Limited series are taking over television. From Baby Reindeer to Shogun, Mr. and Mrs. Smith to Ripley, miniseries, anthologies, and other self-contained story arcs over a few hours are crowding out our TV watching attention. Even more traditional multi-season TV series feel more like limited series because they have longer gaps between seasons, chase more seasonal storylines or temporary supporting characters, and get canceled earlier in their run.
At a glance, the limited series format provides advantages compared to feature length films and traditional multi-season shows. A longer runtime gives room for deeper characterization and more complex plotting than a movie, yet the show remains short enough to ensure its initial concept doesn’t overstay its welcome.
But in practice, many limited series I’ve watched lately struggle to use their runtime well, downgrading what might be a great show to merely good. Most have had unmemorable characters and aimless side plots that feel padded out to hit the runtime of a six to ten episode arc. What could have been an engaging two hour movie sprawls on for an ungainly six or more hours.
The Bear season three – technically part of a longer multi-season TV series – perfectly encapsulates what goes wrong when a show expands movie length material to an entire season. A series once defined by its fleet plotting in this latest season lacked narrative momentum while packing in distracting cameos and unneeded attention to side characters. I also had mixed feelings about Netflix’s Ripley for similar momentum-based reasons. As the titular lead, Andrew Scott puts in a phenomenal performance, but for large parts of the season, it felt like the show was running in place.
And because a limited series can’t go as long as a traditional, multi-season TV series, it dampens some unique storytelling aspects TV can provide. Regardless of the artistic aim, it’s hard to sacrifice length without some cost to depth. Ripley runs for eight episodes, while Mad Men ran for 92. There’s no way to explore the inner workings of Tom Ripley in Ripley the same way we can unpack even small side characters from Mad Men’s ensemble. Nor can we luxuriate in the atmosphere of Ripley’s 1950s Italy the way we can in Mad Men’s 1960s New York.
James Poniewozik suggests my negative feelings about recent TV derives from the opposing forces of high caliber talent that establish some baseline watchability (e.g., Jeremy Allen White and Ayo Edebiri in The Bear, Andrew Scott and Oscar-winning DP Robert Elswit behind the camera in Ripley), pulled downward from pressure to deliver familiar formulas and themes. As one Netflix executive suggests in the piece, TV is increasingly chasing “gourmet cheeseburgers”: satisfying core ingredients that play it safe and lack originality.
I’d go a step further: TV today isn’t just relying on the familiar, it’s transposing the familiar into the limited series format on autopilot without questioning if the format is the right fit for the story. Presumed Innocent, Dead Ringers, The Talented Mr. Ripley, and Time Bandits were all critically acclaimed movies and recently made the jump to limited TV series. Breezy novel adaptations (e.g., Palm Royale, Lessons In Chemistry) are also popular. However, the critical consensus on these limited series pales compared to their original movie or novel form. And when you read negative criticism for any of these shows, they often center on overlong episodes, meandering runtimes, and unfocused plotting.
Cynically, the harsh economics of streaming services is likely a primary reason we’re getting so many limited series adaptations over a movie or more traditional open ended, multi-season show. A limited series demands a longer time commitment than a movie, often spaced out over weeks, in a way that can keep subscriber engagement high and churn low. Limited series also can more easily attract big name talent, the kind that can help draw in a subscriber base, given the format’s shorter length and lower financial commitment compared to a multi-season show.
But corporate financials aside, as a viewer, the practical effect of this perceived drop in quality means I’m watching less TV. Much of that freed up time I’m redirecting back into movies. I appreciate the shorter format’s lower time commitment and flexibility. I can watch three or more films in exchange for one less limited series. Given that I’m already familiar with my tastes, I can guarantee the average quality of what I’ll watch – not to mention the creative variety available to match my mood – will be as good, if not better, than a merely ok limited series.
Then again, my tastes are not a bellwether for the public; TV is still hugely popular. Yet, there’s always room for improvement. We need more TV that fully embraces the strengths of its medium instead of feeling like an overlong movie with extra intermissions. Let movies be movies. Let TV be TV. Not every story suits a multi-hour format; I hope more strikes out in a different direction.