The Comfort of a Taxi, or How to Make Your Own Nick at Nite

 

Just when I thought I didn't need another streaming service in my life, I realized I hadn't watched Taxi in awhile.

I don't know why that thought popped into my head. Maybe part of having too much time on your hands and an endless amount of streaming has caused all of us to think about shows and movies we thought we'd forgotten about just to see where they've landed, be it Hulu or Netflix or the Kohl's Channel (Is that real? The fact that it sounds like it could be is...concerning).

My first and last experience with Taxi was when I was a child and Nick at Nite exposed my generation to people like Judd Hirsch and Marilu Henner, creating a strange time pocket where a ten-year-old in the early nineties could develop a deep appreciation of a young Tony Danza.

(In my case, it was a very deep appreciation.)

I remembered a silly show with characters like Jim and Latka that I could only watch on special nights when I was allowed to stay up way past my bedtime. I used to judge how far I had pushed into the night by how obscure the programming got. It's one thing to be awake when I Love Lucy is on, but once you've reached The White Shadow you really started to feel like an adult.

(The White Shadow is, by the way, exactly as problematic as it sounds.)

A few nights ago, I inadvertently decided to have something of a nostalgia séance by putting on Taxi right before bed. As soon as that instrumental theme started and I saw that image of a yellow cab going over a New York bridge, I had a physical and emotional reaction that was far stronger than I would ever have imagined possible.

I'm not the type to go back and watch old television shows, even ones I really love. There's always new stuff to watch and read and listen to, so why keep going back to things you've already seen before? I didn't used to feel that way. Back when there were only four channels and two new movies a week, I loved revisiting pieces of culture I enjoyed or even disliked, because hey, what else was there to do?

My decision to go back and re-watch Taxi was an anomaly strictly because I've watched just about all the worthwhile new content there is, and truthfully, I'm a little worn out. New requires thought, analysis, critical thinking. I wanted to turn my brain off, but I didn't want to watch something mindless.

I remember Taxi being funny but not cheap, and I was pleasantly surprised to discover I was right. As a child I liked the lower-hanging jokes, but now I could also appreciate that it's a show about blue collar workers, great writing, wonderful direction by James Burrows, and some stellar acting. Old sitcoms were, at their best, like half-hour plays, and Taxi is a great example of that.

Has everything aged well?

Oh, absolutely not.

The third episode of the series is about a date between Alex, played by Judd Hirsch, and a character named Angela, played by Suzanne Kent, which might be on the cringe-iest bits of television ever created. The intention is...good, or as good as can be expected for a show created in the late seventies, but there's definitely some credence to skipping past that episode.

And the great thing is--

You can.

It's a sitcom.

There's barely any need to watch it in order. Some characters get added. Some leave. But you can drop in whenever you want and immediately know what's going on.

Now, I plan on watching at least one episode of Taxi each night before bed, and I've taken it a step further.

With access to all these shows, why not just dive head-first back into my childhood cultural habits?

That means after Taxi, I watch an episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Depending on the hour, I may toss in The Lucy Desi Comedy Hour, because if you think short-form Lucy is great, watch her unfold over an hour.

(Plus, I always loved that country house.)

I'd like to think that the better part of my artistic identity was formed while being immersed in both the confusing pop culture of the 90's with a mix of peak television pulled from various decades and with varying levels of sophistication.

(The number of times I find myself calling upon Bob Newhart when I'm acting is probably bordering on theatrical plagiarism at this point.)

One of the things you rarely see on these older shows is cynicism. Or, if there is a cynic, he or she is surrounded by optimists.

These are shows about finding family outside your biology. Forming communities wherever you can find them. Whether it be in the bar from Cheers or the radio station at WKRP.  The jokes came out of the circumstances. You didn't laugh at the hopeful characters; you laughed at the ones who didn't have hope because the overarching message was "This poor fool doesn't know that everything is going to work out in the end."

When you're watching an ensemble show, you know that each character is eventually going to get an episode dedicate to them, their dreams, their history, and the chance to deepen their humanity.

Some of my nostalgia is based in the simplicity of watching something that I associate with childhood, that's true.

But as I make my way through some of these old shows, it's also reminding me that comedy wasn't always about shock value, storytelling wasn't always about muddled complexity, and we used to trust that things like compassion and a good tango with a dozen eggs stuffed up your shirt were all you needed not just to entertain an audience, but to make them happy.

Television used to strive to make people happy.

Think about that.

I can't remember the last time I made anything with that goal.

I try to engage, inform, be insightful, share perspectives, and yes, every so often, make people laugh, but I don't know if I've ever sought out to just create happiness in whoever it is participating with my work as an audience member.

While I'd love to tell you I'm studying these old shows to learn how to do that, the truth is, I really just want to sit back and enjoy them.

But then again, I doubt they'd want me to do much more than that.