Theo Plothe, Amber M. Buck - Netflix at The Nexus - Content, Practice, and Production in The Age of Streaming Television-Peter Lang Publishing (2019)

NETFLIX AT THE NEXUS
Netflix’s meteoric rise as an online content provider has been well docu-
mented and much debated in the popular press and in academic circles
as an industry disrupter, while also blamed for ending TV’s “Golden Age.”
For academic researchers, Netflix exists at the nexus of multiple fields:
internet research, information studies, media studies, and television and
has an impact on the creation of culture and how individuals relate to
the media they consume. Netflix at the Nexus examines Netflix’s broad
impact on technology and television from multiple perspectives, includ-
ing the interface, the content, and user experiences. Chapters by leading
Content, Practice, and Production in

international scholars in television and internet studies provide a trans-
national perspective on Netflix’s changing role in the media landscape.
the Age of Streaming Television

As a whole, this collection provides a comprehensive consideration of
the impact of streaming television.
Theo Plothe is Assistant Professor of Journalism and Mass

Communication at Savannah State University. He received a PhD in com-
munication from American University, and his work has been published
Edited by Plothe & Buck

in G|A|M|E and Kinephanos Journal.
Amber M. Buck is Assistant Professor of English at the University

of Alabama. She received a PhD in English and writing studies from
the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign, and her work has been
published in Research in the Teaching of English and Computers and
Composition. PETER LANG
Edited by Theo Plothe & Amber M. Buck

Cover design by Ming Lee
www.peterlang.com
Netflix at the Nexus
This book is part of the Peter Lang Media and Communication list.
Every volume is peer reviewed and meets
the highest quality standards for content and production.
PETER LANG
New York  Bern  Berlin
Brussels  Vienna  Oxford  Warsaw
Content, Practice, and Production

in the Age of Streaming Television
PETER LANG
New York  Bern  Berlin
Brussels  Vienna  Oxford  Warsaw
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Buck, Amber M., editor. | Plothe, Theo, editor.
Title: Netflix at the nexus: content, practice, and production in the age
of streaming television / edited by Theo Plothe and Amber M. Buck.
Description: New York: Peter Lang, 2019.
Includes bibliographical references.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019007087 | ISBN 978-1-4331-6186-5 (hardback: alk. paper)
ISBN 978-1-4331-6187-2 (ebook pdf) | ISBN 978-1-4331-6188-9 (epub)
ISBN 978-1-4331-6189-6 (mobi)
Subjects: LCSH: Netflix (Firm) | Streaming video—Social aspects.
Streaming technology (Telecommunications)—Social aspects.
Classification: LCC HD9697.V544 N4866 2019 | DDC 384.55/54—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019007087
DOI 10.3726/b14725
Bibliographic information published by Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek.

Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the “Deutsche
Nationalbibliografie”; detailed bibliographic data are available
on the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de/.
© 2019 Peter Lang Publishing, Inc., New York

29 Broadway, 18th floor, New York, NY 10006
www.peterlang.com
All rights reserved.

Reprint or reproduction, even partially, in all forms such as microfilm,
xerography, microfiche, microcard, and offset strictly prohibited.
To the memory of our iguana Dorian,
the best Netflix-watching buddy you could ever hope to have.
table of contents
List of Illustrations and Tables ix

Acknowledgments xi
Introduction: Netflix at the Nexus1

Amber M. Buck and Theo Plothe
Section I. Platform11
Chapter 1. TV IV’s New Audience: Netflix’s Business Model and
Model Spectators13
Jana Zündel
Chapter 2. Netflix, Imagined Affordances, and the Illusion
of Control29
Annette Markham, Simona Stavrova,
and Max Schlüter
Chapter 3. The Emergence of Netflix and the New Digital
Economic Geography of Hollywood 47
Luis F. Alvarez León
Chapter 4. Lovemarked Distribution and Consumers’ Behavior:
Netflix Communities Versus Piracy Users’ Conduct65
Gabriele Prosperi
viii netflix at the nexus
Section II. Content79

Chapter 5. Netflix and TV-as-Film: A Case Study of Stranger
Things and The OA81
Ana Cabral Martins
Chapter 6. At the Fringes of TV: Liminality and Privilege in
Netflix’s Original Scripted Dramedy Series97
Jessica Ford
Chapter 7. Programming Gendered Content: Industry,
Post-feminism, and Netflix’s Serialized Exposition
of Jessica Jones113
Jason A. Smith, Briana L. Pocratsky, Marissa Kiss,
and Christian Rafael Suero
Chapter 8. Netflix: Culturally Transformative and Equally Accessible129
Kimberly Fain
Chapter 9. From ViKi to Netflix: Crossing Borders and
Meshing Cultures147
Oranit Klein Shagrir
Section III. Viewer Practices161

Chapter 10. Transforming Media Production in an Era of
“Binge-Watching”: Netflix’s Cinematic Long-Form
Serial Programming and Reception163
Sheri Chinen Biesen
Chapter 11. Binge-Watching the Algorithmic Catalog: Making
Sense of Netflix in the Aftermath of the Italian Launch179
Fabio Giglietto, Chiara Checcaglini, Giada Marino,
and Lella Mazzoli
Chapter 12. The Netflix Experience: A User-focused Approach to
the Netflix Recommendation Algorithm197
Daniela Varela Martínez and Anne Kaun
Chapter 13. Do Spoilers Matter?: Asynchronous Viewing Habits on
Netflix and Twitter213
Theo Plothe and Amber M. Buck
Chapter 14. “Are You Still Watching?”: Audiovisual Consumption
on Digital Platforms and Practices Related to the
Routines of Netflix Users223
Vanessa Amália D. Valiati
Contributors239
illustrations and tables
Illustration
Figure 2.1. Three forms of control contributing to the expected
affordances of Netflix. 43
Tables
Table 11.1. Codebook of tweets. 185
Table 11.2. Distribution of tweets in the dataset by codes. 186
Table 11.3. Codeset for the analysis of the interviews. 188
Table 12.1. Overview of the participants. 203
Table 13.1. Language of #HouseofCards tweets. 217
Table 13.2. Word frequency count. 218
acknowledgments
An edited collection is the product of many, and we would first like to thank
our authors for their tireless work writing and researching this scholarship and
for entrusting us with their scholarship to include in this collection. We’re
honored for the opportunity to work with all of you and to publish your stellar
work.
We would also like to thank the entire team at Peter Lang, and especially
Kathryn Harrison and Erika Hendrix for the faith in this collection and their
assistance through the publication processes.
Thanks also goes to Dr. Kathryn Montgomery at American University
for her mentorship and professional guidance. It took many days of 500 words
each to get this book published, and she set us on the right path.
Finally, we would like to recognize the Netflix binges that brought you this
book. Among the series that inspired us: The West Wing, House of Cards, Jessica
Jones, The British Baking Show, Frasier, Voltron: Legendary Defender, Archer,
Samurai Champloo, and the 72 Most Dangerous Animals of South America.
introduction
Amber M. Buck and Theo Plothe
When Netflix launched its DVD rental by mail business on April 14, 1998,
there were few indications that the company would win an Emmy in 2013 for
Television Directing, for David Fincher’s “Episode 1” of House of Cards. At
the time, the home entertainment media landscape was dominated by video
rental brick and mortar stores like Blockbuster and cable television. Net-
flix’s move first to a monthly subscription model and second to online video
streaming capitalized on technological changes and infrastructure upgrades
like broadband to innovate the film, television, and technology industries in
ways that are still evolving. Netflix has been praised as the future of television
(Auletta, 2014) and as “the most feared force in Hollywood” (Villarreal &
James, 2016), while also decried as the end of “TV’s Golden Age” and blamed
for ushering in an era where “TV shows may be briefer, lower-budget and filled
with the kind of product-placement ads that audiences hate and advertisers
pay for” (Thielman, 2016).
Netflix has become the industry-leading video streaming platform in a
way that makes its name synonymous with the concept. It has inspired new
terms for cultural practices, from “binge-watching” and “cord cutting,” to even
“Netflix and chill.” These terms reflect the ways that Netflix has changed
television viewers’ practices and connections with the media they consume.
2 netflix at the nexus
While DVD box sets first made this practice a possibility, Netflix has enabled
more viewers to watch more television programs on a single loop. Having
access to a vast archive of syndicated and original content available on a mul-
titude of devices—from smart TVs and game consoles to desktop computers,
tablets, and mobile phones—has allowed consumers to more fully sever their
ties to a broadcast TV model, including appointment television, and cable
providers themselves.
Through its original content, Netflix is also innovating the form of tele-
vision itself. Rather than episodic storytelling told week-by-week, Netflix’s
distribution model allows for long-form programming, with one narrative told
across eight- or thirteen-hour episodes assumed to be watched in rather quick
succession. This structure eliminates the need for title sequences, recaps, and
other repetition devices to remind viewers of previous episodes and events.
No longer tied to advertisers or to a television broadcasting schedule, narra-
tives can also break from the tyranny of the 21-minute or 42-minute episodes
with built-in commercial breaks. Bianchini and Jacob de Souza (2017) dis-
cussed this flexibility in their analysis of Arrested Development’s fourth season,
which was produced exclusively for Netflix and experimented with many of
these narrative structures. While Arrested Development was an early exam-
ple of the possibilities in moving beyond broadcast and cable television, the
implications of this change are only just beginning to be felt.
Researching Netflix
For scholars, Netflix also sits at the nexus of multiple areas of work: televi-
sion studies, internet research, and information studies. Academic research
on Netflix has focused primarily on algorithmic culture and Netflix’s recom-
mendation engine (Gomez-Uribe & Hunt, 2016; Hallinan & Striphas, 2016),
as well as binge watching practices (Jenner, 2016; Pittman & Sheehan, 2015).
Other work has emphasized the connections between Netflix and net neutral-
ity policy (Davies, 2016), as well as the company’s place in the home enter-
tainment industry (McDonald, 2016). Continuing to explore the impact of
Netflix and its implications for culture, economics, and technology is import-
ant to develop frameworks through which to better understand its importance
on technology and culture.
A more recent development is Netflix expansion into international mar-
kets. In early 2016, Netflix expanded to 130 new countries at once, making
it a global media company, yet one with localized content for each market
introduction 3
(Barrett, 2017). The company aggressively blocks VPN traffic in order to

ensure that Netflix users only see content licensed for that particular region
(Greenberg, 2016). The streaming service, then, provides a different expe-
rience for individuals in different countries. When the fifth season of House
of Cards premiered worldwide on May 31, 2017, Middle Eastern subscribers
found the new season missing from their streaming devices. Due to negotia-
tions regarding licensing agreements, Season 5 was not available in the Mid-
dle East until July 2 (Newbould, 2017). Netflix is currently available in 190
different countries across the globe, and the service occupies a different place
among each country’s media landscape that also deserves further investigation.
Netflix as a Liminal Space

Netflix, as a platform, a company, and a distribution model exists in a lim-
inal space, at the nexus of television and film, internet archive and home
entertainment service, and content distributor and movie studio. Netflix is
ultimately a product of convergence, a case study in the ways that digital
media not only combine multiple analog media into one digital form, but
also combine multiple industries into one company. Henry Jenkins (2006)
described two types of media convergence: (1) technological, where differ-
ent forms of content are presented through one medium and device; and (2)
cultural, where fans follow content and stories across platforms and partici-
pate more directly in creating those narratives (pp. 10–12). Netflix certainly
reflects the results of technological convergence, where previous analog film
and broadcast television content are combined digital video and accessed in
digital streaming form through a variety of devices.
Through their concept of “remediation,” Jay David Bolter and Richard
Grusin (1999) described the way that new technologies are first understood
and conceptualized through older technologies; for example, automobiles as
horseless carriages and word processors as glorified typewriters. While new
technologies first approximate and innovate features of older technologies,
they soon begin to move beyond the frameworks of those older technolo-
gies, innovate new features, and become less connected to the older media
form. Netflix in the current moment is still recognizable as all of these enti-
ties mentioned above: film studio, television producer, home entertainment
distributor, internet archive, and provider of web video, films, and television
programs. Yet through both the company’s innovations and the continued
blurring of content, these different categories may soon cease to have any
meaning. The digital medium and this process of remediation have exploded
constraints for both form and content; stories on Netflix may last 12 minutes
or eight hours, and some content produced by Netflix might be nominated
for Emmys or for Academy Awards. Netflix may be accelerating a situation in
which former genres, categories, and constraints may no longer be appropri-
ate. This collection examines this liminal quality of Netflix as a platform and
entertainment company and broadens the current discussion to consider Net-
flix’s continued impact on technology, television, film, and the internet. The
chapters we have collected here present critical and empirical studies from
international scholars with diverse perspectives. We’ve divided the book into
three sections: investigations of the Netflix platform, its content, and finally,
studies of Netflix user practices and experiences.
Platform
Contributions in the first section considers Netflix as a technology and a

platform. José Van Dijck and Thomas Poell define platforms as “online sites
that facilitate and organize data streams, economic interactions, and social
exchanges between users” (p. 2). These chapters consider how Netflix acts
as a platform and how its distribution model and interface design position its
users.
Jana Zündel examines the Netflix audience to consider how the site attracts
and appeals to viewers. Its content, both syndicated and original and from
both film and television, is from a wide array of sources and perspectives and
appeals to a wide range of tastes that gives the site a heterogeneous audience.
While Netflix operates on a subscription model, it avoids the narrowcasting
concerns of niche, premium cable channels. Zündel argues that through the
diversity of Netflix catalog and original content, Netflix considers its audience
“a mass of different individuals” instead of one group with distinct tastes.
Annette Markham, Simona Stavrova, and Max Schlüter use different
conceptual definitions of control to examine how Netflix allows and con-
strains users’ control through interface elements. These authors argue for an
idea of control as a “sensemaking device” to analyze interactions in heavily-
mediated environments.
Luis F. Alvarez León takes a critical geography perspective in considering
the ways that Netflix rearticulates economic geographies of the entertainment
and technology industries. León argues that Netflix has globalized the Amer-
ican film and television industry in a new way, as well as exposed American
introduction 5
audiences to more international content. These new technological systems

reshape the spatial configuration of markets and create new distribution sys-
tems, geographically speaking.
In Chapter Four, Gabriele Prosperi turns to the Italian market to explore
the ways that Netflix disrupted an entire sector of file-sharing platforms that
operated in a gray area between piracy and legitimate video streaming and
file sharing services. Prosperi notes that indexing sites for illegal download
services use visual design and branding as a “lovemark” (Jenkins, 2006) in
order to look legitimate and appealing. Netflix has used the same tactics for
branding and identification, showing how viewers can conceive of a distribu-
tion system as a brand with a certain ethos. Prosperi compares the aspects of
both distribution systems and their reliance on archives and indexicality to
explain the prominence of both formal and informal distribution systems in
the Italian context.
Content
In the second section, we turn to an examination Netflix content, both in

the types of stories told in Netflix original programs, as well as the nature of
that content’s serialized narrative. These scholars consider the types of stories
that Netflix privileges, as well as how its streaming model changes serialized
programming.
Ana Cabral Martins examines Stranger Things and The OA, both Net-
flix originals, to explore the impact of longform storytelling to the television
landscape. Serialized television blends boundaries with film, as these stories
are often called “long movies.” Martins also notes that Netflix itself organizes
content in terms of seasons rather than episodes. As an entire season is usually
released at one time, and the result is an 8-hour or 13-hour long narrative.
Martins explores the way that both Stranger Things and The OA bridges the
gap between film and television in terms of narrative content and length.
Jessica Ford examines representation in Netflix original content to con-
sider the way this programming centralizes liminal stories from marginalized
groups, including women, people of color, and differently-able bodied people.
Netflix’s position on the fringe of the U.S. television industry, Ford argues,
allows it to function outside of more restrictive distribution systems with fewer
requirements for ratings. In her essay, Ford examines how this concept of lim-
inality is enacted in several popular Netflix television series: Orange Is the New
Black, Master of None, Lady Dynamite, Dear White People, and GLOW. Ford
labels these programs dramedies and argues that they exist in a liminal space
themselves, containing aspects of both comedy and drama, yet unable to be
categorized as either/or.
Jason A. Smith, Briana L. Pocratsky, Marissa Kiss, and Christian Suero
focus their analysis on one particular Netflix program, Jessica Jones (2015),
and explore the gender representation in the portrayal of its titular character.
Jones may be considered a post-feminist hero in the first season of her show,
and her portrayal differs from and expands on other strong female characters
in television. Her inclusion in the Marvel miniseries The Defenders (2017),
also produced by Netflix, diminishes her role to that of a minor character with
less agency in the narrative. The authors argue that the case of Jessica Jones
points to the complex balancing act that Netflix engages in with their original
programming: providing “culturally-relevant” and “boundary-crossing” televi-
sion, while maintaining commercial viability.
Kimberly Fain examines Netflix’s role in producing culturally relevant
and liminal narratives with a focus specifically on representations of African
Americans. Fain places Netflix’s content within the context of the fraught
history of representations of African Americans in media, including offensive
caricatures of blackface minstrelsy. Fain notes that Netflix’s explicitly stated
commitment to diversity, as well as its more hands-off approach in terms of
content development, have fostered a space where African American writers
and directors can tell stories centered in the Black experience. In her analysis,
Fain points to Beasts of No Nation, 13th, and Luke Cage as successful examples
of programming that bring culturally diverse stories to a wide national and
international audience.
Oranit Klein Shagrir examines another boundary-crossing program,
Dramaworld (2016), a dramedy set in Los Angeles and Seoul that tells the
story of an American student “transported” into her favorite Korean drama.
Dramaworld is available on both ViKi (a San Francisco-based streaming ser-
vice for primarily pan-Asian content) as well as Netflix. Dramaworld, Shagrir
argues, represents the boundary-crossing aspects of contemporary stream-
ing television, as it crosses cultures, languages, and platforms. ViKi has a
community-based participatory element, and users produce fansubs, subtitles
in different languages thereby increasing Dramaworld’s cultural reach. The
main character herself, Shagrir argues, represents a prosumer in becoming a
participant in the drama. Dramaworld represents an anomaly for Netflix in
that the episodes are only 10–15 minutes long, blurring the boundary between
a conventional and a web-based series.
introduction 7
Viewer Practices
Netflix and other streaming services have transformed the television industry,
but they have also shifted viewer practices. There has been less scholarship,
however, on Netflix subscriber practices. Netflix viewer statistics and ratings
are closely guarded by the company itself; they do not have ratings in the
traditional sense or report to Nielsen. The chapters contained in this sec-
tion take an international approach to Netflix users and investigate practices
through a wide range of methodologies.
Sheri Chinen Biesen explores binge-watching and cord-cutting practices
in a critical essay about their impact on the television industry. Biesen notes
that if a household reports Netflix as their favorite network, for example, that
family is not selected to rate television shows. Many of Netflix viewers’ prac-
tices, then, are underexamined for that reason. Netflix also stands alone for
the absence of advertisers, which other streaming services use. Ultimately, this
shift in viewer practices, in terms of both binge watching and cord cutting,
have yet to be fully dealt with and understood.
Fabio Giglietto, Chiara Checcaglini, Giada Marino, and Lella Mazzoli
explore the Italian launch of Netflix streaming service in Italy in October of
2015, and they examine users’ reactions to that launch through both inter-
views and discussion on Twitter. Their research suggests that Italian sub-
scribers expanded their television viewing with the introduction of Netflix,
including new genres and documentaries. They also incorporated Netflix into
their already established television viewing habits, which continue to evolve
in regard to evolving streaming television options.
Daniela Varela and Anne Kaun examine algorithmic culture and how
individual Netflix users interact with and consider Netflix’s algorithmic sug-
gestions. The authors conducted walkthroughs and in-depth interviews with
users in Singapore. Through their findings, Varela and Kaun argue for a con-
ceptualization of users as co-producers of data and knowledge through their
viewing and ranking practices. They view users not as passive data providers,
but instead as active participants and “co-creators of cultural products.”
Theo Plothe and Amber Buck connect Netflix viewing practices with
Twitter, and they examine the practice of using second screen applications
like Twitter when watching streaming television. Because viewing patterns
are timeshifted, viewers are not watching the programs together, and two
viewers watching the same program are probably watching different episodes.
Through an analysis of tweets about the fourth season of House of Cards, the
authors demonstrate the sophisticated ways that users adapt the use of Twitter
as a second-screen and avoid spoilers in their tweets.
To conclude this collection, Vanessa Valiati uses a practice theory approach
to explore users’ Netflix routines and how the service fits within their daily
viewing practices. Through interviews of 12 individuals in Southern Brazil,
Valenti monitored their use of Netflix within their daily lives, including indi-
viduals’ relationships with material aspects of the service, affective dynam-
ics and engagement, and spatio-temporal relationships. Her research found
that the participants integrated their Netflix viewing into their daily routines,
whether it was watching an episode over breakfast, while cooking dinner, or
before going to bed. Valenti argues that Netflix plays a large role in daily
audiovisual consumption.
As the contributions of this collection demonstrate, Netflix will continue
to be an object of scholarly examination as it continues to evolve and change
the international media landscape. We aim with this collection to extend the
scholarly conversation around Netflix and its worldwide impact on the inter-
net and television itself.
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section i
platform
·1·
tv iv ’ s new audience
Netflix’s Business Model and Model Spectators
Jana Zündel
Introduction: In Praise of Binge-Watching

Coinciding with the launch of the second season of its original series Stranger
Things on October 27, 2017, Netflix published the following entry on T witter:
“Ready. Set. Binge! #StrangerThings 2.” To promote the “up-to-dateness”
of Netflix’s “programming,” an embedded GIF showed a five-second count-
down, in essence asking users to watch the show’s newest installments in a
single sitting. This entry is but one example of Netflix’s strategy for promoting
binge-watching of series available on its platform. By suggesting the hashtag
#letsbinge, Netflix introduced a means for users to share their favorite shows
and recommend binge-watching.
Binge-watching, by definition, means the consumption of one media for-
mat several hours in a row (a.k.a. media bingeing, Devasagayam, 2014). Since
Netflix first launched internationally, this mode of reception has mainly been
associated with both streaming media and television series. The “personalized
delivery of content independent from a schedule” (Lotz, 2017) through online
distribution opened up new possibilities of watching serial formats that were
not initially intended during their original broadcast. A large part of Netflix’s
programming consists of fictional series that are explicitly recommended to be
binged. This includes both so-called “Netflix Originals” as well as syndicated
programs which used to be broadcast periodically and interrupted by adver-

tising breaks. With their originals, however, Netflix has brought something
new to the table. Of course, binge-watching is not so much an invention of
the World Wide Web as it is a strategy TV channels have employed for quite
some time. Channels regularly offered fans so-called “throwback marathons,”
essentially condensed re-runs meant to promote a new upcoming season of a
given program. Additionally, bingeing had already played a large part in the
newfound textual and cultural appreciation of TV series caused by the release
of entire seasons on DVD (Hills, 2007). Therefore, Netflix’s true “innovation”
was the introduction of serial content to the television market that is “binge-
ready” from the very moment of its initial release. Now being the first link in
the chain of distribution (Jenner, 2016), Netflix promotes binge-watching as
the intended way to consume its in-house productions. The “en-bloc” publi-
cation of straight-to-web series alongside the possibility to access these series
at any given time enables an experience of seriality that differs greatly from
the usual TV broadcasting schedule.
Formerly a generic term referring to all kinds of excessive consumption,
“bingeing” is now being used as a “buzzword” in order to strengthen the posi-
tion of original streaming content on the contemporary television market.
This nexus of serial content, streaming technology, and excessive modes of
reception seems to give the users instructions on how to purchase and con-
sume TV series. This chapter will therefore discuss the following questions:
What kind of target audience does Netflix’s focus on binge-watching imply?
What economic and cultural understanding of “television series” drives its
programming? How does this relate to the overall transformation of television
along with the new term of “TV IV”?
Netflix’s Business Model as a Global

Content Provider and Producer
Having greatly expanded their portfolio in recent years, Netflix stands out
among the wide array of streaming providers. One might argue that the
sheer quantity of available content is, in fact, downright confusing, with a
double-supply structure of films and TV shows as well as licensed and origi-
nal programming—for a monthly fee of $13 (standard subscription, approx.
11€ in Europe). In contrast to Amazon Prime, which divides its offerings
into free content included with the monthly subscription, and other content
tv iv’s new audience 15
requiring additional payment, Netflix’s content is universally available.

