Life, Right on Schedule: He's a Sixty-Minute Man

By Rick Horowitz

"Has the jury reached a verdict?" asks the old guy in the robes.

"Yes we have, Your Honor."

The foreman hands a slip of paper to the clerk, who hands it to the judge, who looks it over briefly and hands it right back. The lawyers on both sides lean forward, tension creasing their faces. The defendant clenches his fists, closes his eyes.

We check our watches.

If it's 9:56, the verdict sticks. The defendant will be found guilty (most of the time), or he'll be found not guilty (some of the time). But whichever way the jury goes, that'll be the end of it. If it's 9:56.

But not if it's 9:38. If it's 9:38, or even 9:43 -- and certainly if it's 9:27 -- the jury's decision will be interesting, but it won't be the final word. Someone's about to uncover a stunning piece of evidence that will turn the whole case on its ear. Or someone will have sudden pangs of conscience, or find the courage -- at last! -- to point the finger at a loved one.

It isn't over till it's over -- and in TV World, it isn't over till the hour is over.

We've been cruising the tube lately. We've been cruising the tube a lot lately. In fact, the only thing keeping us from full-fledged couch-potatohood is the lack of a strategically positioned couch. We've been doing the bulk of our watching (and getting bulkier all the time) from the bed, propped against piles of pillows, cheering on the various forces of law and order.

And checking our watches.

Some people check their watches when they're bored -- how much more of this drivel do we have sit through? I used to check my watch when I was really interested -- there's still plenty of this show left to enjoy, isn't there?

And now? Now I find myself checking my watch to scope out the plot, to help me figure out what's a Big Deal and what's not. An hour-long program -- cops and robbers, docs and patients -- has a particular rhythm, a particular pace. Certain things happen at certain times. The occasional two- or three-parter aside, you already know going in that they have to tie up most of the loose ends before the closing credits roll. And unlike a movie, say -- this one's 97 minutes, this other one's 112 -- you also know exactly when the closing credits will roll.

You also know that if your friendly neighborhood TV stars tie up those loose ends too soon, they're going to be sitting around sucking their high-priced thumbs for the last 20 minutes or so; that doesn't work either.

So I check my watch, and I know what's what. If only life were like that.

Think about it: If life were like TV World, sliced into nice, neat 60-minute segments, you would always know where you stood by where the big hand stands. An argument at 10:21? Plenty of time to patch things up. A heavy exam at 10:55? Better be ready -- you won't be getting a second chance. A passing fancy, or a major thing? You'd know right away.

And if for some reason you still weren't sure? You could just listen to the soundtrack. All the important stuff -- a secret revealed, a soul laid bare, a concession, a confession -- would have important music behind it, just the way it does in TV World. You wouldn't be kicking yourself later for missing the magnitude. You would grasp these things.

But would it all be too much? Would people hate living in TV World if they actually got the chance? Would they rise up against having everything spelled out and predictable?

It's...too early to say.

11/10/97