Technically, we should not be angry about Community. It got five seasons, a run no one would've thought it could dream of having back in its earlier seasons. Five seasons is a good run. It's a great run. It's five years! 97 episodes! Plenty of beloved and respected shows, from Newsradio to the fucking Brady Bunch, ran for five years and continue to be beloved and cherished to this day. Considering what a marginal cult hit it was, considering how far from the normal it was, considering how low-rated it was, the fact that this show stuck around for five years is damn respectable. Besides, while Season 5 of Community was good, it was the kind of season where you know there isn't all that much left in the tank. Community's best days were behind it, and even #SixSeasonsAndAMovie wouldn't change that. We don't have to cry for Community. It lived a wonderful life, it gave us some amazing memories, and its impact will certainly be felt on television for years to come.
But despite all of that...I am fucking livid about Community's cancellation.
Really, it's hard not to look at this cancellation as anything but a sign of how cold and unforgiving television could be. Being a television fan is a strange thing sometimes. Because of the way television is told, it's so easy to get attached to a television series - moreso, in my opinion, than any of the other arts. We fall in love with these characters like we know them personally, because we go through life together. We watch them grow and they grow alongside us. Don't ever let anyone make fun of you for getting too invested in a fictional television character, because that's what they're designed for. It's a natural reaction, to feel a connection with characters you spend so much time with. And yet, because of its continuing nature, television is also a business that breaks hearts far more easily than any of the other entertainment sectors. A movie can fail at the box office, but they're not going to rip you out of the theater halfway through it. An album can totally flop, but you still get to listen to the whole thing. A book gives you a very clear start and end point. It's not quite like that with a television series. We fall in love with these shows knowing they can be ripped away from us before their time is up - hell, knowing that even if they're the most popular show on television, one day they are going to go away. I talked a bit in my New Girl review about how a relationship with a television show really does mirror a real relationship in so many ways, and that includes the loss of one. It's a part of your life, and then it's not. It's something we have to accept. And yet, it's so much easier to accept if that show gets to tell a complete and whole story. Unlike with a film or an album or a book, a television show doesn't always get to tell the story it wants. Its fate is so closely tied to the business side of the art. Recently, though, TV has been allowed to distance itself from that reality just a little bit, with things like Netflix and HBO and even basic cable. Sure, there's a business to all of these models, and HBO and cable have broken many hearts (miss you, Enlightened), but those businesses are a little more friendly with the art of television. Community being unceremonously thrown into the trash as if it was never worth a damn at all is a painful reminder that this art we all love is not an art, it's a business. And that business just doesn't care about legions of fans if they're not translating into dollars. We like to believe that passion matters in this business, that it makes a different. Sometimes, we get reason to believe that it does. Without it, Community likely wouldn't have gotten even five seasons. Hannibal wouldn't have just gotten a third season. Parks & Rec and 30 Rock wouldn't have made it to seven years each. But at the end of the day, this is still a business. A cold business that doesn't care about love or originality or dedication. It just cares about numbers.
But we still love television, even knowing this, and if you need a reason why, all you need to look at is Community itself. Yes, television can be cold and cynical, but the passion and love it inspires is anything but. As I've watched plenty of great shows slaughtered this week, despite quality and potential and devotion, I've wondered if this is really a business I want to get involved with. But then I think about all of the things I've gotten from television. I think about episodes like "Mixology Certification", or "Remedial Chaos Theory"...or, "Tracy Does Conan" or "Flu Season" or "The Suitcase" or "Lisa's Substitute" or "Daddy's Girlfriend" or "Fly" or any given episode that inspires passion in anyone. I think about the study group, or the Parks department, or the TGS staff, or the workers at Sterling Cooper, and I realize that even through all of the bullshit, television introduced me to these characters that I loved, that shaped who I am, that get me through even my worst days. And ultimately, it doesn't matter how these shows ended or where they wound up. It doesn't matter how cold-hearted the suits who greenlit them are. What matters is what these shows and characters have done for me. That's something a cancellation can't take away. And that's why I love television. And it's also why it's okay to be angry when it disappoints you. It's okay to be angry about Community - because it's also okay to love Community. The love and the anger validate the fact that these shows are something meant to care about. Without them, television would be a soulless cash grab of an industry. With them, that's just what's in the background. The more important aspect is the shows themselves and the love and frustrating and passion they inspire. So yeah, I'm pissed about Community, but the fact that I'm pissed is what makes all of this worth it in the end.
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