In the hilarious and I fear forgotten 30 Rock (in Spain presented with the much more touristic title of Rockefeller Plaza), the NBC network was owned by a conglomerate of General Electric companies, whose parent brand was Sheinhart Wigs. The entire empire came from one wig manufacturer. Insignificant and unknown to the public, Sheinhart inspired admiration and fear among executives.
Something similar may be happening in Shondaland, the dream factory of Shonda Rhimes, the Taylor Swift of series. Few will remember that her dominance – today vast and unquestionable on Netflix, exercised through The Bridgertons— It started in a small provincial hospital in Seattle, among newly graduated doctors who were hornier than a teenager with a premium subscription to Pornhub. From those fucks in the emergency room many children were born, who today capture the attention of Shonda and the viewers. Nobody cares anymore. Grey’s Anatomybut I have news for the forgetful and ungrateful: the hospital is still open, it has new doctors in training and they are just as horny as the original cast.
How could they not be if the plots are repeated cyclically? With each new generation of characters (there are only two who have lasted since the first chapter; the rest have deserted, including the Meredith Grey alluded to in the title and who maintains a brief voice in off and the occasional half-hearted and exceptional appearance), the scripts are recycled. The names and permutations of flirtations and crushes change, but the rest is so repeated that the few veteran actors will wonder how many times they have played that episode. The answer is: many. Time in Shondaland is circular, as in Nietzsche’s philosophy.
Grey’s Anatomy The show is now airing its twentieth season and has accumulated an incredible 19 years on the air. And it could accumulate another thousand because it is alone, on autopilot, unassisted by the love of Shonda, who, soaked in period delusions and wigs (not Sheinhart’s), has renounced the twists, the dramatic effects and the rococo plots that defied the laws of narrative and thermodynamics. Life in the Seattle hospital languishes between catastrophes and medical-fiction operations, and it is good that it is so, because its episodes offer a constant flow of banality for addicts like me and plunge us into a splendid drowsiness. I hope Shonda never remembers her first television love.
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