Once subscribed, users can choose from a broad “menu” that assembles
masses of serial content, both in-house productions and syndicated pro-
grams from other TV channels. By hoarding large quantities of series from
different origins (networks, basic cable, premium cable), Netflix has shown
ambition to become a content provider to the masses. With a diversified
portfolio and the advantage of non-linear programming, Netflix is able to
cater to a great variety of individual tastes and preferences. However, despite
obtaining licenses for a large number of syndicated TV shows in an attempt
to attract viewers ready to rewatch their favorite shows, Netflix simulta-
neously emphasizes exclusivity in order to ensure permanent subscription
(Lotz, 2016). Netflix thereby gathers a faithful “original audience” willing
to stick to the platform specifically for the original content. According to
Lindsey (2016, 181) this strategy will ensure the service’s survival and possi-
ble growth in the ever-expanding and rapidly changing television market. It
is no coincidence, then, that Netflix’s straight-to-web series have reached a
great number of viewers during the last few years.
In this regard, Netflix is able to compete with any other TV channel as a
producer of serial content, especially with subscription channels such as HBO
or Showtime. HBO, in particular, is renowned for a number of original series
which are routinely marketed as “quality TV.” By strategically emphasizing
production value and a notion of prestige, the channel labels its programs as
“worth paying for.” Premium cable channels portray their content as a superior
product, reaffirming the subscriber’s “good taste.” The same line of argument
has also been adopted by Netflix. Free from ratings pressure and censorship
(both of which encourage network shows to use “economic storytelling” while
steering clear of subjects that might cause controversy), Netflix can explore
the possibilities of serial narration while simultaneously aiming “to naturalize
viewing practices such as binge-watching” (Tryon, 2015, 104) as the trending
mode of reception—or more precisely: as a quality-of-life-upgrade elevating
its original content above that of subscription channels which remain shack-
led to a periodic broadcasting schedule.
Additionally, Netflix is pursuing the goal of outpacing HBO. As of 2017,
Netflix has assembled more current original series than HBO or any other
U.S. channel, using non-linearity to full advantage. This business model more
closely resembles that of an ever-expanding, wide-ranging video library (Lotz,
2016, 2017) than that of a focused and exclusive content producer like HBO.
Despite modeling its subscription service after premium TV channels, Netflix
has abandoned the “niche TV” approach and the concept of “quality TV for
quality audiences” (Feuer, 2010). Instead, the steady stream of new and diver-
sified original content (including prestigious projects and low-budget produc-
tions) as well as the relatively low subscription price both point towards a
more heterogeneous audience. Netflix’s expanding portfolio, non-linear dis-
tribution, and personalized content make it the international go-to-address
for serial television, first and foremost outside the U.S.’s compartmentalized
television system (in which Netflix is but one of many competitors concern-
ing serial content), but most notably in Germany and overall Europe.
Netflix is not without its limitations, however. Its global business has not
yet surpassed the constraints of conventional TV production and distribu-
tion. Netflix’s path to internationalization remains slow and arduous, as not
all content available to users in the U.S., is also available elsewhere (and
vice-versa), mostly due to geo-blocking and constricted syndication. Despite
striking deals with various channels like The CW or AMC, and thus gaining
the right to publish the newest episodes of their shows immediately following
the original airing (i.e., Riverdale or Better Call Saul), a considerable amount
of serial content remains inaccessible to Netflix audiences. HBO and other
premium channels intentionally hold back on international distribution via
streaming platforms, unwilling to syndicate their programs free of individual
charge.1 Also, Amazon remains an ever-present competitor, seeking out dis-
tribution rights for network, cable and subscription shows itself. Despite the
unspoken promise of “something for everybody,” Netflix will not be able to
offer everything to everybody anytime soon, as economic barriers and interna-
tional restrictions still apply, crucially limiting the availability of TV shows.
This in part explains Netflix’s ambition to steadily increase their production
of original content. It was the in-house productions, after all, which initially
set Netflix apart from other similar streaming services, and which continue
to keep users invested despite occasional supply gaps. Judging by the current
turnout of new original shows (with more than 20 launched in 2017 alone),
Netflix is more likely to focus on producing content rather than merely dis-
tributing it. Meanwhile, recent cancellations of high-budget originals such
as The Get Down and Sense8 indicate that Netflix will not be able to main-
tain its current production rate indefinitely. Citing insufficient viewership as
the reason for cancellations and moreover insinuating further cancellations
(Holloway, 2017), Netflix’s chief content officer Ted Sarandos appeared to
contradict the previously mentioned subscription model: deciding to increase
the number of cancellations in the near future indicates a fixation on ratings
numbers inherent to network programming. Whether Netflix’s steady stream

of original content will one day begin to dwindle remains to be seen.
The economic features outlined here are, of course, a simplified depic-
tion of Netflix’s multi-dimensional business model which, for example, did
not explore the platform’s complex production processes. It has nevertheless
become clear what sets Netflix apart from “conventional television,” both
free-TV and pay-TV: the concept of pursuing a large viewership by offering
an expansive and ever-growing, yet highly diversified portfolio. This approach
transcends both the premium subscription model that offers limited exclusive
content to “quality audiences,” and the network model seeking high ratings
through shows that appeal to a heterogeneous mass audience. Netflix seems to
be pursuing a mass audience with compartmentalized preferences and tastes.
This may be one defining characteristic of “TV IV” (Jenner, 2016), a suppos-
edly new era of television that will be explored in the next segment of this
chapter.
Outlining “TV IV”: Serial Television Individualized

The term “TV IV” has so far been used cautiously.2 Scholars appear unde-
cided whether streaming providers–which now act as content producers in
their own right–have truly ushered in a new era of television (Jenner, 2016).
As Netflix, Amazon, and Hulu have largely adopted the subscription model
introduced by HBO and other premium channels, it could be argued that these
services are merely extending the era of “TV III,” characterized by “first-order
commodity relations” and channels’ “brand marketing” (Rogers, Epstein, &
Reeves, 2002, 46f.).
Also, streaming providers have not yet entirely freed themselves from
scheduling, with some syndicated shows still being distributed in line with peri-
odic broadcasting. Despite technological and industrial shifts in the way tele-
vision content is produced and distributed (see Lotz, 2017), one might insist
that Netflix and others have not truly revolutionized television. Indeed, tra-
ditional structures of national broadcasting persist even in the face of the cur-
rent trend towards digitalization (see Jenner, 2018). Today, the international
television landscape is highly diversified in terms of production, distribution,
and reception, enabling regular, linear television, and “new,” non-linear tele-
vision to coexist. When talking about “TV IV,” neither is internet-distributed
television replacing regular TV, nor should Netflix’s impact on television as a
whole be exaggerated. Netflix’s role in the global transformation of television
does not concern the entirety of available television content. Rather, its
impact can be narrowed down to one specific serial format, since the platform
excludes a large portion of TV programming, most notably news, live shows,
and sports (ibid.). While transforming our idea of television as an apparatus,
an industry, and a medium, Netflix does so exclusively by rethinking the con-
cept of the (fictional) television series. Throughout the following paragraphs,
my brief recollection of TV I, II and III3 as well as my outlining of “TV IV”
will mainly be applicable to television series.
The history of television can be told, in phases, as a history of audiences.
Each “phase” presupposes a different concept of viewers and audiences. TVI
(1948–1975, see Roger et al., 2002, 43) was defined by the “three-network
oligopoly” (ibid., 44). The networks (ABC, CBS, NBC) shared a common
goal: to attract a heterogeneous mass audience with varying levels of famili-
arity with a particular series. Based on the assumption that a wide range of
people with different backgrounds would gather in front of the small screen,
TV shows had to a) ensure that their program was the “least objectionable”
(ibid., 43), and b) take into account their fluctuating audiences by establish-
ing a common understanding on the plot through simple and often redun-
dant storytelling. Casually tuning in to a program was more the rule than the
exception, and TV series were designed to remain open to regular, sporadic
and totally unfamiliar viewers alike. From the seventies to the nineties, TV
II then encompassed the proliferation and differentiation of TV channels.
During this phase, broadcasters aimed for “quality demographics” (ibid., 44)
and targeted various audience sub-groups (and advertising partners, respec-
tively) through different serial genres, sub-genres, and hybrid genres. The pro-
filing of television series by means of genre and demographics presumably gave
rise to a new type of recipient–the fan (ibid., 44f.). As fans exhibited a greater
commitment to their favorite series, networks no longer sought after a mostly
casual audience, instead focusing on a core viewership. As a consequence,
fictional series became even more serialized and more heavily relied on their
viewers’ loyalty and willingness to regularly tune in. In some instances, this
adoration for specific TV shows paved the way for “cult culture” (ibid.), prom-
inent examples including The X Files or Twin Peaks. It is no coincidence, then,
that the term “quality TV” first emerged during the TV II era (see Thompson,
1996), as TV II was responsible for the diversification of the collective serial
audience into individual viewers, committed and casual. TV shows increas-
ingly took this into account by relying on a “flexi-narrative” (see Nelson,
1997), a blending of episodic plot pieces, in order to attract disloyal or new
audiences, and long-term storylines to further engage fans. This strategy is far
from outdated: as ad-funded channels are pressured by ratings and censorship,
they reach out to a larger, heterogeneous audience. The networks’ ongoing
effort to remain open to casual and new viewers proves that the “TV II” era is
not merely a ghost of television past. Bearing in mind a certain notion of serial
narration and viewership, “TV II” continues to this day and currently clashes
with the business models and audience conceptions of “TV III” and “TV IV.”
The cultivation of the committed viewer was furthered by the rise of
pay-TV in the mid-nineties, with a special focus on original programming
(Rogers et al., 2002, 47f.). While not a new invention by any means (ibid.),
the subscription model gained in popularity following the introduction of orig-
inal shows such as HBO’s The Sopranos. Not only was the “programming free
of commercial interruption and uncontaminated by the demands of advertis-
ers” (ibid., 46)–its production values and prestige were marketed as major sell-
ing points aimed at even more precisely defined “quality demographics” than
in the “TV II” era. By advancing serialization and adopting cinematographic
aesthetics, premium TV channels “woo” committed and sophisticated viewers
while at the same time excluding casual audiences. Original pay-TV series
are promoted as exclusive goods meant to be enjoyed by those who can afford
them. Inversely, subscribers are viewed as sharing certain “tastes” in narration
and style (see Feuer, 2010). By raising economic and cultural barriers and thus
subverting the inclusiveness of traditional network television, these pay-TV
originals further divided the audience (see Lotz, 2007). It might be argued
that this development is continued by streaming platforms and their originals.
However, as I have previously discussed, Netflix’s focus on fictional series,
its double-supply structure and ambitious production quota lead to a more
ambivalent conclusion. As opposed to premium TV channels, Netflix does
not sell a single, meticulously crafted programming schedule, but rather offers
a multitude of simultaneously available serial programs. In an attempt to define
the concept of “TV IV,” one main feature that stands out in comparison to
“TV II” and “TV III” is the detachment of the series from the rest of the linear
television program. While the introduction of the DVD may have had a sim-
ilar effect, streaming platforms are not shackled by the concept of the box set.
Streaming services separate a TV show from its original context within a fixed
programming schedule consisting of heterogeneous formats, and (re-)offer the
show in a much more homogeneous environment. A single series is presented
as part of a lavish menu alongside a variety of other series, in turn establishing
the new initial context of Netflix’s original series. By placing each series in
a competitive environment characterized by ubiquitous availability, Netflix

creates a time-independent juxtaposition of possible line-ups.
This development goes hand in hand with the individualization of the
audience. As Amanda Lotz has noted, central characteristics of internet-
distributed television are “nonlinearity” and “user specificity” (Lotz, 2017,
unpag.). With regard to recording devices such as DVR, catch-up TV and
DVD box sets, nonlinear viewing is no innovation in and of itself, but contrib-
utes to shaping “TV IV.” Unlike HBO, Netflix does not build its subscription
model around one particular demographic or “prestige audience.” Instead, the
platform offers an enormous digital “warehouse.” On the one hand, Netflix’s
organization seems to rely heavily on the users’ willingness to create their own
“schedules” according to their preferences (with regard to subject matter, time,
and mode of reception). Owing to the vastness of the portfolio, television
series are no longer casually tuned in to. Instead, these series are now offered
as commodities meant to be selected and viewed in an act of conscious intent.
This individualization of the viewer serves as another defining trait of
“TV IV.” On the other hand, Netflix actively targets the individual consumer
by systematically tracking his or her viewing activities and using this data to
predict future programming choices. Based on the viewer’s recent selections,
the interface frequently updates and reorganizes its individualized recommen-
dations. Netflix addresses its users by analyzing their preferences and tastes,
by calculating and generalizing their individual viewing activity. This “math-
emization of taste” (Alexander, 2016, 81) is far from a neutral approach, as
Netflix’s ulterior motive is, of course, to promote its very own original con-
tent. A variety of different preview pictures are used which, too, adapt to one’s
recent activity and genre preferences (Jansen, 2017). The preview images for
Stranger Things may be swapped regularly, depending on whether the user has
recently watched an episode of Mad Men, The Big Bang Theory or Orphan
Black, for example. While claiming to personalize content suggestions, Netflix
at the same time creates a personal filter bubble to subtly promote its original
content.
The algorithmically filtered suggestions are, of course, not entirely accu-
rate, and will never fully replicate individual tastes (ibid., 94). Nevertheless,
Netflix’s personalized treatment, however manipulative it may be, presup-
poses an understanding of its committed audience that introduces a new rela-
tion between the mass and the individual. Before “TV IV,” mass audiences
and “quality audiences” (or niche audiences) remained separated from one
another by the offerings of networks interested in ratings and fluctuating
audiences, and the offerings of subscription channels inclined to nurture a

loyal audience. Coinciding with the rise of economically diversified stream-
ing platforms such as Netflix and Amazon and their eventual evolution into
global competitors, the two initially distinct understandings of the audience
now appear to be merged. Netflix seems to have succeeded in attracting a
global mass audience4 of dedicated serial viewers, possibly consisting of many
different niche or “quality” mini-audiences. Catering to an unspecified and
customized audience, Netflix now mainly targets the single, secluded viewer
whose behavior is continuously observed and algorithmically quantified. Con-
versely, despite this constant consideration of individual preference, Netflix
simultaneously seeks to actively influence and shape its users–not only regard-
ing the process of content selection via personalized promotion of originals,
but also concerning viewing practices. As I will discuss in the next segment,
Netflix is specifically interested in cultivating highly committed viewers as
well as excessive manners of consumption.
Bingers Preferred or: Netflix’s Model Spectator

Generally speaking, internet-distributed television is open to every mode of
reception. Users are free to choose when and how to watch their preferred
programs. Watching just one episode per evening or week is just as feasible as
bingeing an entire season in a single sitting (or any other viewing practice).
With streaming platforms on the rise, the expectation of choice and freedom
among viewers has become increasingly common (Snider, 2016, 127). Net-
flix’s promotional tactics, however, are designed to encourage certain viewing
habits more strongly than others. Tapping into the practice of rewatching
shows on DVD (Hills, 2007) by specifically endorsing binge-watching (Jenner,
2018, 119ff.), the streaming service addresses heavily engaged recipients, the
fans. Recalling the above-mentioned tweet on Stranger Things 2, this proves to
be especially true for Netflix originals. Since “TV III,” the norms of watching
TV series have undergone significant change. Series have increasingly been
emphasizing “committed viewing” and have worked on building fan com-
munities through follow-up formats such as aftershows. The possibilities of
the Internet are also utilized, most notably with regard to the distribution of
additional content and social media activity. Subscription channels tend to
further “praise” the dedicated viewer by promoting their programs as sophisti-
cated, aesthetically appealing and “rewatchable” narratives.
Additionally, following the rise of so-called “quality TV” and complex

serials, “binge-watchability” has been attributed to a number TV shows of
the 2000s. This predicate was usually awarded in hindsight, after the initial
run of a program. In contrast, TV IV’s straight-to-web-series allegedly need
to be watched in a single sitting (see Tryon, 2015). Netflix’s initial market-
ing strategy for its very first original series, House of Cards, was to promote
“the text’s suitability for the practice of binge-watching” (Jenner, 2016, 263).
Although this ascription of “binge-watchability” has become a universal
“seal of quality” on every Netflix original, it is now being treated less as a
textual feature of a given series, but rather as a shared cultural experience
among the platform’s subscribers. Netflix’s “Ready. Set. Binge!” tweet does
not necessarily prove that Stranger Things’s second season is a highly serial-
ized narrative and thus suitable for instantaneous consumption. Instead, the
model spectator is meant to “devour” the show’s latest episodes in a specific
and hedonistic fashion. In promoting binge-watching, Netflix goes out of its
way to enforce rapid reception as the primary (and intended) way of con-
suming serial content. During the short countdown in-between episodes of
a syndicated show, which typically ranges from 15 to 20 seconds (depending
on the streaming device),5 the screen is split into three units. The outro is
shrunk and moved to the upper left corner, while the lower right segment of
the screen displays a still image previewing the next episode. Two or three
buttons present options on how to proceed (“Back to Browse,” “Leave full-
screen mode”6 and “More Episodes”). On the left, a short synopsis of the
upcoming episode is shown—it is just barely readable before the countdown
ends. These interepisodic phenomena are comparable to typical textual seg-
ments frequently encountered on linear TV. Take side phenomena of the
televisual “flow,” for example: inserts, flashes, bumpers, and stingers remind-
ing us of the following program and (ideally) keeping us glued to the screen.
Intended to provide “a flow series” and “an evening’s viewing” (Williams,
2003, 93), these programming links are designed to ensure the viewer’s will-
ingness to stick around for the following broadcasts by promising upcoming
attractions (Bleicher, 2004, 250).
By cutting short the outro and displaying previews for the next episode of
a show, Netflix reshapes the segmented structure of linear TV. Because Net-
flix’s programming links closely resemble the “connective tissue of the tele-
vision flow” (Jacobs, 2011, 260) in terms of organization and logic, they may
crucially contribute to the understanding of streaming platforms as a form of
“television.” I argue that both broadcast television and internet-distributed
television seek to enhance “bingeing” among viewers, as in the continuous

reception of one chosen program—the main difference being that regular
television provides us with a pre-set heterogeneous “flow” of programming seg-
ments while internet-distributed TV encourages the user to select and remain
engaged with an ongoing stream of homogeneous data (several episodes in
succession, if not an entire season). By automatically playing the following
installment mere moments after the current episode has ended, streaming ser-
vices have minimized the intermission between episodes.
With its plethora of original content, Netflix takes this idea even further.
When watching Stranger Things, for example, the countdown between epi-
sodes is cut down to just under five seconds, completely eliminating any pre-
view elements and almost instantly playing the next episode. This choice of
interface design intentionally denies the user the conscious decision whether
or not to watch the end credits, pause the stream or choose something else to
watch. In contrast, Netflix’s treatment of syndicated shows implies a connec-
tion to the original programming logic of television: here, a short, but reason-
able, intermission between episodes remains. Considering the vast offering
of alternative content and the manageable time frame, binge-watching is
in this case framed as a “deliberate, self-scheduled alternative to ‘watching
TV’” (Jenner, 2015, 1). In the case of Netflix originals, however, the radical
minimization of the already brief countdown, alongside the visual omission
of options,7 almost aggressively nudges the viewer towards binge-watching by
providing an alternative “insulated flow” (Jenner, 2018, 135) of subsequent
episodes.
In addition to the extreme reduction of intermissions, Netflix offers inter-
ventional functions which alter the generic structure of an episode. The “Skip
Intro” and “Skip Recap” buttons encourage viewing habits formerlytied to
the DVD format by specifically addressing committed viewers who may find
rewatching the intro to every single episode redundant. Users are, in short,
encouraged to skip undesired segments and accelerate reception. Offering to
exclude integral segments of a series from its reception–or, even more radically,
automatically skipping them–strengthens its consumerist approach and implies
an economy-driven understanding of its audience. Netflix’s encouragement
of binge-watching is not merely a promotional campaign–its serves first and
foremost as a programmatic strategy meant to cultivate an audience of “media
bingers” (Devasagayam, 2014). Requiring a high degree of involvement and
engagement with a show, binge-watching is premeditated as a form of “active
participation” and contributes to the viewer’s pleasure and self-image (Snider,
2016, 118ff.). Further enhancing the concept of bingeing, every once in a

while–after a few episodes have played without interruption–an intertitle
pops up, asking the viewer to confirm that he or she is “still there.” This inter-
ruption appears to be designed to prevent merely passive reception caused by
fatigue, boredom or physical absence. This serves to re-engage the audience,
to exert a slight but noticeable degree of control over the viewer: Netflix
seemingly idealizes a responsive and dutiful fan audience (Tryon, 2015, 112)
that is supposed to grasp every minute of a series with utmost attention.
Overall, Netflix’s treatment of content as well as its UI design point
towards the idealization of a loyal and continuously engaged spectator, but
also an immoderate one, always in search of another series to power through
as quickly as possible.8 By offering a vast portfolio and ensuring an (almost)
uninterrupted stream of content, Netflix attempts to serialize the reception and
enforce the trend of “media-bingeing.” Meanwhile, the concept of casual tele-
vision audiences is lost on Netflix’s original series. As the service relies on a
steady pool of subscribers, there is simply no need for individual episodes to
attract new spectators on a weekly basis. Netflix may be open to a variety
individual viewing habits. Then again, as previously discussed, both Netflix’s
business model and the characteristic presentation of serial content strongly
suggest an understanding of viewership that does not include fluctuating audi-
ences. The very feature that once defined TV I and still widely characterizes
TV II has been largely abandoned by TV III and TV IV.
Conclusion: Netflix, TV IV, and the

