A Retrospective On Live Television Through The Lens Of Life On Mars
“And she's hooked to the silver screen
But the film is a saddening bore
For she's lived it ten times or more”
‘Life On Mars’ by David Bowie
I had to find something to do on that trip. My journey from Cardiff to London stretched out before me and I rather wanted to avoid those four cruel, seat-writhing hours of attempting to nap with my head knocking against the window every second. This time, I cracked a grin hearing the beckoning whispers from the open zip of my backpack - it was my iPad gleaming in all its pink glory. I pulled it out ferociously, wriggled into an agreeable seating position, and lustily tapped on the Netflix logo. I pressed play on episode one of Life On Mars, ready for some pure uninterrupted alone time.
Life On Mars first aired in 2006 on BBC One, its title inspired by the dreamlike David Bowie song of the same name. The narrative follows Sam Tyler, played by John Simm, the tormented detective whose life is upended when a severe car crash transports him from the noughties to the year 1973. Sam introduces the central mystery of the series in the opening credits of each episode, “Am I mad, in a coma, or back in time?”, setting the stage for a rich blend of drama, mystery, and nostalgia.
By hour four of the show, as the coach pulled into London Victoria, I felt sick with entertainment gluttony. I had devoured the first half of the season, dialogue surfacing in the back of my throat. The only coherent thought whizzing around in my TV-hazy brain spluttered, “I would’ve much preferred if I had taken my time.”
Breadcrumbed throughout Life On Mars are various messages received by Sam that hint towards the state of his condition. Some are made via telephone or radio, but many air straight to his television screen. When they falter, Sam pleads for whoever the individual is to hear his voice, to understand why he is in the past, hoping for a return to normalcy. Instead, the communication breaks and he is isolated and unbearably alone with his conflicted mind, left to wait.
In a pre-streaming service landscape, we also had to wait. Live television carried the burden of an ad break, cutting off right as the tensions simmered. An episode would end right at the edge of conflict - “What? The Daleks are back again?” Sorry, you have to wait until next week. Now, with a streaming service at my disposal, I deliciously engorge myself in scene after scene. Clicking the ‘Next Episode’ button on Netflix, I am viscerally disgusted by the obnoxious credits sequence - as if I want to see that! I need more storyline, more character development, more angst! I need to know the twist! This ‘need to know’ anything and everything for fear of being left in the dark is a distinct dilemma that has pervaded the human consciousness since forever.
Like Sam Tyler, I sit cross-legged in front of the screen, receiving messages, sending my mind into a frenzy. Unlike Sam, however, I can watch as much as I like - the consumption is interminable. Sam has to wait, as did previous pre-streaming audiences when an episode concluded its plot for the week, leaving viewers to sit with their thoughts and grapple with the unknown. Streaming services, on the other hand, profit from and capitalise on the human desire to know everything, turning excessive consumption into a lucrative business model. The obligatory wait between episodes gave the audience time to ponder its impact over a week, making what they truly think matter more. This meant that writers, producers, and directors needed to make meaningful creative choices that would keep audiences interested during this small waiting period. But who needs that now? Netflix, Disney+, Amazon Prime, Paramount+, BBC iPlayer, and All4 are now at your disposal! You can have all kinds of genres within a rapid instant, decreasing viewers’ ability to consume consciously!
Despite this, we experience the phenomenon of scrolling and scanning various streaming services for the ‘right show’ regardless of how many options there are. We complain in a unified huff, “There’s nothing to watch.” But truly, there is everything we could possibly think of to watch. Drama, comedies, romances, dramatic-comedic-romances - the lot. Instead, we scrounge for scraps of immediate satisfaction, an instant dose of adrenaline. When we are endlessly seeking the ‘right show’ all of the options you could possibly conjure up in the world feel like nothing.
The television screen exercises immense power over Sam. When the screen changes, he is completely transfixed, utterly controlled. I imagine how this show was first viewed, by groups or individuals cosied up on the sofa, peering into their screen, anticipating each week for the newest plot developments. My streaming experience clashed with that retrospective - no ad breaks were cutting off my attention, no endings that I couldn’t continue without a click of a button, and no aspect of viewing that was outside of my control.
If audiences found out within the first episode what condition Sam was in, would there be any point in continuing with the show? If Sam was willingly given every ounce of information about his strange state, he would not look at the television anymore. If Sam could instantly discover how to pull himself back to the present, there would be no Life on Mars. Likewise, if we are given all knowledge of a story in one bite, we as the audience will lose all enjoyment. When we force-feed ourselves art, we become desensitised to all of its wonderfully magical properties. Our attention diminishes; once we find out twist after twist, spiritless and withdrawn, we can guess all of the twists.
Resisting the urge to finish the plate and lick it clean, audiences should savour every bite; television is gloriously crafted, beautifully presented, and composed to thrill. Unfortunately, the death of live television is far behind us, with most abandoning the TV guide, leaving it to rot. We dish into our bank accounts and pay for multiple subscription services that account for every single flavour, ones our taste buds cannot even begin to comprehend. After staying up until the early hours of the morning, the crimson ‘N’ logo burned into my flustered screen, I am in a television coma. I burp out “Go to bed, the show won’t vanish while you’re asleep.” Until I remember, the show could always leave Netflix. Fine - I’ll keep watching.
This article is featured on pages 9-10 in Strand Magazine’s ‘Hedonism’ Print Edition.
Edited by Humaira Valera, Co-film & TV editor
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