragile foundation that lies beneath our culture of excess, the TV industry trips happily along with its tales of stylish executives attending gala functions in couture gowns. Whether it's the glamorous businesswomen of ABC's "Cashmere Mafia," quipping about their big-deal jobs over an expensive lunch, the rich men of ABC's "Big Shots" having drinks on the veranda at their exclusive club, or the sugar moguls of CBS' "Cane" wheeling and dealing in their antique-lined smoking rooms, the backdrop is always big money. Even if we're shown that the Hilton-inspired troublemakers of ABC's "Dirty Sexy Money" or the angry, backstabbing prep-school brats of CW's "Gossip Girl" are deeply unhappy, desperate people because of their wealth, it still only feels like an excuse to show them unraveling over drinks at the Palace Hotel, or wandering listlessly among the clothing racks at Bergdorf's. While the tag line for NBC's midseason "Lipstick Jungle" -- "These women aren't looking for Mr. Big, they are Mr. Big" -- should feel empowering, the notion that the almighty dollar is the only surefire escape from the desperation of the late-30s single is more than a little noxious. Even on the new dramas that aren't focused on money or power, like HBO's "Tell Me You Love Me" or Showtime's "Californication," characters live in massive, pristine houses, eat at expensive restaurants and wear flawless designer clothes. While the gap between rich and poor in this country widens to an almost inconceivable chasm, our TV sets conjure a vivid picture of an American dream that most of us can't begin to attain.

Naturally the entertainment industry has always glorified what economist Thorstein Veblen referred to as "conspicuous leisure" -- consumption used to signal status. But in the old days, shows about the ultra-rich and powerful served the perceptions and prejudices of the common man. On "Dynasty," Krystal represented a down-to-earth woman unspoiled by wealth, an unfrozen caveman to Blake Carrington's addled capitalist, and her sworn enemy was Alexis, a power-grubbing, money-hungry demon forged in the hellfires of pecuniary excess. Similar class distinctions played out on "Dallas," "Falcon Crest" and even "Little House on the Prairie." Whether the spoiled, shortsighted rich girl was Lucy or Nellie, the message was the same: Very rich people aren't just deeply tacky, they're morally corrupt.

As inaccurate and cartoonish as that picture may have been, the alternative presented by today's dramas is insidiously benign. On ABC's "Cashmere Mafia," we're clearly meant to admire and respect the four female MBAs, who traipse happily from boardroom to pricey luncheon to posh benefit function, expressing their deep gratitude for each other in mostly monetary and status-centered terms:

While most of this fall's new soaps unabashedly celebrate wealth and offer up vicarious thrills of conspicuous consumption at every turn, the shows that hedge their bets with self-consciousness and the thinnest gloss of self-righteous rhetoric are even more grating. "Money makes everything go wrong," intones Nick George (Peter Krause) at the start of "Dirty Sexy Money," and at least he has our attention. "That's certainly what I always thought." After a whirlwind tour of Nick's sad childhood, during which we learn that his lawyer father neglected his own family to attend to the needs of the very wealthy Darling family, and his mother ended her own life over it, we find Nick in Tripp Darling's (Donald Sutherland) office, accepting his father's old job. Oh, but he'll be making $10 million, which he plans to give to the orphans, of course! Let's not strain too hard, folks. We understand how important it is for you to believe, from your spacious office on the studio lot, that every man and woman alive will sell his or her soul for a price.

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