Contemporary Television Landscape
As outlined in this chapter, Netflix weaves together television series, stream-
ing technology, and the mode of binge-watching. The platform thus concep-
tualizes internet-distributed television as an experience increasingly detached
from “TV as we knew it,” defined by periodicity, accessibility, and inclusive-
ness–linear programming features both TV I and TV II heavily relied on.
Despite forcing the audience to adhere to a fixed schedule, broadcast televi-
sion offered easy access to serial content–in terms of distribution, technology,
and narrative. After TV III abandoned two of linear TV’s characteristics—
with subscription channels maintaining the periodic schedule while aiming
at an exclusive audience—TV IV now rids itself of even this last feature of
“traditional television.”
Not only does the loss of periodicity signify a change in transmission tech-
nologies and distribution strategies. Streaming platforms, most notably Net-
flix, altogether dislodge TV series from a vertical broadcast schedule targeted
towards an anonymous mass audience. Instead, they rearrange serial content
on a horizontal, web-based menu designed to cater to individual tastes. As
a new “era,” or more preferably: as a new cultural conception of television,
TV IV is not solely defined by technological and industrial shifts, but also by
how these shifts reshape our perception of seriality and television audiences
as a whole. TV series have evolved from avoiding the status of “regular TV”
(TV III) into avoiding the status of “television” altogether (TV IV). It comes
as no surprise, then, that the epistemological status of the TV series seems to be
in jeopardy. The uncertainty of whether or not audiovisual series—especially
streaming originals—can accurately be defined as television is aggravated by
the overall plurality of the medium itself.
Today, there exists not just one television—but instead several “tele-
visions” all differing from one another in technology, dispositif, content, and
(self-) presentation. We live in an era where serial content is gradually shifting
from linear TV to non-linear distribution. As a result, TV II, III and IV nei-
ther chronologically follow, nor have they replaced each other. Rather, these
concepts coexist and contrast one another in terms of production, distribution,
and audience appeal, thereby shaping a global, highly heterogeneous television
landscape. TV IV, in particular, defined by non-linearity and individualization,
leads to a different understanding of seriality. Contemporary series, with Net-
flix originals at the forefront, are intended to be watched continuously from
beginning to end. TV shows (and web series, most of all) have abandoned the
ideal of being occasionally and casually tuned in to. With the rise of on-demand
and subscription platforms, series have become distinct commodities requiring
deliberate and continuous engagement. It would, of course, be an exaggeration
to claim that TV shows accessible to fluctuating audiences and thus aligned
with the traditional television concept (TV II) were becoming extinct. There
is, however, a growing gap between traditional television series broadcast to a
mass audience, and “new” straight-to-web series consumed by individual recip-
ients. Watching a network show during its original run—including advertising
breaks and other side phenomena—differs drastically from bingeing an entire
season on Netflix, with programming links and intermissions reduced to a bare
minimum. In conclusion, then, Netflix’s business model and its idealization of
the ever-engaged viewer indicate a loss of common ground among the different
concepts of television and television series.
Notes
1. For example, Germany-based fans of HBO’s Game of Thrones if wanting to watch the
series right after its original broadcast have to either buy into a package deal with pay-TV
supplier Sky or purchase the whole season digitally for DVD pricing on Amazon.
2. For a recent conceptualization of TV IV and Netflix’s role within the processes of this new
era, see Jenner, 2018.
3. For further exploration of TVI to III see Pearson 2011 among others.
4. Netflix currently has 109.25 million subscribers worldwide (Q3, 2017), see statista.
5. The countdown is 15 seconds long when Netflix is accessed via an internet browser, but
amounts to 20 seconds when it is an app integrated in a Smart TV set or made available
by an external TV stick.
6. This option is only included if Netflix is accessed on a computer via browser.
7. Users are always free to exit the current episode, but that very option is not explicitly
pointed out by the interface. Instead it has to be self-motivated and actively chosen.
8. This approach might be strongly motivated by Netflix’ exuberant supply structure. With
encouraging binge-watching and thus possibly shortening the amount of time spent with
the reception of one series, Netflix ensures that users make time for even more of its ori-
ginal content.
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·2·
netflix , imagined affordances ,
and the illusion of control
Annette Markham, Simona Stavrova, and Max Schlüter
Introduction
In our everyday interactions with technology, we are often told that we are “in
control.” For example, Twitter’s TOS (Terms of Service) assure us we can con-
trol the distribution of our content through our account settings. Facebook’s
FAQs likewise explain how we can easily control the content we see in News
Feed by adjusting our preferences. In both examples, “control” as a term con-
notes actual as well as perceived agency, which can be exercised in relation
to these platforms through application settings, choices, and actions available
to us. However, the outcomes of these actions are influenced by many other
mediating factors. At the surface, the distance between perceived and actual
agency might tell us something about how platforms such as Netflix obscure or
make invisible the actual decisions being made on behalf of users. Moving to
a deeper level of analysis, we can explore what critical organizational theorists
Deetz (1992) and Mumby (1988) would call “deep structures” of meaning,
where various threads from the software, machine learning, and stakeholder
decisions weave patterns that build and reify particular meanings around the
agential interaction between user and interface in ways that are not easily (if
at all) untangled.
The purpose of this chapter is to explore the infrastructure and affor-

dances of the Netflix platform through the lens of control. As a case study, it
helps us build a strong argument for the importance of operationalizing the
concept of control when using it as a term to describe or explain the relation-
ship between micro elements of technical systems or between users and digital
media platforms. We argue that focusing directly on and using the lens of
control can enhance the way we make sense of complex interaction processes
between multiple actors, both human and nonhuman.
Problematizing the Concept of Control

Control is a consistent theme in conversations around digital media use, yet
attempts to clarify how the concept is being used will often fail, since it is
used in competing, paradoxical ways. Like most concepts, the term “control”
itself is ambiguous, referring to various aspects of social and lived experience.
It can be a noun, verb, object, subject, state of being, feeling, and so forth.
It can work at the individual level (self-control) or the social/institutional
level (social control, power). It is both process and product, and as Markham
(2013) argues, tautological.1 The very ambiguity of the concept of control can
function powerfully to give a sense of common understanding when in fact,
control is never experienced or understood in the same way by different actors
in different contexts.2
For example, we can think of control as a power we possess. In the broadest
sense, control can be conceptualized as “realized contingency between behav-
ior and event” (Heckhausen, 2001, p. 2719). To put it differently, control
represents the extent to which we feel our actions can lead to expected results.
Such a perspective makes it easy to position control as a binary construct, as
something we either possess or we don’t. If our actions lead to expected results,
we have control, and vice versa. This conceptualization can also assume that
we have knowledge of this binary; that we are aware of the things we have
control over, while at the same time know our limitations and therefore can
name the things that are beyond our control.
We can also think of control as a state of being, akin to a condition of
relative balance or a state of knowing. This is often represented by the phrase
“being in control.” Whether we feel “in control” or not may be a condition
determined by our interpretation of the mechanics of a particular situation
and by our perception about our abilities to perform behaviors that lead to
netflix, imagined affordances, and the illusion of control 31
a desired outcome or prevent an undesired one. Our sense of control is then

essentially a belief about our role in relation to the external environment.
To feel in control, we have to perceive this environment as structured in a
particular manner and as responsive to our actions (for a good review of this,
see Skinner, 1996).
We believe the concept of control is a useful tool for analyzing platforms.
For the present analysis of Netflix, we begin with the presumption that the
concept of control influences our perceptions of the socio-technical relation.
We use the concept itself as a sensemaking device to gain insight into some
of the complexities of digital contexts. Is control enacted through the condi-
tioning of behavior? Or does it represent our mastery over technology? Are we
experiencing control as an unproblematic notion or as a contested, negotiated
state? Simply by asking “what does control mean in this context,” we open the
door to explorations of agency, power, identity, and much more.
Using a series of user journeys through the interface, we recorded and
critically analyzed each moment of the Netflix experience. Prompts centered
attention on expressions or questions of control (i.e., who is in control at a
particular moment?; how does control work?; what work does control do?).
Although these questions don’t have easy or straightforward answers, they
encouraged us to explore and problematize many issues of control, showcasing
the paradoxical and contested nature of this concept.3
Rather than trying to clarify the concept of control, we embrace the con-
tradictory uses and operationalize it iteratively. Over the course of the anal-
ysis, then, we end up foregrounding different aspects of the infrastructural,
relational, and influential elements of the overall sociotechnical Netflix expe-
rience. In what follows, we focus below on three complexities: First, the user
experience of the Netflix interface is embedded in a narrative that the viewer
has agency and controls the Netflix experience through their choices. This is
apparent in the rhetoric of Netflix itself as a company and is reinforced through
the platform parameters and the socially constructed tacit understandings
about how the platform works (or should or might work). Second, the Netflix
platform functions both directly and indirectly to condition users toward cer-
tain behaviors and attitudes. Directly, Netflix’s corporate strategies promote
their own original content and limit content based on marketing agreements
and region-specific regulations. Indirectly, elements of the Netflix interface
design invite certain uses, such as auto-play, an affordance that encourages
binge-viewing. Third, the incomprehensibility of the recommendation algo-
rithm creates an always-unsteady state of being, whereby viewers are never
quite sure if they have control or not. This incomprehensibility functions as

an imagined affordance. We conclude that these three complexities reveal a
tangled distribution of control among various actors in different moments,
which we interpret from a critical organizational theory perspective.
Control as Choice: The Netflix Narrative of

Individual Agency and Power
At first glance, it seems easy to claim that control on Netflix is situated with
the individual user. A narrative of control as freedom of choice begins the
moment a user creates an account, when they are given the ability to choose
up to three movies or shows they “like” in order to help Netflix “find TV
programmes & films you’ll love!” (Netflix, 2016a). The choice extends to the
ability for the user to simply skip this step. This narrative of choice is rein-
forced continuously as one interacts with the interface.
After all, the platform gives us the ability to watch what we want to,
when we want to, however many times we want to, without any interrup-
tions, yielding continuous viewing practices that Matrix (2014) termed
“The Netflix Effect.” On the front page of a brand-new account alone, we
are faced with thirty-nine rows with forty movies per row, each represent-
ing a category or subcategory. Myriad other options are available through the
search feature. This seemingly endless and constantly updating array of con-
tent stands in contrast to the rather disappointing choices presented by our
national television providers outside of the prime-time bracket. Additionally,
this content can be experienced at any pace—from spending countless hours
binge-watching our favorite show to watching a movie just a little at a time—
although the latter pace is not what we associate with Netflix, which is opti-
mized for binge-viewing.
From a traditional broadcast media standpoint, the configuration of limit-
less choice is an expression of incredible user empowerment, specified through
one’s individual control of these choices. This is neither a new practice nor
exclusive to Netflix, as it “builds on models of individualized viewing prac-
tices and self-scheduling of TV” (Jenner, 2016, p. 267). The power to “sched-
ule programming” (and with it our routines or other practices) is shifted away
from centralized media owners and substituted with a freedom to choose what
to watch on-demand. This brings control to the users who no longer have
to conform to external standards and can enjoy a personalized experience,
adapted to their own unique viewing style. This is similar to the affordances
of DVDs or recording hardware (i.e. devices like TiVo), which allowed users
to circumvent the constraints of scheduled programming (Jacobs, 2011;
Jenner, 2016).
Netflix capitalized early on this idea. Initially (from 1997), they offered
users unlimited DVDs for a monthly subscription and later (from 2007) offered
unlimited streaming as part of this subscription. Though certainly not the first
to offer streaming, Netflix is widely perceived as the revolutionary service that
disrupted the established status quo. Alongside the freedom of choice asso-
ciated with unlimited streaming, the recommendation system plays a strong
role in personalizing the experience. These algorithms are not only built from
information about what the user has watched previously (and rated highly),
using the premise that if multiple people like the same content, they’re likely
to have other favorites in common, but also from myriad “traces of interac-
tions recorded in activity logs” (Seaver, 2018, p.10). Even if algorithmically
determined and not based purely on a single user’s choices, the appearance
of likable suggestions lends to the belief that one’s own viewing habits and
ratings of content over time yield the most relevant, or preferred, choices for
future viewing.
This idea of choice is central to the experience of Netflix as a service. It
also seems fairly unproblematic (unlike, for instance, control on Facebook,
which is mediated by a number of factors and further complicated by the
interaction with other users), as it works well—for the most part, unless there
is a technical breakdown—in allowing us to tailor our experience to our pref-
erences. However, this narrative can be easily disrupted when we scratch even
a bit beneath the surface.
Control as a Mechanism: The On/Off

Switch of Netflix Limiting Content
Although Netflix seems to allow us to control what and how we watch, the
one thing we have very limited power over is the underlying availability of
content. One reason is that the Netflix company limits content in various
direct and indirect ways. Their direct pre-selection of content is made with
a specific purpose in mind (to keep people engaged, subscribed, and watch-
ing) and is contingent on partnerships with content owners and distributors,
licensing agreements, as well as on Netflix’ natural privileging of their own
content production, which has grown significantly in recent years. Netflix’s

overt limitation of content is realized most obviously when the user encoun-
ters local restrictions—i.e. when some shows are available on the American
but not the Danish version of Netflix, or vice versa.
Netflix has thus far played the role of intermediary, rather than a mediator,
especially if users are not satisfied with the selection available in their country.
They emphasize they are not a library but a curator of content (Obenson,
2013). Netflix shifts accountability, perhaps justifiably, to content owners and
distributors who have not made their content available to everyone. Although
Netflix might not be the originator of some of these limitations, as a deliv-
ery platform, it must comply with and enforce extant restrictions, for various
political, legal, and economic reasons we don’t discuss here.
Netflix’s crackdown on the use of VPN and proxy use, starting in late
2015, is an interesting illustration of how it, as both a company and an inter-
face/platform, walks the line between exerting control over content and func-
tioning passively as a (neutral) conduit (intermediary) for content. Previous
to 2015, users unsatisfied with content available in the geographic region of
their IP address could use VPN or proxy services to mask their own IP, replac-
ing it with an IP address in a country where their desired content was avail-
able. Netflix put a system in place that disallowed this practice of “virtually
crossing borders” (Oliveira, 2015).
The logic behind this restriction is clear—to avoid lawsuits for distribut-
ing content in countries where it is not licensed, and to remain in good stand-
ing with media conglomerates who are concerned about copyright, piracy, and
licensing agreements. However, it also seems clear that this VPN restriction is
not strictly enforced. In many ways enforcement of VPN restrictions would be
counterproductive to the narrative of choice Netflix begins to build from the
moment a person launches a new subscription account—the narrative that
emphasizes that users should not merely be satisfied with the available con-
tent, whatever that might be, but should enact their choice about content by
providing information to help make the recommendation system more accu-
rate (by rating content through the 5-star system in early versions, or by the
binary like/dislike response system instituted in 2015). This narrative insists
that the user’s control includes a great deal of freedom of choice about what
can be watched. By using a VPN, users are arguably enacting a strategy to
regain some of the control over their consumption. Netflix ostensibly restricts
VPN access, yet there are still some cracks in the system and VPN access to
Netflix is still an option. This loophole, deliberate or not, enables Netflix to
retain its role as a neutral intermediary, placing responsibility on the shoul-

ders of the user to decide whether to use a VPN or not. It also preserves and
maintains the narrative of Netflix as the provider of (limitless, or regardless of
location restrictions) choice.
Control as Persuasion: Netflix and “Soft Conditioning”
Much less directly, Netflix conditions the user’s behavior through the design
and or functioning of the platform’s interface. The idea of “soft condition-
ing” can be traced back to Deleuze’s (1992) notion of control societies and
their dependence on modulations for regulation of behavior. Similar ideas
are expressed by Nikolas Rose (1999) who suggests that “government at a
distance” is dependent on disciplined freedoms and individual self-regulatory
practices. Rather than being told what to do, individuals are steered toward
“appropriate” behavior by the systems they interact with. One way to illustrate
this phenomenon is through Deleuze’s (1998) metaphor of the highway as a
control mechanism or a control technology. The highway enables a person
to experience freedom while simultaneously restricting the choices one can
make. A somewhat different approach is taken by Galloway, who describes
protocols as “conventional rules that govern the set of possible behavior pat-
terns within a heterogeneous system” (2004, p. 7). Protocols may reflect a
number of possibilities but will also signal preferred choices, thus functioning
as “the etiquette for autonomous agents” (p. 75). One is always free to make
a choice, but is gently steered toward a narrow range of pre-built possibilities.
An obvious example of this soft conditioning of conduct is Netflix’ default
Autoplay setting. As soon as an episode of a TV show is completed, if Auto-
play is on, Netflix continues by playing the next one in a few seconds.
The option to opt out of this default is buried in the subscriber’s account
settings. We can also manually intervene to stop an episode from playing. But
the default autoplay still functions as a protocol to teach us what the preferred
path might be (i.e., to continue watching). Over time, this has the potential
to influence our viewing habits. And it likely has. A recent study by Netflix
(2016) revealed that the average user finishes an entire season within a week.
An essential component of this soft conditioning is adaptation: that the
individual adapts to the system parameters or defaults. Paradoxically, the user
may feel empowered even as possibilities are constrained. This controlled
autonomy impacts behavior by conditioning its potential (Cheney-Lippold,
2011) rather than removing the possibility of choice (i.e. confinement or
discipline (Foucault, 1977). There is a gentle conditioning that occurs by the

narrowing of possibilities, which ensures the “proper” or “adequate” function-
ing of the system of protocols (Galloway, 2004) and defaults (van Dijck, 2013).
The lens of control as persuasion is useful in focusing attention on
the relationship between the user and the system. It highlights how users
are trained or disciplined (in the Foucauldian sense), rather than invited
to take particular actions, which would be the focus if analyzing the plat-
form through the lens of, for example, affordance theory. In other words, in
the case of autoplay, the notion of control helps us see (as an intermediary
concept) how the default setting is a control mechanism, steering both our
immediate response (continue watching) and long-term attitude/belief about
watching media content (we have always watched series one after the other
continuously).
Control as a State of Being: Incomprehensibility of the

