In the wake of the Artemis II mission’s successful end, we have to give a hand not only to its remarkable crew but to whoever was in charge of their social-media strategy. NASA’s first astronaut mission to the moon in more than 50 years didn’t involve actually landing there; the Artemis II instead flew past the moon to its far side, deeper in space than any previous crew has ventured. But it was a chance to capture the imaginations of new generations of future space explorers, while also calling back to the one-giant-step-for-mankind sense of awed enormity that characterized the 20th-century Space Race.
In addition to the breathtaking views of Earthset and a full lunar eclipse, viewers who checked in on NASA’s streams got to see and hear some of the quotidian details of life in zero gravity directly from crew members Victor Glover, Christina Koch, Reid Wiseman and Jeremy Hansen. We read updates on the Orion spacecraft’s malfunctioning toilet, wondered whether the floating jar of Nutella was intentional product placement, surveyed the playlist of wake-up songs that ensured the crew members and NASA were operating on the same schedule and were privy to the moment of overwhelming emotion that followed Wiseman naming a lunar crater for his wife Carroll, who passed in 2020.
But perhaps the most viral moment of the crew’s trip around the moon was the Instagram reel of the astronauts’ send-up of the “Full House” opening theme, in which each crew member is introduced by name and title with a shot of them looking surprised but game to play along, set to the undeniable earworm of “Everywhere You Look.” Commander Reid Wiseman ends the reel by explaining the gag to any youngsters who might have had no idea why this was funny or charming or even recognizable: “We were doing scenes from bad ’80s sitcoms when they introduce the cast of characters,” he says. “So that’s why we all did those, and we are cracking up up here.”
And they did seem to be having fun. So has everyone in the many “Full House” opening re-creations that have gone viral in the decade since the San Francisco Giants created their “Full Clubhouse” parody, which included a cameo from one of the sitcom’s stars, Dave Coulier. The trend really took off in 2020, when the original cast spoofed themselves in “Full Quarantine,” urging viewers to comply with COVID lockdown protocols. Since then, parodies have become a social-media staple for real-estate teams, healthcare clinicians, church pastors and even the cast of 2025’s “Superman” reboot. The omnipresence of the spoof is a testament to why it works: The self-consciously corny nod to TV tradition is the hallmark of can-do people who want the best for everyone: a “Full House” send-up says, You can trust us.
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In the early years of television, voice-over introductions to shows and their casts were a necessity of the medium. In 1952, “The Adventures of Ozzie & Harriet” made the leap from radio to television, bringing the format of the radio show: a broadcast announcer who intones the show’s name, its cast members and its sponsors, often against a sweep of big-band bombast. Family sitcoms like “The Donna Reed Show” and “The Dick Van Dyke Show” continued with this tradition into the 1960s, but as sitcom story concepts became more complex, the medium required more from show openers.
The meticulous tracking of viewer behavior — not just what they watched but how they watched — became a key focus in the 1960s. TV networks presented potential audiences with more things to watch and branched beyond the family sitcom – with settings like law enforcement (“Car 54, Where Are You?”), the military (“McHale’s Navy”) and the beach (“Gidget”) – and TV shows had only the opening credits with which to entice viewers not to change the channel. It was the dawn of the expository theme song, whose lyrics beckoned to viewers with backstory: The sea shanty that explained how seven castaways landed on “Gilligan’s Island,” the organ-driven exhortation that audiences “really oughta see” what goes on with the ghoulish, finger-snapping “Addams Family” and the bluegrass ditty “The Ballad of Jed Clampett” that recounted how “The Beverly Hillbillies” got their name. Networks wanted TV to be a daily routine, and opening sequences helped make that happen.
The most famous story-style intro — it literally begins with, “Here’s a story” — belongs to “The Brady Bunch,” which bridged the 1960s and ’70s, a decade that saw the ebbing of title-sequence stories. Viewers were now familiar with TV, which meant TV shows had less upfront explaining to do. Instead, they could use credits sequences with lyrics and musical styles that captured the feel of sitcoms at a time when they were starting to challenge audiences, bringing racial consciousness and real-world social issues to America’s living-room consoles. The jukebox-themed opener of “Happy Days” didn’t have to announce, Hey, this is a sitcom about the ’50s! “All In the Family” signposted its main character’s irascible bigotry and generation-gap grievances in the first minute by having its main character sing wistfully of a time when “Guys like me we had it made.”
