Wealth is overrepresented on television
Is our cultural fetishization of rich people sustainable?
On the appalling day Roe v. Wade was overturned, The Handmaid’s Tale was trending on Twitter. Stephen King tweeted a picture of the now over-saturated images of women in red cloaks, others tweeted anxiously about reality imitating art, others tweeted about being annoyed by people tweeting about The Handmaid’s Tale. There was a lot going on in my own head (as a staunch supporter of a woman’s right to have autonomy over their own damn bodies, if I even need to spell that out) but as always I tried to think about what was happening through the lens of television—where I feel useful.
For the last decade, critical TV watchers have been concerned (via writing and conversation) about pop feminism on display on shows like Handmaid’s and Big Little Lies, among others. This depressing take in the New York Times touches on a few of these anxieties. Where my own mind went on this dark week was: is television really radical enough? Or is it still being constantly funnelled through the lens of commercial interests? And even if the most radical shows on television were at the forefront of pop culture discourse, would it matter? Would it change anything? These questions haunted me. It reminded me of why I left academia in 2020, the feeling of analysis in a bubble.
These thoughts and some recent TV releases coalesced into this newsletter on how I’ve been considering the way the rich are overrepresented on television, and how our apathetic escapism via helicopters, elaborate parties, designer clothes and mansions trickle down.1
In Apple TV+’s new comedy series Loot, the third episode contains a scene where Molly Novak (Maya Rudolph) guides Sofia Salinas (MJ Rodriguez) around her mansion to the thumping bass of “Whole Lotta Money.” Sofia is wide-eyed as the camera pans around massive rooms: a walk-in closet which includes a full bar and a wall dedicated to purses, a bowling alley, and a famous chef at the ready to cook anything Sofia might desire.
This scene occurs after we have already spent some time getting to know Molly, who won $87 billion in the divorce settlement from her husband, played by Adam Scott. After discovering a philanthropic non-profit under her name that she didn’t even know existed, she begins to get more involved in the ways her newfound bounty can effect change—despite being very disconnected from how anyone not wealthy lives. The cast, which includes Joel Kim Booster as her personal assistant slash best friend, melds harmoniously and the one-liners are delicious. But my first thought after engaging with the series was: god, there are so many damn shows about wealthy people, and so few about the majority of our population who can barely afford life right now.
There is a significant possibility that shows about displays of wealth might sweep the Emmys this year: Succession for drama, The White Lotus for limited series, and to a certain extent, Hacks for comedy. Not to mention the half dozen shows about individuals who scammed their way into the ultra rich, like The Dropout and Inventing Anna. When Maid, which is also in the running for Emmy nominations, first premiered on Netflix, I received a lot of questions and concerns on Instagram about folks worried about the depiction of “poverty/trauma porn,” or the voyeurism involved in low-income representations. Some folks flat-out refused to watch Maid, pointing out a disconnect between wealthy actors playing low-income roles. But why are we so quick to apply a critical gaze to these representations, and so hesitant to pick apart Succession or Billions?
Granted, representations of wealth are rarely depicted in positive ways, per se. The characters on Succession are all varied on the scale of terrible as individuals and corporate exploiters. But based on how they are individually desired (and memed) by people online and how beloved the show is, I wouldn’t classify the series as a deconstruction of wealth and privilege. Even when this does happen, say in the case of the Oscar Best Picture-winner Parasite, we have a well-documented paper trail of rich celebrities (i.e., Elon Musk) praising the film and missing the point entirely.
I love the comparison that researcher Dr. Maren Thom makes between Parasite and German playwright Bertolt Brecht’s The Threepenny Opera. In 1928, audiences walked away from the musical praising the experience and humming the catchy melodies, despite the play being a socialist critique of capitalism and an attempt to give an “F you” to the bourgeoisie.
When The Threepenny Opera became a success in Weimar Berlin in 1928, Brecht was distraught. His intention was to scare his bourgeois audience. ‘Look what is happening under your noses, the peasants are on to you!’, was supposed to be the message. (Spiked, 2020)
It begs the question: is raising awareness of flawed wealthy people really enough? Does it do anything at all? It’s not like “representation matters” when it comes to these characters, as the adage goes. The massive success of shows like Succession just tend to spin out another ten like it. I can imagine conversations in the TV executive rooms: we need a Succession for our network and we need it now.
It was a particularly sad day when Good Trouble—a series I adore for its sprawling cast of mostly queer and diverse characters—found itself in the middle of a controversy around its attempts to follow the story of an unhoused character. “Sweeps,” or the displacement of unhoused folks at shooting locations for TV and film productions, are apparently much more common than I originally realized, particularly in dense cities. In March, Good Trouble filmed a protest scene about sweeps for the show, but apparently caused a sweep of their own in the process.
Although the showrunner tweeted out a statement claiming the sweep was not related to the production of the show, a few who were on-site tweeted back saying she was mistaken—that unfortunately, Good Trouble did displace unhoused folks in the area in order to film their scene meant to draw attention to the unhoused crisis in LA.
It’s disappointing because Good Trouble contains storylines rarely seen on other shows—they’ve consulted with Black Lives Matter on their BLM-related storylines, showcased polyamory in thoughtful and non-cliché ways, tackled anti-Asian racism, queer and trans identities, and are usually balancing twelve other storylines. My instinct was to stop watching after the incident—but I can only imagine how often unreported sweeps occur for my other beloved productions (re: it’s systemic), and I didn’t want to let go of one of the few shows at least trying.
Even with financial support from my parents while I was in school, I still racked up credit debt and lived paycheck-to-paycheck. Today, I work a 9 to 5 in addition to my freelance writing, this newsletter, and running my Instagram, and have only recently felt I’m in a financially stable place—but this was only possible after living rent-free with my parents for the first year and a half of the pandemic. It’s almost impossible to reconcile values rooted in decolonization, Marxism, and disruption, with the material realities of living in this capitalist hellscape—it feels inherently hypocritical to claim any of those things while also staying afloat in a city like Vancouver.
Perhaps there is, or could be, some power in bringing disruption out of the hypothetical and into reality on the shows we consume, at the very least. It’s insufficient that we continue to glorify and support visual storytelling so obsessed with the rich—a small percentage of the population, really. It was comedic to read that there is competition for filming on wealth-adjacent sets in New York where shows like Gossip Girl, Succession, and And Just Like That all sought to shoot at.
Look, there’s a lot to enjoy from shows like The Crown and Elite. Yes, I even enjoy Succession. And sure, when I’m watching This Is Us I don’t constantly want to be wondering how Kate can afford her life (in the earlier seasons in particular). But we know that the gap between the rich and the poor expanded significantly during Covid. And today, with inflation and a nauseating increase in the cost of living, those most affected are lower-income folks.
When shows do expose class struggles, like the restaurant owners holding on by a thread on The Bear or Kristen wondering how she’s going to pay for crucial house renovations on Evil because she only makes $50,000/year while supporting a family, or what I imagine is depicted on Shameless and Roseanne, I feel empathetic and grounded in my watching experience in ways I don’t while binging Succession like junk food. I’d like more groundedness and empathy, please.
"Perceptions of affluence—and the social reality they reflect—have important implications for the legitimacy of the existing social order.” (Fox & Philliber, 1978)
Although I wanted to ground my thinking around wealth on television in where my mind has been at lately (on the limits of television’s ability to impact its viewers, on wondering if television is anywhere near as radical as it should be)—this is obviously not a newsletter about Roe v. Wade. I think the way abortion is represented on television should be explored further though (likely has been in academic literature) and there might be an opportunity to look at that deeper if anyone is interested in reading those thoughts from me.