Algorithms and Imagined Affordances
Many (most?) Netflix users are well aware by now that algorithms are used to
deliver customized content on various digital platforms. But it remains very
unclear for users exactly how algorithms filter, curate, guide, steer, or other-
wise shape and delimit our experiences on these platforms. The algorithmic
process, hidden from the surface of the interface, creates an understanding of
the relationship between action (of the user) and response (by the system)
that seems causal but is actually incomprehensible for the user. We discuss this
incomprehensibility as contributing to a paradoxical feeling of being in con-
trol and not being in control. We walk through this argument below:
Algorithms are used across most platforms “to select what is most relevant from a cor-
pus of data composed of traces of our activities, preferences, and expressions” (Gilles-
pie, 2014, p. 168). Algorithms become powerful actors in the situation when they
shift from identifying to creating relevance (c.f., Langlois, 2013). By sorting inputs
into “relevant” outputs, algorithms “have the capacity to shape social and cultural
formations and impact directly on individual lives” (Beer, 2009, p. 994).
The algorithm itself is a powerful agent, but in addition, the obscurity

of the algorithm and its processes creates what Nagy and Neff (2015) call an
imagined affordance. We can see this more clearly when we distinguish the
actual from the imagined affordances of the interface. For example, the visible
elements of the interface like “play” buttons or highlighted texts invite the
user to take certain actions in a fairly direct manner. Norman (1988) would
call these “technical affordances,” which give the user clear direction about
what to do just by looking at the item on the screen. There are other, less
visible affordances that construct a particular relation between the user and
Netflix. An imagined affordance is one that “emerges between users’ percep-
tions, attitudes, and expectations; between the materiality and functionality
of technologies; and between the intentions and perceptions of designers”
(Nagy & Neff, 2015, p. 1). As a user engages with the Netflix interface, they
experience the company’s rhetorical pitch that one’s viewing habits will
influence what future content appears on the site. Alongside this narrative
of choice, the recommendation algorithms serve up some relevant content,
maybe even mostly relevant content. This recommendation algorithm seems
to work fairly well, as many of us have experienced when we use Netflix. But
when we see irrelevant content, we might wonder if this means the algorithm
is not working or that we need to work harder to instruct the algorithm about
our preferences. Such “gaming” of the system is a regular practice among Net-
flix aficionados.
This is an apt illustration of Nagy and Neff’s notion of imagined affor-
dances, which enables a more complex understanding of the relationship
between the user and the interface: “Simply locating the action possibilities
of a social media platform in a set of features will not do because users’ per-
ceptions, beliefs, and expectations of what the technology does or what the
platform suggests it is for ‘shape how they approach them and what actions
they think are suggested’” (Bucher & Helmond, 2018, p. 14, referencing Nagy
& Neff, 2015, p. 5).
The recommendation algorithm, and our expectation of how it might
work, impacts how we respond to it immediately as well as how our decision-
making is guided in future interface interactions. A continuous dialogic
interaction occurs between user and algorithm, users and other users. These
interactions are accompanied by the obscure, ongoing inner workings of the
interface. All together, these co-construct an imagined consensus of how it all
works. The resulting “imagined affordances” can function, paradoxically, to
give the user a feeling of being in control and understanding the rules, even
though we are far from it.
In our own analysis of Netflix, we contend that the obscurity—or more
precisely, the incomprehensibility of the algorithm plays a strong role in how
the user perceives their own control in the interaction between themselves
and the interface. This combines with the rhetoric of choice presented by
Netflix itself. In other words, even as the user might be learning that the
recommendation algorithm is operating in confusing ways that may not yield
preferred content, the user is also led to believe that the algorithm is accurate,
when Netflix presents content unproblematically, using deceptively straight-
forward headings such as “Top Picks for You,” or “Because you watched …”
This is akin to Gillespie’s recent notion (2018) that the invisibility of the
algorithmic process can lead users to believe that when they search for some-
thing, they’re finding everything that’s available (p. 186). Of course, Net-
flix does not yield all available results. As with all search engines, results are
highly filtered and not in any way universal. The misperception can play out
in the opposite way also, as Gillespie (2018) notes, by “searching for some-
thing and getting nothing” (p. 182). Taking the example of Tumblr, Gillespie
focuses on how the algorithm blocks “NSFW” or “adult” blogs content from
its search results, regardless of whether the particular post itself or the search
inquiry is explicit (p. 174). Consequently, certain content remains unfindable
through the search function, even if the user is specifically following “NSFW”
or “adult” blogs, and even if the user is searching by certain hashtags that
are well known and used in these communities. The algorithmic process cre-
ates the illusion that certain content (or combination of content e.g. gay and
porn) simply does not exist.
In both of these scenarios—“searching for something and getting noth-
ing” and “searching for something and seeing everything”—we can see how
both the actual and imagined interactions between the user and the algo-
rithm(s) will influence how the user responds in the immediate and in future
interactions. This generates a feedback loop that generates the system itself,
as Bucher (2017) and Bucher and Helmond (2018) note. This is made more
problematic when we add Netflix the corporation back into the mix, with
their soft conditioning toward certain, versus all, content.
This is an important arena to critically examine, not only (or maybe not
even primarily) because the algorithm is, like other features of the interface,
encouraging us to view Netflix-specific content. We would expect that. It
is important because the incomprehensibility of the algorithm creates an imagined
affordance. The problem is that the user is kept in a steady state of confusion
whereby, for example the list of choices we see are presented as if they are the
most popular or the trending movies or programs, when they are actually a
personalized, curated list for individual users. Netflix is not simply an inter-
mediary, but a curator hiding behind the perceived neutrality of the imagined
affordance of the recommendation algorithm.
The Impact of the Netflix Interface
How the algorithm works is less important than the overall question, “what
work does the algorithm do?” The algorithm certainly shapes trends and
influence behaviors. It can “tell” us something about ourselves. Perhaps most
importantly, the interface functions to reinforce certain values and political
interests over others. The platform does this all under the guise of being a neu-
tral, all-inclusive conduit for content that the user controls directly through
their own choices and indirectly through the help of the recommendation
algorithm. This exerts powerful control over the user as well as larger under-
standings of or meanings around the sociotechnical situation, as we elaborate
below.
What has been called “algorithmic identity” is a crucial element of the
Netflix experience, as our “self” on the platform is constantly produced and
reproduced based on our behavior and interactions with it. This claim is
informed by a growing body of literature that acknowledges the role of algo-
rithms in producing certain versions of our identities online. Cheney-Lippold
(2011), for instance, claims that “categories of identity are being inferred
upon individuals based on their web use” (p. 165). Similarly, Markham (2013)
argues that “algorithms co-construct identity and relational meaning in con-
temporary use of social media” (p. 1). We see—and build—a version of our-
selves reflected in the platforms we use, based on the content we are exposed
to. A recent study by Bucher (2017) highlights this, by citing a participant
who, after seeing multiple ads for pregnancy-related apps and dating sites,
noted that “Facebook seems to think that she is ‘pregnant, single, broke and
should lose weight’” (p. 5).
When we look at the Netflix interface, we don’t see this immediately, but
over time and routine use, the algorithmic identity begins to emerge in and
with the other agential elements of the infrastructure. To begin with, there is
no profile page to refer to, at least not in the “typical” (i.e., social network)
sense. Instead, users can set up a small profile to tell Netflix “who’s watching?”
Here, one can select an avatar, a preferred language, and a “maturity level.”
There is also an account page, which configures some aspects of the expe-
rience (i.e., membership and payment, account privileges, viewing quality,
subtitle style, etc.).
Beyond that, where can we find ourselves on Netflix? Because of the high
level of personalization, our profile on Netflix can be thought of as mirrored
in our landing page, as its display of content begins to reflect our tastes over
time. This is similar to our Twitter feeds, which feature topics we are likely to
be interested in, thus reaffirming a particular rather than generic sense of self.
Our interests, preferences, and guilty pleasures are all reflected back to us in
the algorithmically-generated lists that appear on our Netflix home page. This
is the case for any kind of personalized, algorithm-based service, which adapts
to our preferences over time (such as Spotify or Apple Music, for instance).
In any case, there are roughly about forty rows on each person’s Netflix
homepage, sorted into various categories, based on genre, previous interac-
tions, etc. The number of rows is less important than how their headings func-
tion ideologically, beyond the seemingly neutral descriptions of what each
row is about. This classification, like every classification if we borrow from
Bowker and Star’s (1999) analysis, helps us order, structure, and make sense of
the world around us, including ourselves. In the case of Netflix classifications,
the choices behind these headings are deliberate, strategically producing a
certain version of the world, situated in a particular context. In that sense,
every classification promotes one point of view, while potentially silencing
alternatives. For example, Netflix labels particular content (and the people
who are likely to consume it) in specific ways. It presents personalized cover
images of content to users. And categorization matters. Are you a person who
enjoys “Romantic Favorites” or “Binge-worthy Colombian TV Soaps” or TV
Shows Featuring a Strong Female Lead”? These are some of Netflix’ so-called
niche categories, which work to reinforce certain ideas about who we are,
based on the content we watch or enjoy.
The complexity of these categories is astonishing. They are often incredi-
bly detailed, almost bespoke. Because they continuously increase in complex-
ity. A 2014 study by Alexis Madrigal4 revealed that there are 76,897 unique
categories Netflix uses to describe types of content. With the continuous addi-
tion of new content and the ever-increasing amount of user data available,
this number is likely higher now.
The increasing precision of this categories leads to an effect similar to
what Pariser (2012) describes as the “filter bubble.” Our Netflix interface
becomes so saturated with content which is (very) similar to what we’ve pre-
viously encountered, that over time we experience new or diverse options
less and less. Seaver (2018, p.11) has described this as an industry-wide shift
toward “captological” recommendation algorithms, which seek to persuasively
“hook” users, conflating user retention with user satisfaction.
Although we are seemingly confronted with endless choices, the increas-
ingly precise filtering boxes us into the already familiar (O’Gallagher, 2016),
reaffirming our existing ideas about who we are and about what content is
worthy of our attention. One need not look far in Twitter, Facebook, or inter-
net memes to find people reflecting on what’s happening to their understand-
ing of themselves based on what Netflix is feeding them, with comments such
as: “Hotel Transylvania is my top Netflix pick! I hope the algorithm is messed
up and that doesn’t actually reflect my taste.”, “*Looking through Top Picks for
Me on Netflix* Really? Is this what you think of me?”
These categorizations also tend to fade into the background, becoming an
unquestioned part of the infrastructure (Star, 1999). This invisibility allows
them to exert significant power over their users. As critical organizational
theorist Mumby (1988) argues in his work on power and discourse, “deep
structure” power mediates the relation between agency and structure, build-
ing ideologies between the surface level and the infrastructural levels. At the
surface, we simply choose something to watch on Netflix. At some level, we
know what’s going on: Perhaps we think about how Netflix is showing us only
certain content and maybe we’re alternately frustrated or happy at the absence
or accuracy of relevant content. At the deep levels of the infrastructure, our
experience is being organized, over and over again, reinforcing particular ways
of “doing” things, like watching Netflix. The algorithmic recommendation
system combines with the designed structure of the interface and although we
can influence this to a degree, we neither fully understand how it works nor
believe we can ever understand it.
Gillespie (2018) adds to this the idea that “when the design features
are used to moderate, human judgment is transformed into a highly codified
value system that’s built into the structure of the platform itself, material-
ized, automatically imposed, in many ways rendered invisible to the user,
and thereby harder to call into question” (Gillespie, 2018, p. 179). Inspired
by Deetz’s articulation of “discursive closure” (1992), we can draw out the
implications of what this means, in the sociotechnical sense. The interface
functions to naturalize and neutralize our perception of the world as is. The
logic of Netflix, including the obvious inequality in exposure of content,
seem natural to us now, which we dismiss with a shrug or a phrase like,
“that’s just the way it is.” The practice we have come to expect is a value
laden practice, influencing our everyday understanding of the world we
live in.
This critique could be leveled at most digital platforms that serve us what
we have been trained to think we need through multitudes of incomprehen-
sible algorithms and deliberately designed interfaces. And it’s an important
critique: As custodians of the internet (Gillespie, 2018), these platforms func-

tion as mediators of our understandings of ourselves.
Everyday routine is where the fictional concept of structure manifests
itself into something tangible with visible consequences (Deetz, pp. 316–317,
also cf Giddens, 1984). In this case study, we can see how our own choices,
the algorithm, and the interface together nurture a certain routine that we take
for granted, thus creating a new normal way to interact with media and each
other. Over time, choices become habit, and as Deetz would say, “routines sur-
vive the conditions of their production” (1992, p. 317). The strength of the
surface to hide this infrastructure is what Antonio Gramsci warns against in his
discussions of hegemony, whereby our inability to identify the deep structure
ideologies means we are controlled through consent. Hence, the importance
of continued critical analysis such as this, to try to break through the surface
to see various forms and complications of control within the infrastructure.
Conclusion
Netflix begins its user journey with the idea that the platform yields content
based on how the user interacts with the system. If the user selects their pref-
erences, the system will use its special recommendation algorithm to display
only the content that the user desires. This suggests, quite strongly, that the
user is the agent in control—an admittedly naive idea that breaks down once
the active role of platform owners and other stakeholders in delimiting the
experience is highlighted. Control becomes an even more contested notion
when the obscurity of the algorithm functions as an affordance, helping the
user imagine, over time, how their relationship with the interface is work-
ing and whether this is an effective/happy relationship or not. The confusion
about whether or not one controls the interface is not surprising, as there’s no
clear cause-effect sequence that the user can follow to dictate the outcome of
the interaction. The relationship between the user and the Netflix interface
is not only confusing, but also powerful, in that the feedback loops (Bucher,
2017) build a protocol for interacting. This protocol paves the way, through
soft conditioning and also deep structure power, toward an algorithmically
influenced identity among Netflix users, whereby the interface informs the
user how they should respond, what they should prefer, and over time, how
they think of themselves. Thus, Netflix is not simply a mediator of the expe-
rience on its platform, but a mediator of the representation (or experience)
of the self. We clarify how we believe these different agencies are situated in
Figure 2.1 below.
Figure 2.1. Three forms of control contributing to the expected affordances of Netflix.
Our analysis highlights how control on Netflix is never situated within a single
entity. Instead, it is distributed between various actors in different moments.
Control is also not unidirectional, but continuously reproduced in the process
of interaction between the different human and nonhuman entities on Net-
flix. Users are simultaneously empowered and conditioned by the platform
and its affordances. Owners are in a position of power, but their revenue is
dependent on the active participation of users and the accurate anticipation
and regulation of their behavior. Algorithms have the power to condition
possibilities and reproduce identities but require inputs and configurations to
work properly. Thus, control can be seen as a negotiated product of the inter-
action process, which is why it is often experienced in contradictory ways by
various actors in different moments. At the same time, we agree with con-
temporary critical organizational theorists that through routine use of Netflix,
deep ideological structures are reinforced and maintained. These ideologies,
far from neutral, privilege the interest of particular stakeholders over oth-
ers, promote particular views about what is valuable or valued content. In
closing, we believe that exploring Netflix through the lens of control is a

strong method for continuing past the now typical stopping point of saying
infrastructures are entangled. It is a particular thread in the tangle we can
pull on, to examine what’s going on, rhetorically or ideologically, within or
because of the routines.
Notes
1. Actually, this paragraph is a bit of a simplification for purposes of not completely over-
whelming the reader. In a 2016 comprehensive review and textual analysis of the term’s
use in scholarship around digital technologies over the past twenty years, Simona
Stavrova found that control can be thought of as an object, a spectrum, a myth, a force, a
negotiated condition, a state of being, a balance. Control can be expressed independently
or through a comparison or combination with other concepts, such as automation,
choice, freedom, etc. Control can be articulated in absolute terms or within a range of
possible meanings. Control can be paradoxical and tautological. Control can function as
a stand-in for other terms.
2. This statement draws on organizational culture scholar Eric Eisenberg’s work on how
corporate logos, mission statements or other rhetorical can function to create a vague
but cohesive sense of shared understanding through what he labels “strategic ambiguity”
(Eisenberg, 1984).
3. This analysis of Netflix emerged at the end of a broad meta-analysis of how the concept of
control has been used in scientific studies as well as popular writing about digital technol-
ogy since the mid 1980s. From this review of literature, we know the term control is both
common and, for the most part, presumed to be understood already rather than defined
or clearly operationalized by scholars and writers. This study is part of a larger project to
better explicate this concept as a central feature and illusion within sociotechnical infra-
structures (cf Markham, 2014; Stavrova, 2016).
4. Madrigal (2014) scraped Netflix category data to analyze the platform’s vocabulary and
categorizations and even uncovered a formula for how these complex categories are gen-
erated: “Region + Adjectives + Noun Genre + Based On … + Set In … + From the … +
About … + For Age X to Y” (para. 33). This is the recipe behind categories like “Violent
Suspenseful Action & Adventure from the 1980s” or “Critically-acclaimed Crime Movies
based on Books.”
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·3·
the emergence of netflix and the
new digital economic geography
of hollywood
Luis F. Alvarez León
Introduction
The internet’s differential impact across economic sectors and industries has
catalyzed new divisions of labor and rewritten (though not eliminated) the
role of distance in the production and distribution of goods and services.
While a growing array of tasks is increasingly susceptible to being routinized,
automated, and outsourced (Autor, Levy, & Murnane, 2003; Frey & Osborne,
2017), others continue to require proximity and are in fact more likely to ben-
efit from spatial agglomeration (Leamer & Storper, 2001; Scott, 2007, 2012).
Cultural and creative industries are key arenas in this socio-spatial reartic-
ulation, since they are at the nexus of the centrifugal and centripetal forces
catalyzed by digital communication networks. On the one hand, the produc-
tion of goods such as books, magazines, film, television, music, fashion, visual
and performing arts usually requires high levels of expertise, dense networks
of relational exchanges, and flows of complex ideas and tacit knowledge that
are highly concentrated in a handful of specialized locations across the world
(Currid & Williams, 2010; Gibson & Kong, 2005; Leslie & Rantisi, 2011;
Scott, 2000). New York, London, and Barcelona for publishing; Hollywood in
Los Angeles and Bollywood in Mumbai for film; Paris and Milan for fashion,
are but a few prominent examples of the spatial concentration of cultural

and creative industries, and their close identification with key urban centers
around the world. On the other hand, digitization compounded by the diffu-
sion of high-speed internet (both fixed-line and mobile) has allowed cultural
and creative products to be reproduced and distributed through electronic
platforms that can instantaneously reach unprecedented numbers of users
over vast geographical distances (Currah, 2003, 2006; Leyshon, 2003, 2009).
However, while the new spatial and technical divisions of labor enabled
by the internet bring about fresh opportunities, these come with persistent
challenges. Piracy, a long-standing concern for many cultural and creative
industries, acquired renewed levels of urgency (particularly in the media
industries) due to the possibilities of duplication and unauthorized distri-
bution presented by digital networks (Blackburn, 2004; Castro, Bennet, &
Andes, 2009; Choi, Bae, & Jun, 2010). Due to a combination of the degree of
anonymity of users on the internet, the proliferation of peer-to-peer sharing
networks, and widespread piracy, until recently there was ongoing skepticism
(particularly informed by the experiences of the music industry in the early
2000s) about the chances for content providers to makes use of the internet
to successfully “compete against free” (Anderson, 2009; Rosoff, 2009; Smith
& Telang, 2009). However, over the past decade the maturation of payment
services, distribution platforms, computing technologies, and (the threat of)
legal enforcement, have enabled the growth of legal providers of digital goods
and services for consumers seeking everything from films and television (e.g.,
Netflix, Hulu, CBS All Access, etc.) to arts and crafts (e.g., Etsy, a shop spe-
cialized in handmade and vintage goods), emerging types of audiovisual con-
tent (e.g., the videogame streaming service Twitch), and retailers with a vast
catalogue of goods, such as Amazon’s online store.
Thus, with the expanding constellation of legal and illegal catalogs, com-
petition in digital environments has come to be characterized by the long-tail
phenomenon (Anderson, 2006; Elberse, 2008) that results from the simulta-
neous availability of thousands (or even millions) of differentiated choices. As
content producers, such as film and television studios, have learned though a
number of internet ventures and partnerships with varying degrees of success
throughout the past decade (Vudu, UltraViolet, MovieLink, and CinemaNow
are some examples), expansion into digital distribution requires intensifying
linkages with those actors who have consolidated a foothold in this realm.
Chief among these are information technology firms who, until recently,
were seen as intermediaries limited to the delivery of content produced by
the emergence of netflix and the new digital economic 49
others. However, firms such as Amazon, Facebook, YouTube (Google), and

Netflix, have leveraged their successful role as media distributors to claim and
solidify advantageous positions in the media production landscape. They have
done this deploying increasingly sophisticated digital media distribution plat-
forms in a variety of complementary ways: from providing high volumes of
finely grained consumer feedback, which is used to fine tune demand, to col-
lecting a wealth of data on user behavior and preferences. These data-driven
insights, coupled with market incentives deriving from their dominant posi-
tion as distributors, and the high costs of licensing third party content, have
led technology companies to branch out from focusing solely on distribution
and make significant investments into the production of original films, televi-
sion, and other audiovisual content.
This chapter argues that the emergence and growth of Netflix, first as a
dominant platform for the distribution of films and television, and then as a
successful producer of original content, signifies a larger rearticulation in the
economic geographies of the entertainment and technology industries—in
North America and beyond. In particular, Hollywood’s recent adoption of the
internet as a distribution platform for film and television is already producing
a distinct economic geography linked through digital networks. This implies a
change in the globalization of American film and television, the development
new strategies to market these products at home and abroad, and the deploy-
ment of different models to exploit the depth of the studios’ media catalogs, as
well as cheaper ways of finding niche audiences for each product.
The examination of the economic geographies catalyzed by the rise of
Netflix and other digital distribution services is developed throughout this
chapter with the aim of highlighting:
a) The role of new technological systems (in this case for distribution) in
(re)shaping the spatial configuration of markets.
b) The industrial rearticulation that follows the introduction and wide-
spread adoption of a new distribution systems.
c) The substantive implication of space, place, territory, and other geo-
graphic elements–and their changing configurations–in constituting
economic processes and outcomes. (Barnes & Christophers, 2018,
p. 28)
I begin this analysis by establishing the geographical configuration of the

film and television industry in the United States, in order to show how the
advent of Netflix and other online distribution platforms is the product of

a punctuated history of technological and geographical disruptions, while
simultaneously leading to a new spatial and industrial configuration charac-
terized by the significant enrollment of the information technology industry.
The following section thus establishes the forces that have shaped the
historical development of functional linkages between the film and television
industry in the United States and new distribution technologies and plat-
forms. This informs and contextualizes the emergence and expansion of digital
distribution platforms, such as Netflix, and their incursion into the realm of
content production. The third section of this chapter shows how Hollywood
is being transformed by the configuration of new economic geographies that
are directly related to the intensification of digital distribution spearheaded by
Netflix, and the cross-sectoral ramifications that have brought new entrants
such as information-technology firms into the media markets formerly domi-
nated by film and television studios. The fourth section concludes the chap-
ter and provides some directions towards a geographically-informed study of
the changing cultural and economic landscape of film and television—with
important implications for other cultural and creative industries.
Industrial Restructuring in Two Acts

