One way in which a tv series becomes culturally meaningful is, of course, because of its popularity.
Contrary to the usual elitist assumptions, it's very hard to maintain widespread popularity in the mass media, particularly in fictional programming. It simply costs too much to make it, especially as core salaries go up with each new season.
This means that, even if I never saw the point of Friends, its popularity must say something about its audience other than mere force of habit. A fictional series that can sustain a significant audience in the U.S. over an extended period of time clearly offers a great many American viewers a fictional milieu with which they like to check in with on a regular basis, be it Ben Cartwright's Ponderosa or Jack McCoy's New York.But TV series don't have to be widely popular to be significant. There is also the question of periodic genre revision, the way in which the same types of shows keep getting made again and again, with slightly different twists each time: from Medical Center to St. Elsewhere to ER; from My Favorite Martian to Mork & Mindy to Third Rock from the Sun. As structuralists have been telling us since Vladimir Propp and A. J. Greimas at least, when it comes to narrative, originality is both less common and less important than we think. Nearly all narrative artists practice bricolage: they use familiar, even pre-fabricated elements, especially when creating settings, characters, and broader narrative arcs. It's not the uniqueness or freshness of these elements that makes them interesting to us (or not). It's how the artists in question rearrange these well-honed fragments of the familiar that grabs our attention, especially on a collective level.
As a case of genre revision, Fringe is almost shamelessly easy to tag.
It's The X-Files (1993-2002)--except it's not. As always, there are common elements--weird science bordering on science fiction, female FBI agent--but at least based on the first two episodes, the feel of the show is entirely different. Not only does Anna Torv's Olivia Dunham feel like much less of a rookie than Dana Scully did at the beginning of The X-Files, but Joshua Jackson's Peter Bishop is no Fox Mulder. He's not an intuitive genius, a true believer, or a porn addict. (Lately, we have all begun to wonder how literally Vince Gilligan, Glen Morgan, James Wong and others based Mulder's character on Duchovny, haven't we?) In truth, Peter Bishop is almost a softened noir character, a world-weary, globe-trotting Rick Blaine for the Gossip Girl generation.And unlike Dana and Fox, Olivia and Peter aren't really the point, are they? Even at this early stage of the series, it seems to be clear that the real relationship structuring the narrative isn't the prospective one between the two younger characters but the retrospective one between Peter's father, Walter Bishop, and his old lab partner, William Bell. In 1991, an assistant died in their basement lab at Harvard: Walter got tried for manslaughter and was institutionalized; William founded BellMedics, home of the nanotech-enabled prosthetic arm and the first piece of the enormous business behemoth that is Massive Dynamics.
From that biomedical start, Bell apparently moved on to aeronautics, computers, telecommunications, entertainment, you name it. Massive Dynamics is Microsoft in the 90s with teeth. It's what paranoid Americans thought Japanese corporations were capable of back in the late 80s before the Japanese economy blew apart. Before that, it's The Phone Company in The President's Analyst--squared. (Part of me thinks the name "Bell" might even have been chosen for that echo, although no one under the age of 35 will probably get it, since their entire lives have been spent in a post-regulated world.) No mystery here about what the Big Bad of the series is: it's Massive Dynamics, and William Bell is its never-seen Mephistopheles.
In real life, of course, no one company could ever pull off what Massive Dynamics supposedly has, which is why the show really hearkens back to that late nineteenth-century trope: the captain of industry. Except now, that captain of industry is a scientist, a post-computerized Thomas Edison as supervillain. The clues in the show seem to point toward Bell and his acolytes using the world as their own laboratory for testing deviant technologies and not really caring what happens to their unsuspecting subjects. The Homeland Security agent who recruits Olivia in the pilot calls all these seemingly random events "The Pattern," and as one eagle-eyed freezeframer has shown, the opening titles flash the near-subliminal message: OBSERVERS ARE HERE. 
If the Walter Bishop/William Bell relationship is the true core of the show (note the parallel initials, by the way--Doppelganger 101), then the real TV show being echoed here is not The X-Files but Abrams' own Lost, which only revealed in its third or fourth season that Jack Shepherd vs. John Locke is nothing next to Benjamin Linus vs. Charles Widmore. Fringe's Walter is obviously more unstable than Lost's Ben--which is saying a great deal--and yet it is clear that he is the only one who has all the necessary information to take on the show's Big Bad.
Thus Fringe becomes another in a long line of properties in popular culture--including Iron Man most recently, but Batman Begins and even The X-Files itself before that--in which the current rising generation must pay for the (in this case literal) experimentation of their Baby Boomer elders.
If such Boomer pop culture makers as Steven Spielberg and George Lucas spent much of the late 1980s and early 1990s symbolically re-establishing ties with their elders, their younger siblings and even children seem poised to call out the Boomers themselves for the free-spirit menaces that they were.
There is a crucial difference, though, between the sins of Fox Mulder's father and the apparent sins of Peter Bishop's. Bill Mulder was an organization man, shaped by the Cold War and consensus culture. (Fox was born in 1961, five days after me as it turns out.)
