In 1900, a writer named Constantin Perskyi attended The World’s Fair in Paris and returned with a word: television. Even if people had been working on electromechanical concepts since 1884, there was a sense that something big was on the way. By 1907, a patent was issued for the transmission of images from one room to another by Lee de Forest and Arthur Korn. Whereas consumers used to turn to literary works to immerse themselves in the grandeur, they now didn’t need subtext. They could simply look at a screen and discover worlds that might be out of their reach. It’s the art of spectacle that Perskyi first talked about when he discussed television with the International Electricity Congress.
And yet nobody could predict that with accessibility that it would consume the public’s attention. Unlike cinema that for decades involved traveling to venues to witness, television was always right there. Images could be transported to the consumer with minimum effort on their part. It’s a chance to see something new and potentially strange, a chance to escape the doldrums of life. By 1938, televisions were on sale for the general public, marking a shift to how audiences connected. It would evolve into the “water cooler moment” where people would discuss what they had seen alone at home.
There remains something paradoxical about television. It had the power to unify while isolating. As the medium grew, the audiences became more frayed. There wasn’t that ability to immediately connect. Public access channels lead to the rise of esoterica and after hours program delved into the erotic and paranoid. To some, it warped the unification into something more cerebral. The “water cooler moment” wasn’t at work the next day. It was one that ultimately replaced connection, projecting humanity while hiding something more complex underneath. Somewhere in that TV glow was reality presented through faulty signals and tired eyes, straining to feel alive.
In that sense, Owen isn’t all that special. He’s one of billions from over the past century that has been taken in by TV’s allure. When Jane Schoenbrun starts the narrative, it is the Mid-90s and he’s a child about to enter the years of Bill Clinton’s second administration. Depending on who you ask, the turn of the millennium was also the last time that Americans could consider being optimistic for the future. By 2001, 9/11 reshaped the national discourse in ways that have only become more fragmented in 20+ years since. Especially in 2024, there is a nostalgia for the 90s and an era where its most iconic rock star committed suicide and the biggest sports star was on trial for murder. The question of how this could be seen as a golden age for innocence is hard to fully process. Much like trauma, it’s something you can only fully understand when enough time has passed and you’ve stepped far enough away to notice patterns.
Anyone who has spent enough time running to a VCR to record TV episodes on a VHS, knowing it would be the only way to revisit a work, will know the world that Schoenbrun has created. Art felt more precious, especially the esoterica that wouldn’t appear again until TV Guides announced reruns. There is this desperation to get it right because the art is what matters. Even with the small tics of machinery, obtaining something that meant the world to you felt special. If you missed it, you missed it. The only hope was that you weren’t alone when arriving at the water cooler the next day and that somebody would hand over that magical tape.
For Owen, the most coveted of shows was The Pink Opaque. As he sits by a fire in adulthood, he recalls how it was his favorite show. Schoenbrun isn’t interested in making The Pink Opaque into anything it’s not. The best way to describe it is as a pastiche of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, whose cinematography and acting have dated it by modern standards. It was the story of teenagers going on supernatural adventures and learning about the scariness of the world around them. In that regard, The Pink Opaque isn’t that differently structured from Buffy. Both had their monster of the week episodes and season-long big bads. Owen’s response is not dissimilar from anyone else’s. The longer he spent in the world, the realer the parasocial element becomes. Who cares if they’re fighting a demonic ice cream man? It’s all a grand metaphor for overcoming our problems with friends.
The only one more obsessed with the series than him is Maddy. She is introduced reading a companion guide that provides deep analysis of the most artificial details. As they parse through the pages, they find something compelling.
Schoenbrun doesn’t care to state exactly what that is, but anyone who has turned to TV for escapism will know what’s going on. For Maddy, it’s a chance to ignore her abusive home life who, among other things, probably hates her girlfriend. There is a need to leave this stupid town behind and enter a utopia like The Pink Opaque. Even for all of its problems, one can assume that they’ll always be resolved. There will be a peace that can only exist within fiction. Even as Schoenbrun plays with the idea of watching the TV glow as dissociating from reality, there’s a refusal to paint it as the answer. Owen and Maddy are stuck in this one. Even with its Twin Peak tinges (including a clever interlude performance by Sloppy Jane), the surrealism doesn’t ever truly elevate itself off a familiar mortal coil.
The irony of I Saw the TV Glow (2024) is that the signs are everywhere. On a surface level, this is another film about TV’s hypnotic hold on the viewer. However, Schoenbrun has a knack for showing the ways it keeps Owen from noticing the world around him. During the opening scene, a character declares that it won’t hurt if you don’t think about it. At the school, Owen passes a sign that says, “Pain is weakness leaving the body.” Everywhere he goes, there’s affirmations of what the world should be. It’s clear that he sees himself as an outsider. The only one he loves is television, in part because his father seems emotionally distant, pushing a macho man mentality onto him. When Owen mentions that he wants to watch The Pink Opaque, he responds, “Isn’t that a show for girls?” Given the brilliant casting of nu-metal singer Fred Durst, Schoenbrun’s subtext of toxic masculinity is something that runs through the film without ever needing a conventional soapbox moment.
This could be because, even with voice-over, the viewer doesn’t fully know what Owen’s deal is. He is a kid who loves watching fantasy shows with Maddy. To him, it’s the greatest form of connection he ever experiences. The effort to view that precious hour makes every episode appear scarier. At the end of the day, it’s an indirect commentary on something that he finds in Maddy.