The film and television industry in the United States is one of this country’s
most successful worldwide exporters, both in terms of cultural influence, and
through its sustained monetary gains. According to the MPAA’s latest (at the
time of writing) annual statement on “The Economic Contribution of the
Motion and Television Industry in the United States,” the American film and
TV industry registered a positive trade balance in nearly every country in the
world, and “had a positive services trade surplus of $13.1 billion in 2014, or
6% of the total U.S. private-sector trade surplus in services” (Motion Picture
Association of America, 2016, p. 1).
While the reach of this industry is decidedly global, its roots are firmly
anchored in the regional economy of Los Angeles—to the degree that the
entire industrial ecosystem has long been associated with the place-based
shorthand of “Hollywood.” While this geographical synecdoche is useful to
identify a core location and locus of power, it has the downside of masking
a complex economic geography of production, regulation, distribution, and
consumption in continuous transformation. For example, a significant share
of Hollywood’s revenues, for over half a century, has come from foreign mar-
kets. As a result of this ongoing globalization, the integration between US
film and television and foreign markets is transforming the geographies of pro-
duction, consumption and distribution: from the offshoring of filming loca-
tions to Canada, Mexico, the UK, and several countries in Eastern Europe, to
the increased attention to the demand specificities arising from the growing
Chinese media market.
Yet, the economic geography that gave rise to Hollywood as a site of pro-
duction and core of the film industry was initially cast a century ago. While
many of the initial factors that drove its establishment in Southern California
are no longer in play, the path-dependency of this site as the home of the film
and television industry has been maintained through a succession of histori-
cal events, technological innovations, and regulatory decisions. However, at
every turn, these have implied significant transformations of what Hollywood
is, what it produces, and how it finds and creates new markets of media con-
sumption in the process. While these historical and geographical transforma-
tions have been ably described elsewhere in greater depth (Christopherson &
Storper, 1986, 1987; Scott, 2005), below I have identified two key moments
in the development of Hollywood’s economic geography that help understand
both its present form, and its ongoing rearticulation catalyzed by the emer-
gence of digital distribution as a transformative force.
The first episode concerns the initial regulatory intervention that would
contribute to the formation of Hollywood. In the early days of the film indus-
try, at the turn of the 20th century, Thomas Edison—one of the largest patent-
holders in the United States—and his Edison Manufacturing Company dom-
inated the manufacturing of film and projection equipment. One of his key
business tactics was to exert pressure on his main competitors through threat
of litigation. This effectively succeeded in disabling competition, and his for-
mer competitors joined him to form the Motion Picture Patents Company in
1908, also known as the Edison Trust. The New York-based Trust held a tight
grip on all aspects of the film industry—from the technologies of production
to the distribution of film. However, such was the dominance of the Trust
and its stranglehold on competition in the budding film industry that, within
less than a decade, it was terminated in 1915 through a federal court decision
citing its violation of the Sherman Antitrust Act (West Publishing, 1915).
An unforeseen consequence of this regulatory action was the power vac-
uum it created in the economic geography of the film industry. Out of this vac-
uum, a new industrial hub emerged from the shadow of the Trust, far from the
remnants of its regional influence in the Northeast. Separated by a continent,

it was the booming periphery of early-20th century Los Angeles that would
soon become the center of a new film industry, establishing a competitive
edge through a combination of locational advantages (year-round favorable
climactic conditions for outdoor filming), and product innovations (such as
the film star system and the feature length film).
Over the course of the first half of the century, the film industry in Los
Angeles matured into the Hollywood studio system, anchored by the Big Five
production companies: Twentieth Century Fox, Paramount, MGM, RKO,
and Warner Brothers. By the end of World War II, this studio system had per-
fected its own version of Fordism: a vertically integrated approach to filmmak-
ing that housed all stages of film production (from screenwriting to filming
and editing) under one roof. The roof, in fact, extended beyond production
itself (and the studios’ own backlots), covering the distribution of films to
various markets and their exhibition in theaters. Thus, the same oligopolistic
tendencies that characterized the Trust were also present in the Hollywood
studio system, leading to another round of regulatory-mandated restructuring.
The second key moment to understand the evolution and configuration
of Hollywood is the 1948 Supreme Court decision in the United States vs.
Paramount Pictures, Inc. case, which ordered the named studio (along with
the other majors) to break up their hold on the film industry. Since the
major Hollywood studios controlled film production, distribution, and exhi-
bition, they were forced to divest themselves from their exhibition opera-
tions, while keeping the integration of production and distribution functions
(Christopherson & Storper, 1986; Scott, 2002).
The decades-long transformation that resulted from the 1948 Paramount
decision gave birth to a regional economy of filmmaking characterized by six
major studios (Fox, Disney, Universal, Paramount, Sony, and Warner Bros)
and a constellation of smaller studios and firms specialized on tasks such as
independent film production, make-up, special effects, catering, set design,
audio equipment, and many others. In short, the Paramount decision was a
catalyst that led to Hollywood’s reorganization, from an industry solidly char-
acterized as vertically integrated to becoming a regional cluster defined by
a network of vertically disintegrated firms, shifting project-based configura-
tions, recurrent collaboration networks, and a central hub of six major film
studios (Christopherson & Storper, 1986).
These two key moments in the history of the film industry in the United
States illustrate how major shifts in its economic geography have been
characterized by the interplay between the industry’s oligopolistic tendencies,

and the countervailing force of regulation—which has, in various ways, trig-
gered waves of industrial reconfiguration. Furthermore, these moments also
show how such waves are associated with the particular segments of the pro-
duction chain favored by industry incumbents, and with the technologies in
which these incumbents decide to invest their resources and bet their future
prospects. While the early 20th century Trust focused on controlling filmmak-
ing and projection technology (which led to its Antitrust woes), the pre-1948
Hollywood studio system survived by preserving control over its production
operations, opting instead (under duress) to divest from its exhibition arm.
At both of these historical junctures, what has been evident is that each of
the key decisions made by industry incumbents leads to power concentration
in a particular area of the film production chain, while leaving others relatively
open for innovations, and—eventually—forces capable of reconfiguring the
entire film industry. The excessive zeal for the protection of film technology
by the Edison Trust eventually contributed to its early decline, and the power
vacuum that allowed the Los Angeles industry to emerge. Decades later, in
the aftermath of the 1948 decision, Hollywood remade itself into a vertically
disintegrated regional economy with global reach. While this new industrial
model helped Hollywood’s expansion, diversification, and continued innova-
tion in film production in the ensuing decades (particularly after the advent
of the summer blockbuster in the 1970s), it was in the very space where the
major studios lost influence—the exhibition side of the industry—that new
technologies began to exert an increasingly transformative influence.
New Economic Geographies of Digital Distribution

First with the vertiginous uptake of television since the 1950s, and then with
the advent of home video in the early 1980s, Hollywood was continuously
beset by disruption through the widespread adoption of new technologies for
content distribution and exhibition. However, these disruptions eventually
led the industry to adapt, and even build synergies across various sectors, such
as electronics, and later information technology. For example, Hollywood
initially treated the VCR as a threat to its revenue generation due to its
time-shifting capabilities that allowed users to record television programs.
Yet, within a few years, this new technology was embraced and fostered as the
centerpiece of an emerging home video industry.
Thus, through the growth of direct sale and rental videocassette, and later
DVDs, Hollywood found another profitable avenue to distribute their films
after theatrical distribution that was also complementary with—rather than
substitutive of—television viewing. In fact, as early as 1986, the combined rev-
enues from video rentals ($3.37 billion) and sales ($1.01 billion) surpassed for
the first time those from the theatrical box office ($3.78 billion) in the United
States (Cabral, 2009, p. 8). While theatrical exhibition suffered a downturn,
the home video market continued to accelerate its growth with the adoption
of new media technologies. The DVD player, which was released in 1996,
took only four years to become the highest selling format in history, surpassing
the VCR in 2000. The global popularity of this format continued to increase
throughout the decade: in another four years, by 2004, there were 272.7 million
DVD player-owning households worldwide (McDonald, 2007, p. 93).
Parallel to the growth of the worldwide DVD market in the early 2000s,
the internet underwent a simultaneous transformation from a repository of
static documents into an engine for the distribution of digitized multimedia
content (such as music and video digital files), as well as myriad platforms to
buy and sell an expanding range of products and services (such as books and
other analog media). Within a few years, new entrants with internet-centric
models of distribution swiftly disrupted established content industries, much
like Amazon did to booksellers and publishers. The twin trends of a rising
global demand for DVDs (and media content more generally), and the mat-
uration of the internet for commercial purposes in the early 2000s, jointly
enabled a new transformation of the film and television industries, starting
by way of the distribution of content. This in turn precipitated the creation
of new economic geographies based on the intensified connections between
information technology and the film and television industry.
In this context of widespread market penetration for DVD players, Netflix
emerged as a new entrant with yet another source of disruption, leveraging the
technological readiness of consumers (who had both DVD players and inter-
net connections), and catering to their growing demand for media content.
While brick-and-mortar incumbents, led by Blockbuster Video, dominated
the home video market, these faced important challenges, such as storage,
title rotation, inventory limitations, and—most contentiously from the con-
sumer perspective—late fees. Introducing a model that addressed all of these
challenges, Netflix built a parallel distribution structure that allowed consum-
ers to search and order titles through an internet platform, and rent the discs
via by mail, all without charging any late fees.
With growth in its first decade fueled by the mail DVD business, Netflix
reached 8.7 million subscribers by 2008, and was on track to adding one mil-
lion more annually (Hansell, 2008). Soon after, however, the DVD as a format
began to give way to new technologies. It was then that the company shifted
the core of its efforts towards capitalizing on the possibilities enabled by its
vast internet search catalog and building its nascent online-streaming service
(which was initially viewed as an add-on) into a robust content distribution
platform. This shift is the result of Netflix’s bet on the widespread adoption of
internet broadband, along with increased consumer buy-in of online stream-
ing content, which had steadily grown in popularity since the introduction of
YouTube in 2005 and its subsequent ascendance (Kyncl, 2017).
Streaming represents several advantages for Netflix in the form of sig-
nificant savings on disc purchases, storage, and postage. On the other hand,
the acquisition of content depends on costly licensing agreements with film
and TV studios—which in turn contribute to the continuous rotation of its
catalog when content is no longer under contract (Netflix, n.d.-b). However,
the most important advantage presented by the streaming model may be the
creation of a closed distribution platform where Netflix can interact directly
with (and collect data from) consumers in multiple revenue-generating ways,
establishing positive feedback loops between consumption, distribution, and
production of content. These include streaming video content, suggesting
viewing options through a proprietary recommendation engine, measuring
consumers’ use patterns and viewing behavior, and—crucially—building an
extensive user base with increasing disincentives to switch to competing
services (Plummer, 2017). Netflix’s successful deployment of the streaming
platform represents the full incorporation of the internet’s distribution capa-
bilities into the film and television production landscape, signaling a qualita-
tive shift in its industrial composition and the economic geographies both of
production and distribution of content.
This shift was further accentuated by Netflix’s decision to round out
their media ecosystem by moving into the production of original content—
precipitated by the combination of advantages from their proprietary online
platform, on the one hand, with high third-party content acquisition costs,
on the other. The firm’s venture into content production began tentatively
with its short-lived Red Envelope entertainment studio (2006–2008), which
was closed to avoid competition with Hollywood studios (Goldstein, 2008).
However, in 2011, Netflix embraced its dominant position in the distribu-
tion market, pivoting decisively towards the production of new content and
the creation of a proprietary library (“Netflix Originals”) with exclusive deals

such as House of Cards, Lilyhammer, and Orange Is the New Black TV series.
Since then, the production of Netflix original content has grown steadily
and, with it, audience engagement, revenue, cultural recognition, and market
penetration. Thus, by 2018, the company has established a firm foothold in
the entertainment industry by producing critically acclaimed films (Beasts of
No Nation, Okja), popular culture franchises (Marvel series such as Daredevil,
The Punisher, and Jessica Jones), cult-following series (original productions
such as Stranger Things, and Orange Is The New Black continuing seasons of
existing ones, like Black Mirror, and Arrested Development), talk-shows (Chel-
sea), docu-series (Chef’s Table, Making a Murderer), and foreign-language pro-
ductions in several countries (Club de Cuervos in Mexico, Marseille in France),
among many other genres. These international productions are part of Net-
flix’s broader strategy to expand towards carefully delineated territorial mar-
kets outside of the United States.
The internationalization of Netflix is both a sign of the new geogra-
phies of content distribution, and it follows the well-trod path established by
Hollywood studios over half a century ago. The territorial contours of content
distribution are themselves a market-making exercise that results from IP geo-
location technologies, which restrict users’ access to content depending on
the physical location of their internet connection. In this way, Netflix can
ensure that each territorially defined market (usually along national bound-
aries) only has access to the content for which the rights have been licensed.
This is why, when a subscriber crosses international boundaries, the catalog of
content available changes accordingly.
At the time of writing, Netflix is available in 190 countries (Netflix, n.d.-a).
While the firm’s continuous market expansion is the main driver of its recent
growth, it has also held back its profit margins due to the high investment
required for the production of original content for expanding markets (Shaw,
2017; Trefis Team, 2017). Moving beyond the enrollment of international loca-
tions as merely low-cost labor pools, or sites of potential consumption, Netflix’s
strategy relies on developing collaborative relationships with local talent and
content producers all over the world. This allows the firm to assemble territori-
ally differentiated media libraries that leverage the provision of American films
and television, for which there is global demand, and complement it with high
production-value locally produced content tailored for each market.
The increased output of Neflix’s original products (whether financed
wholly by the company, or through various partnerships), and the aggregate
positive returns of this venture (in monetary, as well as critical, and cultural
terms) support the notion that this firm has successfully leveraged its dom-
inance in digital distribution to secure a robust position as a content pro-
ducer in the film and television industries. Two linked developments suggest
a large-scale rearticulartion of the film and television industry as it intensifies
its competition and collaboration with the information technology industry.
First, other information technology companies with a background in digital
distribution, such as Amazon, YouTube (owned by Google), and Hulu (owned
by Disney and Comcast) are following a strategy towards the production of
original content. Second, content producers are emphasizing their develop-
ment of digital platforms through the pivot towards “TV Everywhere” (Lasar,
2010)—some of them with exclusive content (such as CBS All Access).
This rearticulation derives from the incorporation of streaming tech-
nology and the continuing development of comprehensive digital platforms
for the provision of extensive catalogs that combine licensed and originally
produced content. Underpinning the development and expansion of digital
platforms is the tightening interrelation of existing industrial clusters spe-
cialized in the production of content, and new means of digital distribution:
Hollywood and Silicon Valley, respectively. This linkage between industries is
characterized by collaboration, competition, parallel growth, and substantial
areas of overlap.
For example, each of these clusters continues to conduct many of its oper-
ations with relative independence from each other. Hollywood’s theatrical
box office continues to grow on an annual basis (totaling $38.6 billion in
2016), with rapid expansion of the Asia Pacific market, now its top-grossing
region (showing a 44% increase from 2012 to 2016, totaling $14.9 billion,
$6.6 billion of which was concentrated in China) (Motion Picture Associ-
ation of America, 2017, p. 7). On the other hand, Silicon Valley’s firms are
engaged in an ever-widening range of activities that do not primarily involve
film and television production or distribution, such as social networking plat-
forms, virtual reality, artificial intelligence, and search engines, to name a few.
However, the intersection and integration (as well as increasing competition)
between these two clusters—particularly the production of content and the
development of new technologies of distribution and consumption—has
become a signature of the new era of digital entertainment, and the digital
economy more generally.
This has resulted in the formation of new economic geographies of film
and television. The strategies adopted by Netflix and other internet leaders in
film and television cast a major influence on the spatial and relational dynam-
ics that underpin the Hollywood industrial cluster. An economic geographic
appraisal of the changes catalyzed by the emergence of digital distribution
includes at least four layers that combine to produce flows of (often monetiz-
able) information in space.
First, there is a virtual layer of digital information flowing from one ter-
minal to another within digital networks. This virtual layer is continuously
in transformation and drives the production and consumption of new mar-
ket goods. The digitization of content and its provision through information
networks is one of the qualitative shifts in the digital economy. For instance,
the transformation of the internet from mostly static websites in the 1990s to
a panoply of platforms hosting user-generated content, expanded options for
online retailing, and the rise of streaming services, illustrates how the flows
of information are deeply intertwined with cultural tastes, consumption pat-
terns, technological innovations, and economic dynamics beyond the bound-
aries of what is often identified strictly as “Information Technology.”
Second, there is a physical and territorial layer of the internet as com-
munication infrastructure: the server farms, hubs, and undersea cables that
make up the network. This physical and territorial layer matters greatly for
the distribution of information and the constitution of electronic markets.
While it is invisible to most users, the material configuration of the network
enables in very direct ways the production or consumption of content online.
Bandwidth speeds, for example, can be the defining factor behind the ready
availability of streaming content, and the opening of previously inaccessi-
ble regions to new online media markets. In this context, it is no accident
that social-media platforms like Facebook are heavily investing in ways (such
as internet-beaming drones) to open these markets by bringing high-speed
internet services to areas of the world that currently do not have it (Associ-
ated Press in Yuma, 2017).
Third is the political and legal layer, which consist of the negotiations,
deliberations, legal regimes, and governance mechanisms shaping who can
access what content, for what price, and from which locations. Due to legal
frameworks, regulatory requirements, and other factors such as government
censorship, the location of content (whether from the point of view of stor-
age, distribution, or consumption) is to a significant degree shaped by geo-
graphical factors. In the case of Netflix and other online content providers,
the ability to locate users’ access to content has enabled the creation of terri-
torially defined markets throughout the world.
Fourth is the economic layer, which encompasses the various (and expand-
ing) mechanisms for monetizing information on the internet, from direct
transactions, such as subscription services, to more obscure indirect transac-
tions which often seem free of charge to the end user, such as data mining
and advertising. This layer brings together the informational flows, the phys-
ical infrastructure of the internet, its regulatory frameworks, and enrolls them
into the dynamics of global capitalism with the purpose of deriving economic
value from online content. The degree to which strategies of monetization
can succeed simultaneously drives the expansion of the digital economy, while
setting up domino effects in the economic landscape beyond the internet—
such as the industrial rearticulation between IT and film and television cited
above, or the wholesale disruption experienced by the publishing and book-
selling industries as a result of (primarily) Amazon.
The continuous and mutually constitutive interactions between these
layers is simultaneously social, political, economic, and deeply spatialized.
Indeed, both the structure and constitution of the internet as an information
network, and the spatial arrangements (locational patterns, regional econo-
mies, territorially-defined regional markets) behind the production and distri-
bution of online services, continuously interact in the process of making new
digital economic geographies. The example at the core of this chapter—of
tighter interrelation, through competition and cooperation, between content
producers and content distributors across the film and television and infor-
mation technology industries in the context of widespread online video—
is illustrative in this respect: while the means of distribution have changed
from discs to online streaming, the forms of production have followed suit,
with distributors like Netflix entering into the production sphere, and bring-
ing with them new technologies, business strategies, and modes of consumer
engagement. These data-driven platforms, through recommendation engines
and finely targeted consumer demographics fueled by the close monitoring
of user behavior, in turn shape how firms like Netflix decide to produce or
purchase new content, where they distribute it, and for whom. This is hav-
ing important implications in reshaping content production and distribution
industries, both in Hollywood and all over the word—with the rise of locally
owned streaming services in many international markets and the activation of
new arenas of competition for premium local content.
Conversely, industrial rearticulations such as the one cited above have
the potential of transforming not just the film, television and information
technology industries themselves, but also the very nature and workings of
the internet as a communications network. Online video streaming has been

one of the core drivers of the continuous increases in web traffic, and has
played a crucial role in the Net Neutrality debates due to the high usage of
bandwidth by platforms such as Netflix, and its potential competition with
rivalling content-distribution platforms owned by internet service providers
(Bradley, 2017; Feldman, 2017; Spangler, 2017). Similarly, the creation of
online markets for content distribution responds to, and is influenced by,
existing political geographies where territorially-defined distribution rights
and legal regimes shape access to, and legal consumption of particular digital
content (Alvarez León, 2015, 2018). At the infrastructural level, the increases
in the demand for streaming content over the internet carry with them cor-
responding requirements for higher bandwidth and network expansions that
stand to reshape the informational capacity of some places—while others may
be unable to cope with this demand and thus may be slower to adopt legal
streaming markets (or may be entirely shut out of them).
Thus, the new geographies of online video distribution should be read
in a broader historical context where information networks are inscribed in
patterns of development, technological adoption, information access, and
institutional frameworks that are at once shaped by global forces, while also
being highly dependent on particular contexts and locations. In other words,
“the Net cannot float free of conventional geography” (Hayes, 1997, p. 214).
In the case of the emergence of Netflix, first as a player in the distribution of
video, and later as a bona fide producer of original content and major com-
petitor in the film and television industry, this is both a consequence of the
increased opportunities opened by the expansion of the internet as a platform
for commercial activity, and simultaneously a driver of fundamental changes
in the economic geographies of the film and television industries, as well as
the information technology industry more generally.
Conclusion
Hollywood is in a process of transformation that is directly linked with a shift
towards an internet-centric mode of distributing film, television and multi-
media content in general. The expansion of video streaming represents new
opportunities for film studios, television networks and technology companies
alike, but it also reflects the economic geographies underlying the growth of
the digital economy across the globe. The emergence of Netflix as a cen-
tral player in the online streaming and content production realms is a stark
reminder that the internet, while opening new markets and broadening access
to information, continues to be shaped by uneven geographical developments,
such as patterns of industrial location, and the territorially-defined construc-
tion of markets.
The rise of Netflix, then, is a story that goes beyond the strategic decisions
of a single firm. It is a touchstone that has been simultaneously shaped by,
and contributed to, the accelerating convergence of technological, monetary,
and cultural resources from two distinct (but increasingly connected) indus-
trial clusters: Hollywood and Silicon Valley. From this perspective, the geo-
graphical dimensions of a generalized pivot towards online streaming of media
content are crucial because they help explain why this shift emerged from par-
ticular locations, who the relevant actors are, and what is the quality and range
of their (expanding) spatial impacts. For digital distribution, as with upcoming
transformations in the information economy, this underscores the importance
of understanding the internet as a network that is embedded in space, place,
and society—and is therefore neither purely virtual nor homogeneous.
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·4·
lovemarked distribution and
consumers ’ behavior
Netflix Communities Versus Piracy Users’ Conduct
Gabriele Prosperi
The arrival of Netflix in the Italian market in 2015 destabilized the entire
audiovisual distribution sector (Marrazzo, 2016), anchored to modalities that
were out of step with consumers’ desires, both in terms of quantity and quality
of distribution. Rather than encouraging the primary local distribution ser-
vices to consider streaming content (Barra & Scaglioni, 2013), they instead
labeled the phenomenon of online piracy a competitor and proposed a funda-
mental and efficient system of opposition to illegal and informal distribution
(Lobato, 2012a). This approach was not grounded on the criminalization of
users’ behavior (Crisp, 2014; Re, 2014), but on services that could be more
appealing compared to those supplied by the informal platforms (Braga &
Caruso, 2013).
File-sharing platforms are usually associated with services based on the
principle of indexing, a process of re-intermediation used in informal distribu-
tion as peer-to-peer platforms or linking sites connected to cyberlocker services
that provide audiovisual content protected under copyright laws.
Indexing sites appear not only as a way to make the online piracy system
work for the user, and not only to gain a profit, but also to respond to users’
requests to respect their emotional intent in looking for a specific cultural
content (Andersson Schwartz & Larsson, 2014). Even if indexing sites do not
legalize file-sharing in the user’s perception—who, on the contrary, is aware of

its illegality (Lessig, 2008)—they are able to transform illegal file-sharing into
an appealing distribution model compared to the traditional one, which has
not responded to consumers’ requests.
This appeal is determined by specific visual characteristics that are able
to make the site and its services efficient and, more importantly, recognizable.
Links, and by extension their content, are promoted through the recognizabil-
ity of an informal distributor, a key strength for being competitive with more
formal and legal distributors.
The visual architecture of successful linking sites acts as a “lovemark”
(
Jenkins, 2006) to the users, associating identifiable political and socio-
economic characteristics that create a community of consumers who identify
with the use of some visual elements and their symbolic meanings. The love-
mark is part of a wider process of self-justification of indexing sites’ actions.
Images and site architecture are able to communicate norms, meanings, and
shared values, reflecting a communion of interests, ideas and online behaviors.
This chapter focuses on the opposition to such branding processes used
by informal platforms. Commercial streaming services like Netflix provide
appealing platforms, effectively stealing piracy’s users thanks to a system that
is more interested in improving its functionalities in terms of economic con-
venience, easy access, and quantity of products. Focusing on Italian social
media users, the chapter highlights the identification process of Netflix’s con-
sumers into online communities based on discourse and recognition of the
primary characteristics of the service, in the same ways this identification pro-
cess successfully happened for informal lovemarked platforms. Both the pirated
indexing sites’ and Netflix’s catalogues are the turning points of an affective
response, a lovemark, that can be recognized as a branding strategy with spe-
cific political and socioeconomic traits.
Emotional Engagement
The majority of online streaming and downloading utilizes services that
are based on the principle of indexing, which represent new forms of access
through strategies that constantly interact with the formal distribution and
with its main actors (Lobato & Thomas, 2015). With linking (or indexing)
sites, we mean portals that are designated to collect links that refer, in a more
or less organized way, to copyright-protected audiovisual content. It is not
a coincidence that this modality is often associated with cyberlocker sites
lovemarked distribution and consumers’ behavior 67
(MegaUpload, Mega, RapidShare, NowDownload, RapidGator), services

