Why Watching More TV May be Good for Your Children
Is there a lot of goodness to screen narratives that these studies are forgetting?
Television is easy to demonize. Too much TV-screen watching has been blamed for bad grades, obesity, depression, and yes, even brain damage. Today’s teens use smartphone, tablet, or laptop screens, but that only accentuates it—they take those screens with them everywhere they go. But are they in fact accentuating a good thing? Is there a lot of goodness to screen narratives that these studies are forgetting?
A mother might proudly claim that her son is currently reading A Game of Thrones. But take in the same story over seven hours a week of TV shows, and concerns are expressed over time lost for violin lessons, for exercise, for study. Actually, reading a novel can take seven hours too. So what gives?
The word literature makes parents gooey. It’s been drummed into us. Absorbing the fifty shades of sex, the murderous violence of The Godfather, the Catch-22 horror of war, the despair of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina—that’s all good for us apparently. But watch the same story on a screen—and the naysayers loom large.
The word literature makes parents gooey. It’s been drummed into us. Absorbing the fifty shades of sex, the murderous violence of The Godfather, the Catch-22 horror of war, the despair of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina—that’s all good for us apparently. But watch the same story on a screen—and the naysayers loom large.
Partly because effort is virtuous, passivity not so. This universal human sentiment has its roots in evolution. Reading takes effort. And to be fair, some teenagers watch a screen for many multiples of the seven-hours-a-week guidepost. The question is, why?
Media-effects researcher Dr Melanie Green of the State University of New York argues that engagement with a narrative excites us—this emotional flow acts to persuade more easily. This learning alters our moral makeup. According to cognitive psychologists Markus Appel and Tobias Richter, the effect of the new learning even enhances over time, of its own accord—they call it the absolute sleeper effect. Seeing the world through the lens of the new moral makeup, thickens the lens. Take care, parents. Narratives matter. A lot. In all their forms.
Famed Hollywood screenwriting guru Robert McKee is a fierce advocate of the screenwriting-as-literature paradigm, provided there is “a vision that is driven by fresh insights into human nature and society,” since “a storyteller is a life poet.”
Parents might want to be the watchdogs that shape quality, not just quantity.
Take the American-born, American-raised, Hallings of Baja California—they nurtured two children into adulthood. “If they were watching a lot of reality TV, the Kardashians, Justin Bieber, that would upset us,” said Kaila Halling, when queried about the right approach that parents ought to take.
Two sets of eyes widened when I changed the tack from parenting to what inspired you as a child. The voices became animated.
“British shows were great. I loved Dr. Who, where inventors were heroes,” added Kaila.
Swiftly, Dale Halling chimed in, “The story of Galileo versus the Catholic Church, that was inspiring. I was raised Catholic.”
“A storyteller is a life poet.”
In 2009, a subcontinental immigrant, Preet Bharara, became the U.S. Attorney for Manhattan. He told Columbia Law School Magazine that he idolized the litigator Clarence Darrow, as mythologized in the play Inherit The Wind, which Preet read when in seventh grade. Interestingly, Preet still “watches the DVD every so often.”
A decade ago, in the heyday of the CSI TV show and its spinoffs, the San Diego Union-Tribune reported a massive jump in forensic-science enrolments. That uplifting influence is part of what’s now known as “The CSI Infection,” the ability of television characters and drama to stylize professions, elevating them to the noble. It’s the raw, inspirational power of fictional narratives. The critics must concede round one of this discourse to television.
The CSI Infection is the ability of television characters and drama to stylize professions, elevating them to the noble. It’s the raw, inspirational power of fictional narratives.
Shows like CSI, Bones, House, and the non-fiction dramatization Mayday (Air Crash Investigation) celebrate the combination of inductive and deductive logic so crucial to science. And they are well-researched. Amazingly well-researched. “Exaggerate the symptoms, but be accurate” is the motto of TV drama, so much so that an episode of House helped baffled German doctors solve an undiagnosed case. Screenwriters of House, take a bow, you saved a man’s life.
Jason Lockwood, on the other hand, was young well before CSI. He told me “We [my family] were all Hitchcock fans. Each of us had a favorite Hitchcock movie.”
A thought had raced through my mind even as I was interviewing Jason—’Some of my own vivid childhood memories are things that the whole family did together.’
So I had asked, “Is that a fun family activity, following TV serials together?”
Jason said, “I think it’s great fun and it also gives a family the opportunity to talk about serious ideas without those discussions devolving into angry exchanges.” Some years ago, he fell in love with the “sharp writing and witty repartee” of Veronica Mars, so more recently he watched it again with his partner’s teenage daughter. After a few episodes, the girl was hooked.
Indeed, why not explore what the character could have or should have done? What a parent thinks is a “discourse” on ethics is a “you boss over me” from the child’s perspective. Should Carrie Matheson (Homeland) leave her baby behind to take a risky post in Pakistan? Which way would you go in this sharp value conflict?
Using drama to discuss ethics is smart. It means both parent and child must do a thing together—like watching a TV serial. And the Socratic questioning “what would you advise Carrie Matheson to do” comes across as detached, but respectful, because it is. In their teens, children want something from their parents even more than love. It’s respect.
Ladies and gentlemen, Television has won round two. The critics are faltering. Next round.
A Russian immigrant, resident for two decades in Australia, once asked me for tips to improve her English. I wasn’t going to tell a hairdresser to read Dostoyevsky.
‘Watch more TV,” I said to her, “drama, like Mad Men.” Her mouth fell open.
“Native English speakers use a lot of idioms,” I added, trying to settle her raised eyebrows.
A week later, she was back. She quoted me an anachronism, an idiom attributed to Mad Men’s Roger Sterling—“now I’m on the same page as you.” The twinkle in her eye told me—yay, she got it.
Professional linguists get orgasms researching Mad Men. And even native English speakers, let alone non-native speakers, pick up day-to-day phraseology that Shakespeare and Dickens never used, the sort that makes them look witty, current, and articulate. Even when they watch a show set in the 60s, like Mad Men. Yet another arrow in the idiot-box’s quiver. Now the final round beckons.
You can even watch a DVD of a movie like it’s literature—use the pause button to reflect on structure. At screenwriting school, we trained to. Ever re-read a novel to read between the lines? That’s exactly what it’s like.
A friend of mine once remarked that her daughter watched the movie Inception four times on DVD, once a week.
At a casual meet, a latte at her lips, my friend anticipated that I’ll shortly join the “Oh, the kids these days” groan-brigade. But what if each viewing conferred a new revelation of a complex story? So I whispered, “She probably gleaned the subtext. Be proud of her.”
The days of office-goers reading broadsheets or novels on the morning-train ride are on an irreversible decline. The “screen” is now ubiquitous. Adapt, because you must.
The much-demonized idiot box has numerous redeeming features. Use them wisely.
We all have our favorite “I-love-to-hate-it” reality TV show. But we have our dear ones too. They shaped us. They molded us. Don’t scoff at them now.
Don’t let your children miss out on the CSI-infected career inspiration, the memories of family togetherness, the vigorous discussions of character choices, the idiomatic phraseology, the reading-between-the-lines excitement. The much-demonized idiot box has numerous redeeming features. Use them wisely.
About the Author: Vinay Kolhatkar
