The Revolution Will be Televised: How the Internet has transformed the TV Thing

First, a brief biographical note that will make me seem tragically old and hopelessly unsexy: I was born on the night the last episode of “M*A*S*H” aired. Setting a pattern that would continue until today, I was behind schedule and not born until 12:05 on March 1st, but my mother went into labor on February 28, 1983, when an unprecedented number of Americans sat down to watch the super-sized episode of one of their most beloved shows. (It kept the record for total viewership until the 2010 Super Bowl, a game that was noticeably Alan Alda-free.) I don’t think my father ever forgave me for making him miss the episode, which is probably why I’ve spoken to Jessica Chastain more times in the past three years than the man responsible for half of my genetic foundation, but at the time it was understandable—this was an age with very few VCRs and no DVRs, when the internet was just a glimmer in Al Gore’s eye.

I thought about the “M*A*S*H” finale the other night while I was strolling around a very busy New York City on the night of the “30 Rock” series finale. Aside from a bevy of online features dedicated to various esoteric elements of the show, things seemed pretty quiet: nobody gave a shit about the “30 Rock” finale. I thought about the parents giving birth to children that night and how, a couple days later, when they come home from the hospital, they’ll fire up their TiVo and watch. No ill feelings, newborn baby.

Unlike in 1983, when television was being corporatized to an insane degree and artistry was lost in a blur of neon lights and lines of cocaine, TV has never been more exciting, nor has it been more revolutionary. But it also has never felt more taken advantage of. TV has never been more special, but nobody is treating it like it is. It’s not an event anymore, not something you stay at home to watch or, if you’re rushed to the hospital, not something you can hold against your new baby.

A few hours after the final “30 Rock” made us giggle and choke up a little bit (and then hastily look up the lyrics to the “Rural Juror” musical number), the paradigm shifted once more: online, via the Netflix Instant service, 13 episodes of “House of Cards,” a brand new series produced by “Fight Club” mastermind David Fincher, quietly debuted. It hit the west coast at midnight and the east coast at three a.m., so I was (of course) inclined to wake up at six and power through the first two episodes (directed by Fincher) before starting my workday. I took “House of Cards” for what it was—a big fucking deal.

But instead of being surrounded by my fellow television nerds, the ones who would dissect “Lost” for hours with me and probably, had we been alive in 1983, would have crammed into a dingy apartment wearing medical scrubs to watch the final episode of “M*A*S*H,” I watched the next great American series bundled up in my fleece sheets, with a Macbook propped up on my stomach. It didn’t impact the power of the episodes (which were brilliant bee-tee-dubs) but it did lessen the specialness of what was happening. This was a new series, co-developed by David Fincher, the auteur tyrant behind “Zodiac” and “Fight Club,” starring genuine movie star Kevin Spacey and handled by a small army of genius directors (among them: James Foley and Carl Franklin), but it slipped in the back door, free of the usual amount of fanfare and splashy marketing.