“which offer users the ability to share files through centralized servers, with-
out relying on an underlying p2p infrastructure” (Antoniades, Markatos, &
Dovrolis, 2009). The particularity of these services lies in their capability to
put into play the same users, both for their operation and for the need of cre-
ating indexing sites that supply databases organized into links referring to the
contents.
The efficiency of this form of distribution is definitely connected—
regardless of its legal status—to the cost of the service itself, as Cybernorms
researchers (see below) have identified in their The Research Bay,1 recog-
nizing both a convenience in speed and availability of the products and a
cost-effectiveness in their use.2 In addition to the being free, another aspect
appears partially capable to socially legitimize the phenomenon, which is the
creation of communities (particularly of fans) that, along with economic con-
venience, allow users to take a more active role and participate in the con-
sumption of streaming content. Participation is, in this case, meant to refer
not only to uploading contents—which has been recognized (Crisp, 2014;
Larsson, Svensson, & de Kaminski, 2013), as an activity achieved by a niche
group of users tending to professionalization—but also to the recognition of
the user within a community of consumers3: a community of free-rider users
made of individuals who act with the same objectives. Requesting specific
content is one activity that encourages the creation of informal structures of
distribution, as Lobato (2012a) proposed:
Demand for cinema is one of the key drivers of this entire storage-and-retrieval infra-
structure and the many jobs it creates. For this reason cyberlocker and torrent tracker
systems could quite reasonably be considered an informal wing of the film distribu-
tion industry. (Lobato, 2012a)
This emotional engagement is typical for informal platforms and is reshaping

the official forms of online distribution, which are always more interested into
singular, subjective and emotional aspects of their receiving consumers.
For these reasons, collaboration among users appears to be a key element:
the high rate of collaboration between fans of specific cultural content seems
to increase the use of services that allow users to find content which is con-
sidered to have elevated emotional value, if those services are founded by the
same community (of fans) with similar intentions.
Membership in a community, as Janes and Crisp point out, referring
particularly to Jenkins (2006), is characterized by an “intensely emotional
experience” (Crisp, Hickman, Janes, & McCulloch, 2013, p. 320) which gen-
erates a unique relationship between fans and brands, as well as “a strong sense
of empowerment and ownership, and the evolution of a community which
sees distinctions between marketing content ‘for us’ (i.e., the fans), and mar-
keting for a wider, uninitiated audience” (ibid.). This kind of economy, which
Jenkins defines as affective and based on lovemarks, can be applied also to
the delivery tool and, therefore, to the file-sharing. The love of the “brand” is
surely observable as it is built by a “quite low percentage of uploaders” (Larsson
et al., 2013, p. 76) that participates in uploading the real file, thanks to a high
level of “‘professionalization’ or ‘specialization’ and to a partition of the work
among the users” (ibid.). In this case, a strong sense of ownership of the con-
tent itself is established, leading the same uploaders to be “more interested in
forms of defense of their data” (ibid.).
It is also important to remember that “within certain filesharing commu-
nities there are pockets of behavior where groups of people go further than
simply facilitating the sharing of files, instead they actively participate in the
conversion, construction, amendment and review of those files” (Crisp et al.,
2013, p. 321). In similar cases it develops a new sentiment, or the tendency
to “add value” (ibid.) to the cultural object through this process. This is why
we can define it, more properly than distribution, as the spontaneity of spread,
or spreadability4 confirmed by the capacity of users to exploit new technologies
and by the tools that can be assimilated within online distribution platforms
(from a simple tweet or like on Facebook to the possibility of commenting the
links posted on a site).
Jenkins (2006) already hypothesized a similar reading in Convergence
Culture, referring to American Idol fans. For this popular American talent
show, as soon as the fans feel “the love or, more specifically, the ‘love marks,’”
(Ivi, p. 70), they are traced back to the participatory regime. “Audience par-
ticipation is a way of getting American Idol viewers more deeply invested, shor-
ing up their loyalty to the franchise and its sponsors” (ibid.).
The difference can be observed at the origin of the request: the official
production in the case of the television show, the film buff in the case of
cinephilia, the generic fan of a specific audiovisual product who uses unof-
ficial distribution. As in a sort of auto-endorsement, the user justifies his/
her actions, approves them, and through this legitimization can receive, in
exchange, the lovemark, which is in this case the desired object itself. It is
not a coincidence that in the cinephile community, forms of pirate cinephilia
(repackeur as defined by Renouard) rise up, “mainly made of regular buyers of
‘legal’ DVD or Blu-ray editions, that want to benefit of a slackening of the

law, aiming to discover, watch and share movies that have never been—or
were—commercialized, so that they are not going to be forgotten” (Renouard,
2013, p. 236).
Applying this approach to the distribution system, the same file-sharing
can be examined from new points of view; concentrating the attention
on itself—through its own unique characteristics and ways of operation—
file-sharing can simplify not only the creation of communities of uploaders
designated to supply the raw material that will be downloaded, but also and
especially the creation of communities of downloaders and free-riders that get
attached to that specific portal of distribution. This is when the role that link-
ing sites fulfill comes into play and becomes essential, not as much in terms of
functionality as of loyalty.
Indexing Sites
Online platforms like Avaxhome (see below) act as collectors of useful informa-
tion to index products (audiovisuals, music, literature, videogames, software),
equally—or even more functionally—to a research browser like Google, and
specialize in types of products to be spread. These sites act as a middle ground
between an archive of audiovisual products (i.e., IMDb), but assign the effec-
tive distribution of copyrighted products to a third party.
Similarly, the services that manage the structure of such a collaboration
assign the responsibility of spread to those who insert the content, point-
ing out the nature of just hosting their contribution and the impossibility of
subjecting the inserted material to on-the-spot checks. Thus, regardless of
where the content has been found, if the provider of a service does not know
of the violation, it should have no right to prevent it from being uploaded.
On this principle, one-click hosting services (or cyberlockers) have increased
and continued to be created. Through these services, the user has the pos-
sibility of sharing large files by way of two simple steps: the user uploads the
file, the cyberlocker creates and provides an URL to access the file.
More evidently than the torrent protocol, cyberlockers’ modality of oper-
ation makes immediate for the real users the working principles of the entire
system, since it is based on the simple input of content into a container and
then making an access point available. On the other hand, the service per se
does not necessarily imply the trade of illegal content, but stands out for its
efficiency in preserving and transferring large files, in addition to guaranteeing

the anonymity of its clients.
Obviously each of these functions might be more efficient the more
appropriate the economic recoup is, by means of subscriptions, usually
distinguished on the site in several classes (generally with more payment
brackets—i.e. Silver and Gold—for a premium service). In order to incen-
tivize the use of their functions, cyberlocker services summon consumers
not only thanks to a functional practicality, but also guaranteeing free use,
usually with limited possibilities that, nevertheless, do not compromise that
use for non-paying users.
These and other characteristics, such as the constant availability of the file
(even if susceptible to being removed in the case of an identified violation),
the anonymity guaranteed to the user, the good performance and content
availability, as well as the presence of uploading incentives, encourage taste
buds of an unenthusiastic viewer. These services facilitate “the creation of a
vibrant user community that shares files reliably and inexpensively” (Anto-
niades et al., 2009). In addition to guaranteeing premium users access to pop-
ular content, which is not as much faster as more spreadable, they also confer
the free user a bigger advantage in using cyberlocker instead of BitTorrent, an
advantage that is also moral; unlike the informal systems defined by Lobato as
extra-legal (i.e., BitTorrent), linking sites and cyberlockers are in a grey zone of
distribution, defined as semi-legal (Lobato, 2012b). If on one hand, “the rise of
grey intermediaries further complicates this scenario, throwing into the mix a
new set of commercial and putatively legal services which work to deformalise
online media markets,” (Ivi, p. 97), on the other hand, they open up not only
“new commercial spaces and lines of business” (ibid.), but also new spaces
of legitimization. Implying the sharing of common interests, community of
purpose, and passion for a specific content, the grey zone is even greyer, high-
lighting the substantial interpretability of the term pirate:
If we purchase bootleg DVDs from markets, (…) or download films, music or software
using torrents, file sharing forums and cyberlockers, the illegality of our actions seems
relatively straightforward. However, if we want to make a backup of our music on
our computer, or if we want to show a film in a retirement home and charge a nom-
inal fee to cover tea and biscuits, or if we lend a CD or DVD to a friend, are these
infringements intentional, and are we causing “significant” economic harm? (Crisp,
2015, p. 73)
The bond which generates communities of users happens regardless the use
of cyberlockers or BitTorrent, but it is more evident in the first case thanks to
a larger need for using indexing sites. Thus, their links are more susceptible
to be collected, as a consequence of users’ direct request of participation, and
are responsible to choose which contents should be put into circulation. This
response of the user guarantees on one hand better efficiency, and on the
other hand, the spread of content that is less available through official distri-
bution channels, since the same users look for this content directly (through
his/her own free will or following a specific request by other users). It is under-
standable why, in parallel with the spread of cyberlocker services, indexing
sites have also increased to make content really available or findable.
Depending on the level of formality, online platforms are organized as
real archives, in any case “tightly connected with the digital environment
in which they were born. We can define them as ‘archives’ because they are
based on selection and classification, and propose thematic collections” (Re,
2015, p. 265). The organization of these files range from low, which gener-
ally distinguishes products on the basis of the cyberlocker service where the
file is uploaded, to high, represented by sites that categorize files into genres
and, on some occasions—usually thanks to a more accurate and monitored
organization—on the basis of characteristics of the content. We can distin-
guish indexing sites in two macrocategories that are susceptible of additional
distinctions:
– Mainstream browsers (i.e., searchshared.com) that, just as a common
web research browser, sift through the web to find all the files uploaded
via cyberlocker, and by means of a search key written by the user. Obvi-
ously the absence of a categorizing system to the bottom makes the
results of this research various and imprecise.
– Indexing communities: sites, forums, blogs of diverse constitution that
organize the links to files into categories. The upload of files to be
shared is not necessarily made by the end users or by the organizers of
these communities (even if it is more than plausible).
Particularly in the second type of indexing, several levels of organization exist.
On one hand are, for example, websites generically dealing with any type of
file, on the other hand are sites that, instead, specialize in types of content,
collecting links to files corresponding with specific types of products. In the
first group, Avaxhome is among the most frequently used, a cyberlocker version
of The Pirate Bay, which indeed has changed its own domain and URL very
often during the last decade, in order to evade local legislation. As it is easy
to notice, the site is structured in several categories (eBooks & eLearning,
Music, Video, Software, Magazines, etc.). This tool allows users to easily find
the file they are looking for, and this organization is associated with an inter-
nal research browser. Every file with specific content has its own page, which,
as in the most efficient cinematographic, literary, or videogames archives,
describes the downloadable file in a detailed manner and with additional pho-
tos and hyperlinks, adding information about the dimension of the file, the
kind of compression, the location of the file, and the basis of the cyberlocker
service.
Such cataloguing work has its foundations in organized and functional
labor, which is established within a community of users that are responsible
for the data and information retrieval and of their categorization; it is not a
coincidence that the site provides for registration, even if it makes freely avail-
able information on files, therefore providing them to everyone. Even more
important is the fact that the characteristics that identify the site become
recognizable to the user, similarly to the modalities of cataloguing and selec-
tion that distinguish an online free archive, or a pay catalogue of audiovisual
contents (i.e. Netflix, Hulu, Italian Mediaset Infinity). Hence, it is possible to
propose an additional specialization—based on the request of the users, and
particularly of fans—or a second group of indexing sites that gather specific
categories of content. Some example are cases like worldscinema.org, entirely
dedicated to auteur, experimental cinematographic products or to movies that
are difficult to retrieve, and onlyoldmovies.blogspot.com, dedicated to cine-
matographic products made before the 80s, which are also movies that are
barely supplied by formal distributors.
The indexing site becomes, in the final analysis, a real catalogue, a library,
for all intents and purposes, of a specific distributor—even if this distributor is
not represented by an individual, but by a multiplicity of users. Through the
indexing site, the role of the real beneficiary of potential profit moves from
the user who actually copies the content on a distribution device and puts
it into circulation, to the user who organizes the tools of distribution (links)
inside a platform. This specialization becomes an additional appeal element,
a recognizable character for the consumer.
Communities and the Impact of Netflix

The justifications that encourage users to use illegal methods of retrieval are
subjective and various, although it is possible to track down common lines
of thought that are particularly evident in the Cybernorms research area
regarding free comments granted by users. In April 2011, thanks to previous

agreements undertaken between the founders of the site The Pirate Bay and
the Swedish research group Cybernorms from the University of Lund, the
logo of the site was replaced with The Research Bay logo for three days. The
survey, which was accessible by clicking on the new logo, was completed by
over 75,000 users of the site from every part of the world. Among the ques-
tions included in the survey, particularly interesting is the one where the user
is asked to give a general comment on the file-sharing argument. The request
for a free comment gave the researchers the possibility of identifying both the
motivations and the justifications of those who illegally download content, in
addition to other data useful in defining the characteristic of file-sharing from
the social point of view. The personal motivations recall a movement within
the online media environment, completely individual and personalized, and
range from the simple convenience to the cost, including pseudoanarchic,
populist, or libertarian motivations: “‘people will produce culture without
remuneration’” (Andersson Schwartz & Larsson, 2014, p. 229).
Despite very different justifications that encourage individuals to use
file-sharing, a common theme is the redefinition of the viewing experience
which, in addition to temporality, is now fragmented in several reasons of
viewing, heterogeneously spread among the spectators: “the use of PC as the
terminal device of the filmic fruition has redefined the spectators’ experi-
ence, creating an hybrid between the work screen and the download screen,
manipulation, creation/recreation and fruition, and generating an original
(…) overlap between spectator and author” (Rigamonti, 2006, p. 96). As
soon as an overlap between spectator and author happens, the decision-
making responsibility of the viewer increases, now being equal to the creator
of the work, and indeed he/she becomes entitled to intervene in the work
itself.5 The common trait of all the justifications seems to be the freedom
to have and to independently follow one’s own opinion, which establishes
a very strong bond with the kind of distribution one can choose. As Shirky
pointed out talking about the social network Twitter, “as a medium gets faster,
it gets more emotional. We feel faster than we think” (Shirky, 2009). As a
medium, generically, it succeeds in simultaneously responding to a multiplic-
ity of demands, and with the same velocity, it becomes the favored means
by all individuals. This assumption gives us the opportunity to track down,
in the users’ opinions, characters that redefine the pirate user on the basis of
justifications (creating new moral criterions) and purposes (from simple fru-
ition to collection building) that drive them. The answers of the active users
reflect the need to fill an existing gap between the copyright laws and actual
social practices.6
The victims of this incongruity, young people growing up with the ambi-
guity of being justified in violating the law, demonstrate in this case a high
level of awareness of one’s own actions, as well as the desire that their own
condition might change. The free comments for the survey The Research Bay
demonstrate a need for change, with three main considerations about the
concept of piracy: that it is unstoppable, culturally convenient, and demo-
cratic (Anderson Schwartz & Larsson, 2014). These justifications encourage
the users of The Pirate Bay to take an iron-clad stance in support of piracy.
The piracy users’ motivations are mainly political, characterized by a
strong sense of their identity in evaluating their own justifications, to the
point of stating that piracy will always win against any institution or ruling
power. These users have a need to have their behavior accepted by society
and treated as a legitimate practice. This need is eventually responsible for the
creation of whole platforms for the retrieval of cultural contents through links
that have the aesthetic and organizational markers of a legitimate market.
These platforms demonstrate this need, to the point of being perceived on the
same level of a formal distribution channel.
To discuss some clarifying examples, the Italian landscape appears par-
ticularly exemplary of this practice, because of a delay in updating the audio-
visual distribution market to the online environment. This timeline is why
platforms like PirateStreaming, AltaDefinizione, or Eurostreaming, even
after the arrival of Netflix in the online market in 2015 and the expansion
of other local SVOD (Subscription Video on Demand services) like Media-
set Infinity and Sky Online, have maintained a dominant position. From the
study conducted by Nextplora in the middle of 2016, data show that “78% of
users choose to watch movies or TV series via pirate sites,” (Nextplora, 2016)
against 35% of interviewees reporting that they access online content through
legal services. Among the most used platforms, the previously mentioned sites
stand out as able to meet the requests of their users: PirateStreaming (14%),
Eurostreaming and AltaDefinzione (13%), followed by PopCorn Time (11%).
Indexing sites seem to fulfil not so much the users’ request of retrieval
functionality—then also supplying a possible occasion of economic profit—as
an indication of the users’ emotionality in looking for specific cultural con-
tent, a right which is recognized as legitimate. The indexing sites do not legal-
ize file-sharing in the perception of the final user—who also recognizes its
illegality—but makes that same form of distribution appealing, in comparison
to traditional forms of distribution that do not respond to personal requests

for additional content. It is not a coincidence that the fight over file-sharing
proved to be more efficient not as much through the blackout of specific ser-
vices,7 but instead following real competition with online services, which are
perceived as being at the same level and responding to the same demands of
the online market. By competing with piracy, online distribution services like
Netflix, Amazon or, in Italy, Mediaset Infinity, are now efficiently gathering
users from the bucket of piracy, proposing an offer which is emotionally more
interesting for the online viewer, implementing their functionalities in terms
of convenience, access possibilities, comfort, and quantity.8
Similar to the Netflix catalogue—which is recognizable thanks to specific
characteristics and peculiarities of viewing—the forms of cataloguing used by
the majority of indexing sites propose efficient and recognizable functions.
To name a few, the possibility to choose among several types of formats (HD
or not), compression, and then quality of the audiovisual file, viewing types
(streaming/download, with original language or not, subtitled or dubbed),9 or
also the recommendation of similar content or of the most popular titles.10
These features allow these informal distributors to be—for all intents and
purposes—competitive, with specific features that are interchangeable with
formal distributors. Similarly, the user is able to feel a sense of love-mark
towards the distributor that, in the case of informal platforms—even more if
they are part of a grey zone hardly categorizable from a moral point of view
by the user, as in the case of cyberlockers—becomes a brand of the distributor,
with specific political and socio-economic connotations. If in the case of Bit-
Torrent, the political motion significantly distinguishes the active uploader
users from the free-riders, earmarking the linking site to have an essentially
functional role that is often outdated in comparison with the simple research
on Google, a different situation happens in the case of file-sharing through
cyberlockers. Here, the indexing site more clearly becomes a primary vehicle
for the user to recognize the service, acting as a showcase.
At the same time, the formal distribution is learning from the infor-
mal systems the necessity to create, or to take advantage of, communities.
As Marrazzo remembers, the primary and historic Italian public broadcaster
RAI, even from 2013 has been distinguished “for a greater attention towards
new languages and themes, through the choice of serial products constantly
linked to the contemporaneity” (Marrazzo, 2016) and, more importantly, has
been one of the firsts to experiment with “a productive line dedicated to the
web-oriented production” (ibid.). This approach materialized with the launch
in 2015 of the Ray portal, an online laboratory dedicated to the youth mar-
ket. It is from these first examples to the actual online platforms launched by
mainstream Italian broadcasters in the same period (2015), that is indicative
of how they were learning a fundamental lesson: the need to make commu-
nity, which both indexing sites and formal catalogues (including Netflix and
other OTT services) fulfill. It is not a coincidence that both the showcases
are currently overflowing with a specific product, the scripted TV series, in
opposition to the reality and talk show formats—“the two genres-symbols of
the crises (…) of the mainstream TV” (Ibid.)—for its own capability to create
loyalty and collective identity. This content generates community, facilitating
the emotionality of the viewers, projecting television storytelling always more
towards the spectator’s private sphere instead of the collective one, which
primarily characterizes reality and talk genres.
As a consequence, the same catalogue becomes a special mean for the
exhibition of emotionality. It must be able to generate community itself, cre-
ating discourses about the catalogue’s capability of containment and its poten-
tiality, terms that become comparable to the formal characteristics of systems
based on indexing sites, particularly if connected to cyberlocker services,
which also have political and socio-economic implications. These modalities
through which access points are exposed, types of distributed contents and—
equally—the emotional bond they establish with the viewer. In both cases,
catalogues’ and indexing sites’ characteristics and recognizability are proposed
as elements of identification of the service (or lovemarks), and allow the con-
sumer to choose a specific informal or formal distributor.
Notes
1. For an extended version of the research: Larson, Svensson, and de Kaminski (2014).
2. In their study on the justification of piracy, Andersson Schwarz and Larsson list a series
of answers by an examined sample of The Pirate Bay users identifying as the main justi-
fication (30.63% in a total of 67,838 respondents) the answer “Cheapness/expenditure”
(Andersson Schwartz & Larsson, 2014).
3. “The pirate that, for many reasons, appears as the digital version of the free-rider, should
be considered nowadays as both a user and a consumer, even if anomalous compared to
stabilized figures” (Pescatore, 2013, p. 48).
4. As defined by Henry Jenkins, i.e., “the capacity of the public to engage actively in the cir-
culation of media content through social networks and in the process [expanding] its eco-
nomic value and cultural worth,” Jenkins, 2009. In addition, the term refers to “the technical
resources that make it easier to circulate some kinds of content than others, the economic
structures that support or restrict circulation, the attributes of a media text that might appeal
to a community’s motivation for sharing material, and the social networks that link people
through the exchange of meaningful bytes” (Jenkins, Ford, & Green, 2013, p. 4).
5. Echoing Lessig’s definition of “read-write culture” and of the use of remix within it (Lessig,
2008), we could extend the idea to the concept of a GIF culture, aiming to highlight the
users’possibility to decontextualize and appropriate a copyrighted and also authorial con-
tent to give it new meanings: “The communicative capabilities of the.gif image format—an
image in movement characterized by a short duration and by a repetitive and looping pace—
depend not only on the usability of the extrapolated content, but also on its total alienation
from the authorial motion” (Prosperi, 2017). Read-write, Remix or GIF are the fundamental
traits of a user-centered culture where the creator’s importance is perceived as secondary.
6. Indeed, we can acknowledge a divergence due to something in the “metaphors of copyright
that do not correspond to the conceptions of the corresponding social norms.” (Larsson,
2011, p. 21).
7. And through specific communication strategies of criminalization of piracy, as it is pointed
out by Yar (2008).
8. Reasons that are among those found by the Nextplora’s study for the use of streaming services.
9. A clear example is the Italian platform CineBlog01 (http://www.cb01.uno).
10. As it happens in the platform Italia-Film (http://www.italia-film.gratis).
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pedagogy and capitalist property relations in the classroom. New Media & Society, 10(4),
605–623.
section ii
content
·5·
netflix and tv - as - film
A Case Study of Stranger Things and The OA
Ana Cabral Martins
For the last two decades, the emergence of digital content distribution has
made filmed entertainment available through a myriad of new platforms and
formats thanks to this technology. Online digital platforms, such as Netflix,
have been erasing medium-specificity, i.e., features that are unique to the
nature of one particular medium, specifically cinema and television.
This blur between cinema and television has also increased through the
same treatment offered by platforms such as Netflix to its properties, includ-
ing episodic content such as their original “television” series, or films they
produce or buy to distribute. The Cannes controversy over Bong Joon-ho’s
new film Okja (2017) that led the festival to proclaim that Netflix films will
not compete for festival prizes starting next year is proof of Netflix’s disrup-
tive force.
As both cinema (see the shared universe model of the Marvel Cinematic
Universe1) and particularly television, have become increasingly serialized,
so too has the appeal of long-form storytelling increased. Evidence of this
change can be found in the kind of talent that is increasingly attracted to seri-
alized storytelling, whether on television (ushered in by the likes of the recent
Breaking Bad, Mad Men, True Detective series) or in streaming platforms under
the guise of “quality television.”
The impact of long-form storytelling has led to examples of such televi-

sual storytelling considered as akin to long films. The phrasing “a very long
movie” has been used by countless creators regarding their own projects, from
Game of Thrones to The OA and Stranger Things. Essential characteristics of
this new kind of long-form content of which The OA and Stranger Things
are examples derives from features that are inherently specific to the Netflix
platform: its “binge-watchability,” the fact that Netflix thinks and operates in
terms of seasons and not episodes, and its pre-conception of a season in terms
of a 10-hour (the usual although imperfect model), 13-hour (used by the Mar-
vel Netflix series) or 8-hour narrative, which allows for new modes of struc-
turing narratives. The 8-hour story, a model used by both The OA and Stranger
Things, has arguably been the most successfully paced. It eschews most of the
concerns critics such as Alan Sepinwall have regarding “pacing problems”
when it comes to programs whose hours of content merely stretch narratives
that are unable to sustain the runtime of the season (Sepinwall, 2018).
Erosion of Cinema and Television’s

