The ‘Prestige TV’ Hangover: Are We Sure Sad People Staring Out Windows Is Peak Television?

There’s a certain look to modern television. You know the one. The screen is bathed in a color palette best described as “melancholy Tuesday.” The camera lingers, for what feels like an eternity, on a single, weighted object—a glass of whiskey, a dead bird on the pavement, a single tear tracing a path down a craggy, Emmy-nominated face. The dialogue, when it finally arrives, is whispered, as if speaking at a normal volume would shatter the fragile tension.

This is the era of “Prestige TV.” It’s serious, it’s cinematic, and it’s often as grim as a tax audit. We’ve been told for years that this is the peak of the medium, the Golden Age where television finally grew up and became art. And it often is. But as we enter our third decade of morally gray anti-heroes and six-season slow burns, a heretical question is starting to bubble up: Are we having any fun?

We have gorged ourselves on a feast of heavy, complex, multi-course dramas. We’ve earned our PhDs in meth manufacturing from Breaking Bad, corporate backstabbing from Succession, and medieval political science from Game of Thrones. But now, many of us are waking up with a ‘prestige TV’ hangover, clutching our heads and wondering if it’s okay to ask for a glass of water and maybe something with a little more sunlight. It’s time to question the formula and ask if sad people staring wistfully out of windows is truly the pinnacle of storytelling.

The Prestige TV Starter Pack: An Assembly Guide

If you wanted to create your own prestige drama, the blueprint is readily available. It’s a tried-and-true formula for critical acclaim and audience reverence.

1. The Morally Compromised Protagonist: Your hero can’t just be a hero. They must be an anti-hero, a deeply flawed individual whose every good deed is tainted by a dark past or a troubling secret. Think Tony Soprano, Walter White, Don Draper, or Marty Byrde from Ozark. They are fascinating, but they are also emotionally exhausting to hang out with for 60 hours. They are men (and they are almost always men) who carry the weight of the world on their shoulders, and they want you to feel it.
2. The Slow Burn Plot: This is crucial. The plot doesn’t move; it unfurls. It smolders. It marinates. An entire episode might be dedicated to a character contemplating a difficult decision. The first few episodes are often described by critics as “a little slow, but stick with it, the payoff is worth it.” This turns watching TV into a form of homework. You’re not being entertained; you’re investing in the promise of future entertainment. Sometimes that investment pays off handsomely. Other times, you realize you just spent ten hours watching a man sigh in various dimly lit rooms.
3. The Muted Color Palette: Joy is loud. Color is loud. Prestige TV is quiet. Therefore, the color grading must be desaturated to the point of clinical depression. Ozark famously filtered its world through a bleak, blue-tinted lens that screamed “serious business.” Even sunny locations look like they’re under a permanent cloud of existential dread. It’s atmospheric, sure, but it can also feel like you’re watching a beautiful world through dirty sunglasses.
4. The Stare into the Middle Distance: This is the signature shot. A character, overwhelmed by the thematic weight of their own narrative, simply… stops. They look past the camera, past the other characters, into the vast emptiness of their soul (or possibly at the craft services table). This stare is meant to convey volumes of unspoken emotion. It’s a powerful tool, but when used excessively, it feels less like profound introspection and more like the actor forgot their line.

The Tyranny of the Metaphor

In the world of prestige TV, nothing is ever just what it is. A leaky faucet isn’t a plumbing issue; it’s a symbol of the protagonist’s crumbling control over his own life. A flock of starlings isn’t a natural phenomenon; it’s a portent of doom, a metaphor for the hive-mind of corporate culture.

This style of storytelling demands constant analysis. It invites a legion of YouTube essayists and Reddit threads to decode every frame. This can be a rich and rewarding experience, but it can also be incredibly pretentious. It creates a pressure to find meaning in everything, lest you be accused of not “getting it.” Sometimes, you just want to see a car chase without having to write a thesis on how it represents the futility of late-stage capitalism. The show winks at you, whispering, “I’m very smart,” and you feel obligated to nod along, even if you’re not entirely sure why.

In Defense of Fun (And Why It Isn’t Dumb)

The antidote to the prestige hangover isn’t a call for a return to simplistic, brain-dead television. The argument isn’t for less intelligence, but for more dynamism. Fun is not the enemy of depth.

Shows like The Boys offer scathing social commentary and complex character work, but they do it with explosive action, dark humor, and a refusal to take themselves too seriously. What We Do in the Shadows is one of the most brilliantly written comedies on television, and it finds profound things to say about loneliness and found family amidst the hilarious absurdity of vampire roommates. Even a show like Ted Lasso proved that relentless optimism and sincerity could be just as compelling as cynical anti-heroism.

These shows demonstrate that it’s possible to explore mature themes without adopting the tone of a funeral procession. They have vibrant colors, fast pacing, and moments of pure, unadulterated joy. They trust that an audience can appreciate a well-crafted story without needing to be suffocated by its importance.

Of course, when the slow, serious style works, it’s magnificent. Better Call Saul was a masterclass in deliberate pacing, where every quiet moment built towards an explosive, emotional climax. Severance used its sterile, unsettling atmosphere to create a deeply compelling mystery. The problem isn’t the style itself, but its ubiquity and its adoption as the only path to quality.

So let’s raise a glass (of something colorful, not whiskey) to a more balanced television diet. Let’s keep the brilliant, heavy dramas, but let’s also make room for adventure, for laughter, and for stories that move at a pace faster than a thoughtful walk. We’ve had our fill of staring out the window. Maybe it’s time to go outside and play.