Walter Bishop, however, is much younger than Bill Mulder, only ten or fifteen years older than his son Fox, and shaped by a time in which ambition and glory were probably better motivators than duty or fear. The glee with which he utters the pilot's funniest line (Let's make some LSD!) tells you all you need to know about how he probably liked to run a lab.
As Propp or Greimas could have told you, heroes sometimes say less about a story's structuralist variations than antagonists do. What menace needs to be contained? What fear needs to be poured into a familiar narrative container? In the mid-1990s world of The X-Files, the government ran the businesses, but in the 2008 world of Fringe, it is clearly the other way around. When Olivia Dunham meets with Nina Sharp (oh those names!), the Chief Operating Officer of Massive Dynamics, Sharp asks her, "Do they think this is part of The Pattern? Oh, aren't you cleared for that?" clearly indicating that the C.O.O. of a ginormous corporation has a higher government clearance than a lowly law enforcement officer. As to the plausibility of this particular trope, that the businesses actually run the government in our time, I would refer you to my earlier posting on Spies. Or the newspaper.
Fringe, with all its problems, posits an emotionally plausible villain for the age of Halliburton, but the fears that Chris Carter harnessed to generate narrative and even hermeneutic energy for The X-Files obviously predated that series' own era. Carter is around Fox Mulder's age (no surprise there), and when crafting his mythos, he created a world bracketed by the public events of his adolescence and young adulthood: the Pentagon Papers, Watergate, and the continuing revelations throughout the 1970s of barely authorized CIA operations both at home and abroad.
His model for the show was the inspired sole season of Jeff Rice's Kolchak: The Night Stalker (1974-75). In a sweet homage, Carter even cast Darren McGavin, who had played the title character of that earlier cult series, in several episodes of The X-Files as Arthur Dales, the founder of the freakish FBI unit that Fox Mulder eventually took over. These two or three episodes feature a younger actor in flashbacks to the 1950s (when McGavin had starred in the equally cultish Mickey Spillane's Mike Hammer), following his investigations as Carl Kolchak did to a series of doors that are slammed in his face by obstructing public officials.
But even if Kolchak: The Night Stalker gave birth to The X-Files, Carl Kolchak did not give birth to Fox Mulder, any more than Dana Scully has recently given birth to Olivia Dunham.
Kolchak was a proud, pre-hippie slob, who wouldn't be caught dead popping sunflower seeds. In the paperback novelizations of Richard Matheson's screenplays for The Night Stalker and The Night Strangler, the two Nixon-era TV movies that ultimately spawned the series, newspaper stringer Kolchak is clearly presented as a throwback, a "refugee from a road company of The Front Page," as one of the books puts it. The casting of McGavin in the role reinforced Kolchak's marginal, even private eye status within the pastel-colored world of 1970s America. If you strip away the supernatural trappings, two of the tv characters with whom he shares the most salient features are his more self-consciously "decent" contemporary Lt. Columbo (who matched wits with many similarly smooth Me Decade antagonists) and the much more ironically drawn Tony Soprano. The latter character was created, of course, by David Chase, who early in his career wrote eight episodes of Kolchak: The Night Stalker.
Even though Kolchak's brief run coincided with the Golden Age of American Paranoia, it's worth noting that the series never posited a single unifying conspiracy, as The X-Files would later do. Of course, network television was different in the 1970s--a complex mythos sustained across a series of episodes was a hard sell until soaps like Dallas began penetrating primetime--but Kolchak was also a different kind of crusader. Even though he seldom went up against the same specific antagonists, he frequently opposed the same kinds of establishment figures: smooth cops and corporate flacks who were well-trained in the then-booming field of public relations. Episode to episode, Kolchak wasn't fighting an organization. He was fighting an ethos, a drive toward presumed perfection, modernization, and marginalizing cultural tidiness. Throwback that he was to the messy mid-century, he instinctively refused to buy into the self-help polish that was slowly turning the 1960s into the 1980s all around him.
Television series, like advertising campaigns, only surely tell us about the culture in which they are launched if they are widely embraced by the public. Otherwise, they only tell us about the people who created them. So while one may argue fairly easily that The X-Files hit some kind of a cultural nerve during the Clinton era, one must make the case for the wider implications of a cult show like Kolchak: The Night Stalker or a just-launched series like Fringe much more gingerly. Still, it's worth noting that, while the former series asked us to fear its near-future, and the latter series is apparently suggesting that we fear its recent past, both series point an accusing finger at the exact same era. In this election year, please remember that--in horror and science fiction television, at least--there is apparently nothing scarier than the 1980s.
Unlike Charles Bronson's slowreveal flashback in West--and unlike the flashbacks within flashbacks that provide a lot of the fun in the full cut of America--the point of this one is pretty much clear from the beginning, which makes its slow revelation across two and a half hours pretty much pointless. Then there are the Nixon-era, Butch&Sundance high voices singing "Sean-Sean! Sean-Sean!" during his happier flashbacks, which obviously detract from them as well. And even though I love him, Coburn is pretty hollow (in the bad sense) as the IRA man, although Rod Steiger is surprisingly good at points as the Mexican thief turned revolutionary hero.