Medium-Specificity
Emma Bee Bernstein wrote medium specificity is inextricably related to a “dis-
tinct materiality of artistic media,” even though this is essentially defined by
convention given that “the qualities that define a medium are not irreducible
or inherent properties” but instead “historically construed categories of tools
and practices” (Bernstein, n.d.). In this way, cinema and television’s media
specificity can be seen more as a “convention” than an actual inherent and
inescapable quality of the media. I argue this is a relevant avenue of thought to
explore considering how digital technology has, as a perhaps collateral effect,
stripped media from its materiality. As David Bordwell (2012) proclaimed, a
film is no longer an actual “film,” but instead undifferentiated content to be
fed into a database. This freedom from materiality provided by the database or
streaming platform, allows for inventiveness unfettered by rules of broadcast
programming. In this way, filmmakers are drawn to the creation and produc-
tion of stories that can bend narrative structures more easily—as is the case
regarding both The OA and Stranger Things. Taking into consideration the
importance of the apparatus for both media, let’s consider how the differences
between the two have become more porous through the years, especially with
the advent of digital technology.
netflix and tv-as-film 83
Anne Friedberg (2000) explored how film started losing its media specific-
ity and cinema “as we know it” seemed to end (p. 380). Friedberg stated that
the cinema screen “has been replaced by its digital other, the computer screen”
(p. 439). The author argued that the end of the twentieth century encoun-
tered cinema as a severely transformed form of popular entertainment due to
having become embedded, or even lost, in new media technologies, blurring
the lines of media specificity: “the differences between the media of movies,
television and computers are rapidly diminishing” (p. 439). The “symptom-
atic discourse” referred to this phenomenon as “media fusion,” “multimedia,”
or “media convergence” (p. 439). Specifically, Friedberg contended that the
kinds of images that are shown on screens (theater screen, television screen,
computer screen) are “losing their medium-based specificity” (p. 439) due to
the homogenization of digitization. Interestingly, the author discussed how a
number of technologies introduced in the 1970s and the 1980s led to the “con-
vergence of film and television technology” (p. 440), even before digitization,
muddling the differences between media, as well as altering their respective
viewing experiences. The video cassette recorder (VCR), television remote
control, and cable television were able to not only change audiences’ “sense
of temporality,” but also prepare them for “the advent of computer screens
with wired (Internet) connections—for interactive usage instead of passive
spectatorship” (p. 442). To Friedberg, the VCR made it possible for the “cine-
matic and televisual past [to become] more easily accessible and interminably
recyclable” (p. 443).
Like Friedberg, Laura Mulvey (2006) realized how much new media tech-
nologies and devices (video, DVD) have transformed the way we experience
cinema. Audiences can now exercise control over movies with the above-
mentioned technologies and that changes their rapport, leading to “new ways
of watching films” (p. 7) and even “new ways of watching old movies.” There
is, in tandem, a new kind of “spectatorship” that is being developed by these
technologies (p. 8). Mulvey also argued for a different kind of emancipatory
quality brought on by video and digital technologies. The ability to return
to and repeat a film interrupts the “flow of film, delaying its progress, and in
the process, discovering the cinema’s complex relation to time” (p. 8). These
mechanisms of delay and time-shifting are early indicators of a tendency
towards the personalization of the home viewing experience. If the theater
viewing experience of a spectator is much more immersive in a passive way
(quietly sitting down and beholding what is presented without control over
its presentation), the home viewing experience is immersive in an active way
(having, increasingly, total control over the whole experience: when and
where to watch, pause, skip, stop, etc.).
One can say that digital technology removed film from cinema, but while
the “filmic” (that which pertains to film) stepped out of the proverbial frame,
the “cinematic” (that which pertains to cinema) takes center stage. As Cavell
(1979) conveyed, the categories of “succession” and “projection” merely high-
light that which is the “essence of the cinematic,” including montage and
continuity (p. 73), which encompass the grammar of cinematic language. The
idea of cinema possessing its own language and visual grammar is what tran-
scends the medium beyond its materiality—and, therefore, beyond the issue
of media specificity—and allows its endurance beyond its technological and
technical support.
Roberta Piazza, Monika Bednarek, and Fabio Rossi (2011) argued that
the notion of “telecinematic discourse” establishes “a link between fictional/
narrative cinema and television” through seeing them both as examples of
integrated multimodal (verbal and visual) fictional narratives. The authors
were quick to point out, however, the “intrinsic differences between them,”
because films and television shows follow “specific conventions and fulfill
viewer’s expectations in different ways on all levels” (p. 1). Piazza et al. exem-
plified the differences between cinema and television by stating that they can
be seen “in the contrast between a single isolated narrative experience in the
case of film versus a more consistent and/or repeated exposure to a televisual
narrative in the case of television” (p. 1). Nonetheless, I make the case for
examples of televisual content that can—and have been—seen as more akin
to cinematic content while not being beholden to either medium; the con-
tent has been created specifically for a digital platform, which upends usual
conventions. In making this case, I venture that The OA and Stranger Things
are adept at, on the one hand, crafting an isolated narrative and, on the other
hand, encouraging said narrative be consumed as a single experience, rather
than through repeated exposure. This way, these programs favor the unity of
the narrative instead of its multiplicity. Here, I’m taking a cue from the editor
of Cahiers du Cinéma, Stéphane Delorme, who wrote what he considered to
be the general difference between cinema and television, placing it squarely
in a spectrum from multiplicity (television) to unity (cinema). Something
that is though of, from its inception, as a unit would go further into the spec-
trum in the direction of cinema (Delorme, 2018). Notably, both The OA and
Stranger Things work towards blending or blurring the lines between televisual
and cinematic structures and languages.
Netflix, Television, and Binge-Viewing

When preparing to write a piece for the Portuguese magazine Sábado on the
proliferation of television series and the growing supply across platforms
(Cabral Martins, 2017), I interviewed a series of American journalists on their
thoughts regarding “Peak TV”—a concept that emerged when John Landgraf,
CEO of FX Networks, stated in an industry event in 2015 that the United
States had reached “peak television”—and on the idea often cited by creators
of “the x-hour movie.” Reactions ranged from reasoning that streaming plat-
forms have changed the logics of viewing and allowed for heavily serialized
narratives, which increased the value of those programs, to damning such
a reductive phrase. In most cases, while it’s an ultimately valid ambition, it
reinforces an outdated distinction between TV as less serious than—or even,
less creative than—and places the emphasis on movies as the artistic higher
plane on which to aspire. At the same time, focus is placed on a season arc
instead of on smaller stories and at the expense of crafting individual episodes.
What is inescapable, however, is the notion than emphasizing the cinematic
qualities of a television show corresponds to prestige, which is, at face value,
a pernicious argument, as quality television cannot be something that solely
strives to be cinematic.
Chuck Tryon wrote about Netflix’s original strategies and analyzed the
kind of discourse that the company enforced while trying to set itself apart
with promises of participation, prestige and personalization. Tryon (2015) cited
Kevin Spacey, of Netflix’s original series House of Cards, proclaiming (in a
speech at the 2013 Guardian Edinburgh Television Festival): “Is thirteen hours
watched as one cinematic whole really any different from a film?” (p. 104). For
the author, the use of such a discourse of legitimation was more than familiar,
new only when it came to linking “the practice of binge viewing to quality
television” (p. 104). Furthermore, Tryon argued that Netflix was simply fol-
lowing in HBO’s footsteps—a cable channel that famously sought to differ-
entiate itself from TV in order to present a more prestigious veneer (“It’s not
TV. It’s HBO”)—seeking to “define the streaming service against traditional
television, while also making streaming video into something that will fulfill
the promise of textual novelty, of new storytelling practices” (p. 105). Thusly,
Netflix’s aim in producing its own original content has been to, technologically
and aesthetically, position itself as the future of TV while moving beyond TV.
On the notion of “discourses of legitimation,” Tryon contended that Net-
flix has incentivized the “packaging” of their filmed entertainment, priming it
to “be viewed sequentially and repeatedly” or continuously (p. 106). In turn,

these changes have opened up two dominant modes of viewing on subscrip-
tion video-on-demand services: “discovery or archival mode,” where viewers
discover older shows, and “instant mode,” a mode “encouraged by Netflix’s
practice of releasing an entire season of a series simultaneously”. Tryon argued
that this latter mode is emphasized by Netflix in order to foster “promises of
prestige, plenitude, participation, and personalization” (p. 106). The dynamic
of the “instant mode” also tends towards facilitating consecutive viewing
(with the ease that episodes follow each other up with only 5 or 15 seconds of
repose) and turns binge watching into the new normal.
Furthermore, while Netflix embraced television content by producing its
own original library of series, it did so by “distancing itself from traditional
modes of TV storytelling and consumption.” By fostering binge watching and
simultaneous release practices, these became aesthetic components of contem-
porary televisual viewing. These practices have also led to “more innovative
storytelling practices because a show’s creators can assume that those viewers
will be more likely to remember subtle details” (p. 110). Tryon cited a Wired
Magazine article by Grant McCracken where the latter argued that binge
viewing was conducive to producing “better” television because creators and
writers would not be shackled by the “need for recaps and other clunky nar-
rative devices,” allowing for more “complex TV narratives” (p. 112). Finally,
Tryon argued that through promotional discourses, Netflix “increasingly casts
itself as participating in the reinvention and in the cultivation of new modes
of TV storytelling.” While this position may reinforce ahistorical claims about
changes in the television industry, it is still worth of our attention—Stranger
Things and The OA are examples of how Netflix allows for different ways of
creating longform content, specifically through a mixture of televisual and
cinematic languages. Todd VanDerWerff (2015) contended, “binge-watching
fundamentally changes the basic unit of cinematic storytelling.” Netflix story-
tellers, in particular, “aren’t just adjusting to this; they’re increasingly catering
to it, telling longer and longer stories” (VanDerWerff, 2015).
In the New York Times, James Poniewozik (2018) illustrated how, unlike
other cable channels, Netflix doesn’t have a brand. Unlike the ethos of most
American cable channels, Netflix’s is more akin to “something for everyone”
like broadcast television. Although, because Netflix’s revenue does not come
from the advertising model—which then “forces” every show to appeal to the
broadest range of people—but from subscribers instead, which leads the ser-
vice to be “breathtakingly broad and microscopically niche at the same time.
It’s selling a platform to everyone, but by providing products for very spe-
cific tastes” (Poniewozik, 2018). Nevertheless, Thomas Schatz (2014) called
Netflix one of the “most significant and disruptive forces in contemporary
television,” whose pivot from “flix” to television changed “the ways we access
and watch TV,” ending up representing a significant variation on the “ancient
broadcast television model.” Schatz noted that Netflix’s online streaming
operation was more favorable to TV series than it was to film content, and
the key to its success has been its ability to make the right programming
decisions. Netflix is interested in producing its own shows, as well as films,
and cultivating new talent. This focus has meant a considerable migration
of established, as well as not established, “filmmaking talent from movies,
particularly the fading indie-film sector, to TV series production.” This move
has led to an arrangement that seems to be the best of both worlds: talent is
freed from the constraints of regular studio production, and “viewers are freed
from the constraints of regular programming and commercial interruptions”
(Schatz, 2014).
Finally, in regards to medium specificity and convergence, Amanda D.
Lotz noted that a case can be made that digital technologies and online plat-
forms blur the lines between television and other media:
In the first decade of the 21st century, television escaped categorization as “old media”
and is now perceived as a crucial part of the digital, social, mobile media future. Some
devil might advocate that it is more precisely video that is shared across a range of
screens and contexts; that it is an unreasonable stretch to assert that tablet and smart-
phone technologies, industrial formations that include broadband distributors such
as YouTube, Netflix, and Hulu, and the ability to view anytime, anywhere still make
this content characteristic of television. (Lotz, 2014)
This passage denotes precisely how digital technologies have seemingly

rendered cinema and television indistinct, insofar as the machinery that sup-
ports each medium has become one and the same. Just as there are proponents
of a language of cinema that is transcendent from its technical capture and
presentation, Lotz argued, “our cultural practice of experiencing daily, mostly
video communication as television [author’s emphasis] overrides the techno-
logical nuance of delivery system.” She admits, however, to expanded story-
telling possibilities and allows that the medium of audio-visual storytelling we
call television is still ripe for exploration. My argument, of course, is that this
exploration can draw television and cinema closer in the spectrum referenced
by Delorme and mentioned above. In fact, the cultural practice of consuming
video on Netflix doesn’t necessarily translate into experiencing it as television,

but rather as content. And “content” is a much less rigid categorization and
one that allows for the undifferentiated contemplation of television and cin-
ema. When watching Netflix, there are no definitive lines that separate, for
instance, watching eight, perhaps continuous, hours of The OA versus watch-
ing nearly five and a half of both uncut volumes of Lars von Trier’s Nympho-
maniac (2013).
Case Studies: Stranger Things and The OA

In an era of on-demand viewership, audiences are engaged and sophisti-
cated, allowing the television medium to offer opportunities, not limitations.
Stranger Things and The OA are examples of forms of storytelling that bridge
the distance between cinema and television, that utilize the same language
(or a combination of cinematic and televisual languages), and that are in a
less extreme placement on the spectrum between television and film.
Stranger Things: American 80s Films as Television
The word-of-internet success of Stranger Things stemmed, in large part, from

its ability to recapture a certain essence of feeling that was present during the
1980s in the work of two Stevens: the films of Steven Spielberg and the books
of Stephen King. The influence of these authors and the nostalgic feeling of
this series is beyond the scope of this chapter. Furthermore, this analysis focuses
on the show’s first season. Creators Matt and Ross Duffer began their careers
with the 2015 horror film Hidden and worked that same year on episodes of
M. Night Shyamalan’s adaptation of sci-fi novel Wayward Pines. Film director
Shyamalan’s mentorship allowed the Duffers to pursue their own idea for a
show. Their original rationale, inspired by Hugh Jackman’s Prisoners (2013), as
told to Kory Grow from Rolling Stone, was: “‘Wouldn’t that movie have been
even better in eight hours on HBO or Netflix?’” (Grow, 2016). Already the idea
of treating it like a movie, only longer, was the kernel of idea that fueled the
whole first season. The plot is easy to summarize: in order to rescue Will (Noah
Schnapp) from the alternative dimension of the Upside-Down, Mike (Finn
Wolfhard), Dustin (Gaten Matarazzo), and Lucas (Caleb McLaughlin) worked
alongside Will’s mom (Winona Ryder), police chief Jim Hopper (David Har-
bour), Will’s brother Jonathan (Charlie Heaton), Mike’s sister Nancy (Natalia
Dyer), Nancy’s not-truly-bad boyfriend Steve (Joe Keery), and the mysteri-
ous and fantastical Eleven (Millie Bobby Brown) to confront evil and defeat
it. They were able to rescue Will, but seemed to lose Eleven in the process,
although, it was suggested in the final moments that she was still out there.
Initially, it is interesting to consider how much the first season was
thought of by the creators as a unified whole The episodes are not thought
of as individual units, with beginnings-middles-ends, but as a purposefully
slow building up of the narrative along three demographic lines: the adults,
the teenagers, and the kids, who all converge in the latter part of the sea-
son. Stranger Things essentially works as an eight-hour version of a Steven
Spielberg movie (the comparisons to E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial, 1982, are not
far-fetched, on the contrary). The structure of the season is also very much
movie-like—and let us not take for granted the auto-play feature and lack of
episode recaps (it does, however, have open and end credits). This structure
flows much more in a long-form storytelling mode—considering that it has,
as Todd VanDerWerff (2017) argued, a “reasonably involving opening, a solid
climax, and then a bunch of stuff in the middle.” The middle is where the
difficulty setting is higher, because, on the one hand, it deepens and expands
tropes, even if largely adhering to them (VanDerWerff, 2016); on the other
hand, it does feature some plot contrivances, which allow for the “[d]elay of
audience gratification,” something that has been “a staple of episodic story-
telling for a long time” (Matthews, 2016).
Both the production house and creative forces treated the text more akin
to cinema in its marketing as well, and the second season was promoted as a
sequel. In “‘Stranger Things 2’ Fights the Sequel Blues,” NPR’s Linda Holmes
(2017) wrote that the creators were “insistent on treating their series like a
film.” In the actual Netflix interface, while catalogued in the same section as
the first season (i.e., within the folder of Stranger Things and not as a sepa-
rate entity catalogued as Stranger Things 2), when one chooses the “episodes
options,” instead of the customary “Season 1” and “Season 2,” they are labeled
as Stranger Things and Stranger Things 2. Consequently, from the get-go, the
season was positioned as a movie sequel—even if, in its second iteration, the
Duffer brothers were prone to a more episodic structure, specifically at least
when it came to episode seven, a contained story focusing only on Eleven.
This example, however, only serves to underline how little the first season
considered each installment individually.
Holmes (2017) argued that while usually this type of “nitpicking of
nomenclature and classification is a fruitless effort to beat back the inevitable
collapse of filmed entertainment into a less cleanly bounded whole,” in the

case of Stranger Things 2, this made sense. Not only because the first season
felt like a contained and completed tale, but also because the second season
actually features the shortcomings of a movie sequel, such as the existence of a
“fine line between maintaining the feel and signature of a show and beginning
to repeat its patterns”.
Finally, it’s also relevant to observe how the names of the episodes are
titled as chapters, like “Chapter Three: Holly, Jolly” or “Chapter Four: The
Body,” which conveys less of an episodic structure and more of a literary struc-
ture (following the influence of Stephen King in the creation of this show),
very much like a Tarantino movie that’s divided into chapters or the afore-
mentioned Nymphomaniac, which was divided into chapters and two volumes.
The OA: Long-form Storytelling
The OA was a December surprise back in 2016. The project was announced in
2015 but had few specifics and no release date until only a few days before it
hit Netflix. For many viewers, the program was something they stumbled upon
when it was released as an eight part series. A genre-defying thriller sprinkled
with touches of spirituality and mystery, The OA focuses on a blind woman
(Brit Marling) who disappears only to resurface with her sight regained. From
the production’s early stages, The OA was pitched as having a five-season arc,
and rather than developing a narrative that shifts directions after each season,
the series is one long story which will be released in blocks.
Peter Debruge considered The OA as a breakthrough because of “what
it means for cinema—and the future of narrative storytelling.” Debruge
explained that, while The OA is hosted and created by Netflix and techni-
cally divided into episodes and should, therefore, be labeled as “television”
(or, perhaps, as Amanda D. Lotz also toys with), it is actually a “long-form
movie.” Like Stranger Things, it’s divided into “eight chapters, conceived by a
pair of paradigm-challenging filmmakers who’ve recognized untapped poten-
tial in this new medium.” Unlike Stranger Things, which can be perceived as
a remix of influences that appeals to a nostalgic sentiment, The OA is one of
“the purest pieces of auteur filmmaking,” coming directly from the mind of
its creators, writer-director Zal Batmanglij and co-writer-star Brit Marling. If
we continue to borrow Stéphane Delorme’s idea of the unity-to-multiplicity
spectrum, where a text is thought of as a unity from a clear set of creators, then
The OA is clearly using cinema’s structures and even languages. Batmanglij
and Marling have been collaborating for a long time. Their first feature-length
“brainchild” was actually Sound of My Voice (2011), which was “conceived
as a serialized narrative, with miniature cliffhangers or twists paced every 10
to 15 minutes, building to one giant open-ended head-scratcher at the end.”
Had Netflix been producing its own content at the time, it would surely have
snagged it. As Debruge argued, they were already “thinking beyond the usual
limitations of narrative” and working within a framework that is thoroughly
ambiguous while committing to a destination, operating more in the “cine-
matic than television tradition.” This story was presented by the creators as
a self-contained narrative, a standalone eight-hour story that has a begin-
ning, middle and end, providing a “depth with which few two-hour mysteries
can possibly compete”—while still leaving the door open for future seasons
(Debruge, 2016).
Batmanglij is not thinking in terms of episodes and each one runs a differ-
ent length. In a more consistent way than Stranger Things, The OA has a very
deliberate sense of pace when it comes to its chapters: the “opening” cred-
its arrive nearly an hour into the first chapter to never appear again, further
underlining how cinematic it is. The chapters are not so clearly identified as
such in their names (as Stranger Things’ are), but the boundaries between each
installment is incredibly porous. While the episodes have end credits, then
don’t appear in auto-play mode. The only indication of a change in episode is
an ethereal “separator,” an image with a circular point of light that lasts the
five seconds it needs so that Netflix plays the following episode right away.
In an interview with Esquire, Batmanglij divulged that they were “inter-
ested in the similarity between novels and long-form [my emphasis] televi-
sion, and we wanted to approach this more like you would writing a novel.”
This approach impacted how they planned character introductions and the
placement of their “story engine[s]” and climax. In the same piece, Marling
talked about Netflix as a place for filmmakers to “tell robust, different kinds
of stories,” concerning “original, long format stories” (Dibdin, 2016). In an
in another interview, Marling talked about how The OA “stretches the limits
of what long-form storytelling can be” (Bramesco, 2016). Going back to the
unity-to-multiplicity spectrum written about by Stéphane Delorme, The OA
is a “continuous, ever-escalating narrative, and each of the eight segments
distributed by Netflix is a chapter” (Debruge, 2016). Delorme (2018) also
wrote about the desire to tell stories in long-form, and the filmmakers might
see in television the opportunity to explore long-form in ways feature films
don’t allow. This longing for something more long-form emulates literature,
and he mentions filmmakers that have followed the literary model in their
own work, such as Nymphomaniac or La Vie d’Adèle (Abdellatif Kechiche,
2013). The interplay between long-form storytelling, literature, and cinema
and a division into chapters is territory being explored on multiple fronts,
both in theatrical cinema and in Netflix’s on-demand, streaming distribution
model. The OA may be one of the most groundbreaking pieces of storytelling
in recent years, I’d argue, because it blends so thoroughly these gaps between
the languages and structures of television and cinema.
Netflix Poetics and Concluding Thoughts