Networks wanted TV to be a daily routine, and opening sequences helped make that happen.
Introducing the cast of TV shows with clips of their characters was an enduring tradition that, starting in the 1970s and extending through the 1980s, was no longer reserved for sitcoms: The title sequence of “The Love Boat” introduced characters one by one, identifying them by their job titles — your captain, your cruise director, etc. — as if each viewer were a passenger on the boat. In fact, it didn’t matter whether an opening sequence was for a sitcom, an action drama, or an excuse to put fading Hollywood stars onto a boat with Charo; the pairing of catchy theme songs and familiar characters activated the part of the brain that recognized routine and comfort.
The title sequences of the 1980s and ’90s pulled from their forebears, with “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air,” “Mr. Belvedere” and “The Nanny” reviving the backstory-driven intro, and “Friends,” “Living Single” and “Full House” roll-calling their cast members in upbeat songs about persevering and being there. These were the years when even second-tier shows had heartfelt opening sequences with theme songs that went far harder than they needed to, and though some of that earnestness extended from the ‘90s into the 2000s (looking at you, “Gilmore Girls” and “One Tree Hill”), the writing was on the wall: TV no longer needed to greet potential viewers with open arms. The advertising-driven systemization of narrowcasting succeeded on the basis of exclusion, and the advertisers pursuing the disposable income of The Youth were not about to let TV networks give them something everyone could enjoy.
What this meant was that while title sequences still introduced their stars with clips of each one in turn, there was no longer any attempt to suggest a fourth-wall-breaking connection with viewers: The opening credits of shows like “The O.C.” and “Veronica Mars,” with their lightning-fast cuts and propulsive use of existing indie-rock tracks, were short and perfunctory. These sequences didn’t say, Hey, good to see you! — they sneered, Do you even go here?
One of the reasons “Full Capsule” was such a hit for the astronauts is that it was so immediately recognizable as a goof; the only place title sequences like those from a ’90s sitcom can exist these days is in parodies and references. The way we watch TV now bears no resemblance to the way people watched TV in previous decades, when there were three channels and no remote controls, and if you didn’t feel like leaving the couch after “Mork & Mindy,” well, enjoy “Bosom Buddies.” Once home-video technology made the scene and people began recording their favorite shows and fast-forwarding through the commercials, once minute-long credit sequences were lopped off at the 20 or even 10-second mark to make room for more ads.
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Money wasn’t the only reason for the waning of TV credit sequences. The latter-day Golden Age of scripted television that began in the 1990s coincided with changing technology, like TV shows on DVD that allowed for watching a show season from start to finish, and the so-called serialized narrative — a weekly show, like “The X-Files” or “Twin Peaks” with a season-spanning narrative arc — became the new standard-bearer for appointment TV. In turn, an expanding roster of immersive, cinematic TV made the medium’s cheesy jingles and pandering copy look and sound discordant. Authenticity was the new way to reach consumers; ads that pretended not to be ads (but were still ads) flattered viewers by seeing who they wanted to be; suddenly, spoofing cheesiness was a selling point. (One word: Mentos.)
Streaming, of course, made the function of title sequences obsolete: When you turn on your TV, you’ve already set the intention to watch something specific. If anything, credits are obstacles to frictionless watching, a problem to be solved with the “skip intro” button. And yet: The sheer number of YouTube and Spotify playlists of TV themes old and new suggests that our primal pop-culture brains long for some of the familiarity and comfort they once reliably triggered. The same brain that panics about where your glasses are (on top of your head, most likely) can minutes later have you belting out the theme to “The Greatest American Hero” without missing a note. There’s no question that TV and memory are a potent combination — the links they create are, I’m sorry to say, everywhere you look.
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from Salon’s culture newsletter, The Swell