However, Schoenbrun borrows a page from Lynne Ramsay and gives the audience enough information to understand without ever providing the most vulnerable moments. There are hints of something that exist within the dreamlike texture. People who relate to Owen could be able to pick up what exactly that is as he fixates on The Pink Opaque finale where characters are captured by a Mr. Melancholy and filled with a blue juice before losing their heart. It ends with a character lying in a grave, awaiting an unknown fate.
In general, unresolved cliffhangers are the most painful type of finales. Even then, it’s hard not to see this as a grander commentary on Owen’s uncertainty. Like a lot of queer individuals, a certain message is presented as the de facto reality. Suffer in silence or prepare to be taken up by the “bury your gays” trope. Given the 90s were a dark period for the gay community resulting from The AIDS Crisis, the public’s distrust was hostile. Trans women were forced to accept messages from The Crying Game (1992) and Ace Ventura: Pet Detective (1994) that they were by nature deceitful. Given that the internet would be decades off from being the global connection resource it is now, it can be assumed that Owen’s greater revelation is that his desires are dirty. He clings to Maddy. He clings to The Pink Opaque. He clings to these small things because he thinks they’re the only ones who understand.
As Maddy marks his neck with a logo from the series, it’s clear that Owen is uncomfortable with the marking. The provocation of the scene suggests that even if he loves The Pink Opaque deep down, being open about it would make him a target. His father would assault him and he’d be left miserable. He could never be happy. The only time he’ll come close is when the TV is on and he can experience those fleeting minutes of escapism.
Though how long until the comfort fades? Owen gets old and The Pink Opaque stays the same age. It becomes that crappy, dated 90s show that confuses newcomers with its painful earnestness. Eventually it becomes hollow and the real truth emerges. Owen has spent too much time thinking about the series without ever thinking to ask himself, “What do I want to be?” Harkening back to Schoenbrun’s use of literal signs, this feels like a callback to the coming of age experience for queer individuals where the answers could be around them, but never noticed. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t yet have the language or self-actualization necessary to see it. The numbness of simply existing overtakes him and time passes, uneventfully and inevitably.
That is the tragic beauty of Justice Smith’s lead performance. Rarely has an actor used his voice better to reflect character development. As Schoenbrun’s narrative escalates, Owen becomes more of a distant narrator. Moments are rarely given time to process. He says he’s happy, but something about his inflection says otherwise. He is mumbling too much. The affectation of joy sounds detached. The quivering as his fate plays out informs something emerging. For everything that happens to him, Smith plays Owen like a cicada who is sleepwalking until the sleep cycle is over.
He is the perfect character to exist in a world that feels defined by TV tropes. With visual motifs that recall Twin Peaks and The Leftovers, he wanders through life searching for answers that aren’t direct. TV ultimately seems appealing because it has answers. He can witness the life he wished he could have. It’s convenient and direct. There aren’t years of development and growth. It feels like it will go on forever until one day it doesn’t. Smith’s reluctance to evolve as a person becomes haunting because it’s as much his own fear as it is recognizing the queer subtext. Like the election scene that opens the film, he must stick to the binary. It’s the only way that history can continue marching forward.
Another thing that’s brilliant about Schoenbrun’s production is the soundtrack. The diverse cast of characters features artists who play variations of grunge, shoegaze, and new wave. While feeling post-modern, they create a sense of nostalgia driven by the angst that exists within every American teenager. As displayed repeatedly in the film, it’s even clear that these songs wouldn’t be out of place in a Buffy episode. Like the images, the music develops its own secret coding. In a very literal sense, the film opens with Owen looking in awe at a colorful tapestry as Yeule’s “Anthem for a Seventeen Year Old Girl” plays. Along with the choppy vocal work suggesting the unease inside Owen, the title provides a subtext never fully commented on in the film.
This isn’t a film that wants to provide simple answers. If anything, it feels like the director sharing a personal narrative about dysphoria. There is no clear throughline or period where the greater triumph finally arrives. Owen’s sense of discovery ends up being a lifelong journey that may end on a bizarre note for some, but also speaks to how everyone’s life isn’t parallel. Some will self-actualize their dreams later in life while others will get it right away. There may be large mounds of regret along the way, but sometimes it takes a while. Everyone just wants to be accepted, and Smith’s portrayal of Owen understands that better than anyone else. Like the TV series, the film ends on a bit of a cliffhanger. However, the ambiguity is refreshing in the sense that it’s nowhere near (or stands to be) as morbid.
Much like Perskyi’s first use of the word television almost 125 years ago, many could never fully understand the power that these simple transmissions would have. What seemed weird and lacking definition would eventually mold into something recognizable. The hope is that I Saw the TV Glow becomes recognized as a hallmark of what happens when LGBTQIA+ artists are allowed to tell their own stories. Nobody may fully recognize who Owen will become by the end of the film, but many will see the potential if not only in him than in themselves. Like this transmission currently playing between projector and screen, the ability for Schoenbrun to potentially influence audiences is brilliant and hopefully shows that while progress may not always be linear, it can still be done in its own kooky way. Who would’ve thought in the 19th century that TV would become one of the most cherished household items? Sometimes it takes risk to see things that nobody else does. The signs are there. It just takes a certain language to fully understand.
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