We’re going to remember the summer of 2016, you know. On Christmases and Thanksgivings 50 years from now, we’ll lean forward in our armchairs to whisper to clusters of wide-eyed grandchildren:
“I remember the year ‘Stranger Things’ came out on Netflix.”
This, at least, was the vibe around the blogosphere last month, when a Netflix sci-fi/horror series helmed by rookie directors came rocketing out of nowhere and up through the ranks of our cultural consciousness, blasting right past “fun ’80s homages” and “supernatural camp flicks” and “small-town mysteries” into the rarified air of “AAA-quality binge material.”
If you aren’t yet on board, I’ll be blunt: By not putting down the Collegian, whipping out your laptop, and diving in this minute, you are doing yourself a disservice.
We live in a golden age of TV, an era when shows like “Breaking Bad,” with its staggering character development, and “Game of Thrones,” with its rococo plot and dizzying cast of characters, push the episodic film format further than ever before. The rise of original programming on Netflix has only accelerated this rush toward the big and the ornate.
In this environment, “Stranger Things” stands out as a triumph of TV minimalism, a master class in succeeding by getting the little things right.
The show starts with a bang. The idyllic town of Hawkins, Indiana, is turned upside down when local boy Will Byers goes missing under paranormal circumstances. When Will’s three best friends go looking for him, they stumble across a mysterious young girl in a hospital gown, with no name but an “011” tattoo on her arm—a girl with paranormal abilities, on the run from an organization she knows only as “bad men.” Finding Will, and hiding Eleven, become the story’s two driving concerns.
“Stranger Things” transcends its own limitations in every scene. The characters may be archetypal, but “Stranger Things” makes up the lost complexity with bull’s-eye casting decisions and pitch-perfect performances from both child and adult actors, from Eleven on down to school bully Troy.
The plot may be straightforward, but it examines deeply human themes like friendship and loss as deftly as many shows that are much more complex.
Consistently interesting cinematography, an absolute ringer of a soundtrack, bright and witty dialogue, and an enormous dollop of ’80s pop-culture nostalgia supply the finishing touches.
This attention to detail means two things. First, every moment on this show is, for one reason or another, fun to watch. Second, and more importantly, there are brilliant moments when the little things rush together in a breathtaking climax of TV transcendence. The final scene of Episode 3, “Holly Jolly,” which jump-cuts between two grieving families as Peter Gabriel swells over synths and police sirens wail in the background, can move mountains. I cried. The second time I watched it, I cried again.
So the show is really, really good. But that’s not the only reason it’s a great time to be a fan. TV shows with rabid fanbases are nothing new, of course—“Star Trek,” “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” and even “Breaking Bad” are now all venerable old relics.
But the particular fun of “Stranger Things” as opposed to these is the suddenness of it all, the lunatic zero-to-sixty air that surrounds fans of the new Netflix original. Trekkies have had decades to hone their devotion; fans of Stranger Things have hit their stride in under two months — if not quicker. (The number of people who watched it in a single sitting beggars belief.)
It’s almost as though, despite the majesty of today’s huge, complex TV shows, we were craving something else — something deep enough to satisfy, but simple enough not to wear us out. By delivering on that promise, “Stranger Things” shows itself to be more than just that show you accidentally watched over the course of one emotional, bloodshot night.
“Stranger Things” proves that the Netflix generation can still love simple, understated TV, and that might be its greatest achievement.