Casey McCormick (2017), argued, “the full-season dump model departs from
the traditional industry logic of offering viewers a slow drip of content.” This
traditional logic means hyping appointment television, as well as distribu-
tion gaps or hiatuses, which generate anticipation. Essentially, her argument
here is that economic imperatives affect the formal structures of television,
such as “plot, and character pacing, season and episode length,” but also types
of character, tone, violence and other graphic content. When it comes to
on-demand streaming platforms such as Netflix, the economic imperatives
shift—although the platform does encourage appointment viewing and binge
viewing2, as well as “binge racing” (Keene, 2017). Due to the subscription
model, there is no “slow drip of content,” hiatus, or structured narrative breaks
imposed by commercials.
I have argued that on-demand native series can much more easily translate
their freedom from the aforementioned restraints of the traditional television
economy into new forms of storytelling and play with serialized storytelling
in new ways. Stranger Things played with language usually reserved for block-
buster filmmaking, providing its first season not with a second one but with
a sequel. The OA utilized the Netflix streaming apparatus to its advantage by
creating a show that is devoid of televisual markers and instead plays as a long
film, especially when taking advantage of the auto-play mode.
The importance conceded to the episode versus to the season is of par-
amount concern when discussing Netflix’s stories. VanDerWerff (2015) has
said, “Netflix thinks more in terms of seasons than episodes,” and Netflix’s
chief content officer Ted Sarandos has famously stated, “the first season of
Bloodline is the pilot.” To the streaming platform, the whole is more important
than its individual parts, and the episode, the individual unit of television,
is demoted in favor of the season as the true barometer of meaning. This
emphasis indicates a tendency from Netflix itself toward narratives that favor
a different kind of unity, one more closely associated with the cinematic refer-
ence of the single experience. Another television critic, Alan Sepinwall, has
bemoaned this focus on storytelling and has defended the individual episode,
having real reservations when TV positions itself as akin to literature or film
(Sepinwall, 2015, 2017). In VanDerWerff eyes, however, Netflix is inadver-
tently inventing a new art form, somewhere between TV and film. This is
notable, as I discussed in detail in this chapter, from the way both The OA and
Stranger Things blur the lines between the “multiplicity” of their chapters and
the “unity” of its narrative. The “movie-only-longer” slogan fits neatly when
it comes to The OA and Stranger Things.
According to McCormick (2017), the past years of prolific original pro-
gramming has given creators working with Netflix “opportunity to experiment
with this storytelling form,” having created a “specific set of tools and tactics
for creating meaning in televisual narrative” that she calls “Netflix poetics.”
The author describes the poetics—apart from distinctions in episode length
and season structures—as including “thematic and stylistic consistencies across
programming genres.” These consistencies, as well as this poetic structure, are
present in The OA and Stranger Things and contribute to their status as long-
form narratives, somewhere between cinema and television. Both these shows
are “metafictional or self-conscious about storytelling,” including narrators or
underlining “storytelling-as-such” (like The OA). Of course, any recapping
strategies are eschewed, and cliffhangers are utilized to a much lesser extent.
The power of auto-play (an encouraged practice), as McCormick argues, is a
feature that “subverts the power of endings,” and it primarily serves to keep a
viewer watching: “we are often so lured by the joys of narrative immersion that
we give ourselves over to the addictive flow of a particular series.” The immer-
sive power of the narrative is imperative for the unfolding of these case studies
as examples of longform storytelling that exist between cinema and televi-
sion. Ultimately, as on-demand viewing emphasizes a “drive towards finality by
encouraging binge-viewing” (McCormick, 2017), the longform nature of The
OA or Stranger Things is reinforced. Finality is not achieved at the end of a par-
ticular episode, but at the end of the provided content—as if it were a movie.
Notes
1. Joanna Robinson writes about this in her article “Is the Marvel Cinematic Universe
Actually the Most Popular TV Show of the Decade?” (2017) in Vanity Fair.
2. While binge viewing can be considered a passive activity, there is an increased control put
on the viewer’s end, where audiences have much more control over how and when they
consume media.
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·6·
at the fringes of tv
Liminality and Privilege in Netflix’s Original
Scripted Dramedy Series
Jessica Ford
Netflix has produced and distributed an extraordinary amount of original con-

tent since 2012, including documentaries, variety series, and feature films.
However, it is their original scripted television series that have attracted the
most critical attention. Netflix original series are subjected to considerable
scrutiny from of popular culture criticism sites, including Vulture, The A.V.
Club, and Slate. In 2015, Vulture produced a “definitive list” that evaluated and
ranked all of Netflix’s original series available at that moment (Lyons, 2015).
Considerable digital column inches have been dedicated to the micro-analysis
and critique of Netflix’s most “binge-able” series, including House of Cards
(2013–2018), Orange Is the New Black (2013–2019), Unbreakable Kimmy
Schmidt (2015–2019), Stranger Things (2016-present), and 13 Reasons Why
(2017-present).
As of 2018, Netflix produces and distributes far more original scripted
content than other subscription video-on-demand platforms, including
Amazon and Hulu. Despite this, Netflix Originals still only makes up a small
percentage of Netflix’s expansive catalogue both in the US and internation-
ally (Wayne, 2017, p. 6). As a result, the overwhelming majority of content
distributed by Netflix is produced and initially distributed via other platforms
and networks. Nevertheless, Netflix Originals shape and influence Netflix’s
brand identity more than the other content they distribute. Netflix is still an
anomaly in the US and global television landscape in scale, branding, and
content development, and how it operates at the fringes of the US television
landscape as it functions outside the terrestrial broadcast and cable systems.
Viewers need a certain amount of cultural capital to access Netflix’s original
programming, as they must either pay the required subscription fee or have
the know-how to access the series through illegal means. As such Netflix is
simultaneously “outside” traditional US television structures and understood
as occupying a privileged position.
This chapter will explore how this tension between liminality and priv-
ilege manifests thematically, narratively, generically, tonally, and aesthet-
ically in various Netflix original scripted television series. As such I will
examine the Netflix Original dramedies Orange Is the New Black, Master
of None (2015-present), Lady Dynamite (2016–2017), Dear White People
(2017-present), and GLOW (2017-present). Although this group may seem
disparate in terms aesthetics, form, subject, and tone, taken together they affirm
the quiet radicality of Netflix’s approach to original scripted programming.
TV Today: “Young, Smart, and on the Move”

In the past, US television was considered a feminized medium associated
with the domestic space (Spigel, 1992, pp. 73–74). In the post-network era,
however, the dominant narratives around US scripted television emphasize
the narrative that it has been revolutionized. As Charlotte Brunsdon argues,
“Instead of being associated with housebound women, this new television is
young, smart, and on the move, downloaded or purchased to watch at will.”
(2010, pp. 65–66) This concept of television as young and mobile is often
associated with Netflix.
Existing scholarship on Netflix largely focuses on algorithms, branding
strategies, and binge-culture (Hallinan & Striphas, 2014; McDonald & Smith-
Rowsey, 2016; Wayne, 2017). While certain original series, such as House of
Cards and Orange Is the New Black, have garnered considerable academic and
popular attention, there is minimal examination of the aesthetic, thematic,
generic, and narrative similarities across scripted Netflix Originals. Netflix
has been celebrated by critics and audiences for its provocative and challeng-
ing programming that relies on previously unheard voices and stories, such
as those of women, people of color, and differently-abled people (Boboltz &
at the fringes of tv 99
Williams, 2016; Page, 2016). Many of these Netflix original scripted televi-
sion programs are at once marginal and privileged, as evidenced textually and
extra-textually in the series’ thematic concerns, use of genre, and negotiation
of issues of gender, race, class, and ability.
Liminality and privilege are loaded (and often contradictory) political
concepts that move across critical race theory, gender studies, postfeminist
theory, cultural studies, whiteness studies, and examinations of class and
caste. As they are historically embedded concepts with distinct ideologies,
ontologies, and epistemologies they have varied meanings and uses that are
often context dependent (Broadhurst, 1999; Kimmel & Ferber, 2016). Sang
Hyun Lee notes that, “Liminality is the situation of being in between two or
more worlds, and includes the meaning of being located at the periphery or
edge of a society” (2010, p. x). I use the term liminality to refer to a state of
marginalization, whereby something or someone exists or is forced to operate
outside or at the fringes of a mainstream place or space. Privilege refers to the
material, cultural, historical, and/or economic advantages that have been or
are currently afforded to individuals or groups of people. Privilege is the result
of systemic inequality based on race, class, gender, ability, sexuality, religion,
ethnicity and other social and cultural divisions. I use the concept of “priv-
ilege” as it has emerged out of feminist theory (hooks, 1984). Privilege is a
key issue of feminism’s third and fourth waves. Feminist theorist Sara Ahmed
notes that “what makes a privilege a privilege” is “the experiences you are
protected from having; the thoughts you do not have to think” (2017, p. 181).
Privilege and liminality are lived experiences and they manifest in represen-
tations and cultural forms.
Netflix is a privileged object within the US television landscape and
operates at the fringes of that landscape. Through a series of case studies, I
will explore how this intersection and negotiation of liminality and privilege
manifests aesthetically, narratively, thematically, generically, tonally, and for-
mally in various Netflix scripted dramedies. This chapter focuses on dramedies
that challenge the existing structures of the US television landscape in dif-
ferent ways, namely Orange Is the New Black, Master of None, Lady Dynamite,
Dear White People, and GLOW. These series circulate as part of what Casey J.
McCormick calls Netflix’s “complex digital flow,” which marks them as both
marginal and prestige (2016, p. 113).
Although Netflix did not invent the dramedy, they have laid claim to the
hybrid genre in recent years, investing considerable development dollars in
series that fall at the intersection of the traditional drama/comedy distinction.
This signals Netflix’s investment in a “prestige” narrative that is central to

HBO, Showtime, Hulu, and FX’s marketing and programming strategies
(Akass & McCabe, 2007; Newman & Levine, 2012). In recent years drame-
dies have become associated with so-called “quality” or “prestige” television.
Dramedy is an industry term, that has been taken up in academic writing to
describe series that bring together elements of comedy and drama (Keeler,
2010, pp. 30–31; Lotz, 2006, pp. 32–33). The dramedy is a particularly rich
genre for performing complicated and often contradictory politics. However,
Netflix’s investment in dramedy series (both hour-long and half-hour forms)
makes award competition difficult as these series do not clearly fall into either
the best drama or best comedy categories. In 2014 hour-long dramedy Orange
Is the New Black competed as a comedy series at the Primetime Emmy Awards,
but in 2015 it competed as a drama series. The dramedy is generically and for-
mally both liminal and privileged. It exists in the space in between genres and
is often viewed as an exciting, experimental, and innovative space (Bianchini
& De Souza, 2017; San Filippo, 2017).
This chapter focuses on dramedies created by and/or starring individu-
als who have historically been marginalized or ignored in the US television
landscape. Starting with Orange Is the New Black, which is one of Netflix’s
earliest original scripted programs and one of its most critically and (allegedly)
commercially successful series (Obenson, 2013; Lyons, 2015). My explora-
tion continues with Master of None and Dear White People, which are written,
directed, and starring people of color, and center on the stories, lives, and
perspectives of characters of color. With Lady Dynamite I will consider how
fiction, biography, and absurdism are used to explore mental illness in the
entertainment industries. Finishing with a discussion of GLOW, which is a
fictionalized retelling of the establishment of a professional televised women’s
wrestling league in the 1980s.
Forgotten and Ignored: The Women of Orange

Is the New Black
Orange Is the New Black is set in a minimum-security federal women’s prison
and follows Piper Chapman (Taylor Schilling), a new inmate, as she enters the
correctional system for the first time. Piper has been sentenced to 15-months
in prison on a drug trafficking charge from 10 years prior. In prison Piper meets
a range of characters from various walks of life. Each of the women’s stories
is treated with sympathy and understanding, with many characters getting

flashbacks which attempt to explain and/or contextualize their actions in the
present. The flashback structure emphasizes the humanity of the characters
and the universality of their experiences. Often the flashbacks also highlight
the structural and systemic injustices that lead to the women’s incarceration.
Orange Is the New Black engages with ideas of liminality and privilege at a
narrative and thematic level. The series is interested in how systems of power
often oppress the most vulnerable in society, while simultaneously benefiting
those in positions of privilege. The significance of Orange Is the New Black to
this chapter lies in how it simultaneously participates in and takes on issues of
liminality and privilege. Orange Is the New Black is a liminal object operating
in a liminal space that takes on issues of liminality. The series is invested in
the lives of women who are situated at the edges of society in a space (prison)
that is largely forgotten and/or ignored. The series highlights the stories of
incarcerated women, many of whom are people of color. Orange Is the New
Black challenges the existing value hierarchy by privileging the stories and
experiences of marginalized women.
Various forms of systemic oppression are examined through the prison
system and its enforcers: the guards, wardens, and counsellors. The system
fails to meet the women’s basic needs, repeatedly. Over the course of the first
three seasons, transgender inmate Sophia Burset (Laverne Cox) loses her hor-
mone treatments due to budget cuts not once, but twice. Almost all attempts
by the inmates or the administration to challenge the level of control that
the prison has over these women’s day-to-day lives fail. In season two, Brook
Soso (Kimiko Glenn), Sister Jane Ingalls (Beth Fowler), and Yoga Jones
(Constance Shulman) stage a hunger strike in protest of the poor conditions
of the prison, but ultimately their work is undone and no systemic change is
enacted. The narrative operates to remind the audience and the characters
that they are forgotten and ignored. However, the series emphasizes that these
women’s lives and stories are important and worth of being seen.
The series stages a number of negotiations of systemic power. During
season one an election storyline gives the inmates the allusion of agency.
The inmates run for election to the Women’s Advisory Council (WAC),
which is made up of “representatives” from each of the prison’s factions—the
white inmates, the African American inmates, the Latinx inmates, and the
“others,” which refers to some elderly inmates, and some of Asian descent.
Even within the liminal space of the prison some groups are further margin-
alized than others. The WAC election is rigged by counsellor Sam Healy
(Michael Harney) who chooses who he wants on the council. Despite not
running or campaigning, Piper “wins,” due to Healy’s belief that she is a “nice
white person” like him. Upon joining WAC, Piper learns that it is a ruse to
quell the inmates’ desire for agency and maintain the status quo. Piper func-
tions as an exemplar of white privilege and the limitations of white feminism.
Ultimately Piper’s failure to change anything reinforces the status quo of the
prison: the guards and wardens are in control and the women are powerless.
Piper’s privilege in the external world, while transferred into prison, does not
hold the same capital as it did on the outside.
Interestingly, this tendency of negotiating and exploring liminality and
privilege is not limited to one or even two Netflix original scripted series, but
rather manifests across a range of shows. The friction between individuals and
systemic power is also explored in Dear White People and GLOW. Master of
None takes further the consciousness raising employed by Orange Is the New
Black, in that Master of None eschews a white “entry point” for the audience
in favor of a protagonist of color.
Distinctly Filmic Master of None

Master of None is created by comedian and actor Aziz Ansari and writer Alan
Yang, and stars Ansari as Dev—an Indian American actor living in New
York, who is presumably struggling with many of the same things as Ansari,
including being asked in auditions to “do an Indian accent,” being profiled
as a terrorist, dating, and negotiating the cultural differences between his
life in Westernized multicultural New York and his parents’ experiences as
immigrants from India living in North Carolina. Master of None is a half-hour
series with a loose approach to serialized narrative and a distinctly filmic aes-
thetic. The series explores liminality and privilege at the at the level of story
and aesthetics and through its examination of race, class, and the immigrant
experience.
The series’ second episode “Parents” explores Dev and Brian’s (Kevin Yu)
relationship with their respective immigrant parent. The episode is struc-
tured around flashbacks to each of their fathers’ earlier lives. Brian’s charac-
ter is based on the life and experiences of co-creator Yang, who is the child
of first-generation Chinese-American immigrants. In flashbacks we see Dev’s
father Ramesh (played by Ansari’s father Shoukath Ansari) as a young child
in India, his immigration to the US, and the alienation he experienced as
a doctor in the US. We also see flashbacks to Brian’s father Peter (Clem
Cheung) as a child in Taiwan where he had to kill his pet chicken for the
family to eat. Both fathers’ stories are depicted as difficult, but ultimately as
success stories. Ramesh becomes a well-respected doctor in North Carolina,
while Peter ultimately owns a popular Chinese restaurant with his wife.
The episode overtly contrasts the relatively impoverished childhoods of
Ramesh and Peter with the luxury and excess experienced by Dev and Brian
throughout their childhoods and in the present. Scenes of Ramesh’s child-
hood are contrasted with a young Dev (Rupak Ramki) playing video games in
his comfortable suburban house. Young Dev is rude to his father, underlining
the entitlement and privilege he experiences. One scene in “Parents” depicts
an excited twenty-something Ramesh arriving at the hospital for his first day
of work as a doctor in North Carolina. An awkward scene between Ramesh
and his new boss cuts directly to Ramesh and Nisha (played by Ansari’s
mother Fatima Ansari) eating in an empty cold, stark hospital cafeteria. The
long shot makes Ramesh and Nisha appear small within the frame. They are
made liminal, physically, psychically, and emotionally within the space of the
hospital.
Yet it is not as simple as Ramesh was marginalized, so that Dev could
experience privilege. Master of None highlights that liminality and privilege
are not antithetical, but in perpetual negotiation. Liminality is not traded
for privilege in Master of None or more generally, but rather marginalization
is often part of certain experiences or manifestations of privilege. Master of
None draws aesthetically and stylistically on European cinema, situating the
series in relation to a high-brow form of cinema that may be inaccessible for
many within mainstream audiences. As seen in first episode’s use of French
artist Jacques Dutronc’s song in the opening credits, which are formatted like
an old European film. However, it is most overtly displayed in the second sea-
son episode “The Thief,” which adopts the aesthetic and tone of the Italian
neo-realist film The Bicycle Thieves (De Sica, 1948). Echoing the film, “The
Thief” is shot entirely in black and white and follows Dev, in Modena Italy,
as he attempts to retrieve his stolen mobile phone. Master of None is clearly
placing itself within a tradition of non-American, non-Hollywood cinema
through its engagement with European cinema. While this kind of cinema is
not widely consumed in the US, it is often understood as prestigious.
Master of None debates and complicates notions of liminality and privi-
lege at the level of narrative, aesthetics, and form by playing with televisual
form in particularly interesting ways. The episodes are not a consistent length,
varying from 21 minutes to 57 minutes, taking advantage of the flexibility of

streaming distribution. Each episode is structured somewhat like a short film
and there are only a few consistent characters other than Dev. In the second
season episode “I Love New York,” Dev is a peripheral character as the episode
focuses on three new characters: a doorman, a store clerk, and a taxi driver.
Furthermore, each of these figures are performing occupations that are often
marginalized in US culture. In addition to referencing European cinema of
the Cahiers du Cinéma era, Master of None adopts some of the tendencies of
these films, including long takes, montages, and discontinuity editing. While
Master of None explores liminality and privilege through aesthetics, genre,
and form, Lady Dynamite takes on these issues in rather literal ways.
Making Fun(ny) of Mania in Lady Dynamite

Lady Dynamite follows the fictional (although based in biography) life of
stand-up comedian and actor Maria Bamford (played by Bamford herself) as
she attempts to reestablish her personal and professional life in the wake of a
mental breakdown and subsequent stay in a rehabilitation center. Mental ill-
ness is a key element of Bamford’s stand-up comedy persona and her character
in Lady Dynamite. On stage and in the series, Bamford explores her struggles
with anxiety, depression, obsessive compulsive disorder, and manic episodes.
Lady Dynamite centers Maria’s experiences with mental illness rather than
shying away from them. In season two her mental illness is depicted as a
superpower that allows her to save the world. The series draws on Bamford’s
experience with these psychiatric conditions, as well as her relationship with
pug Bert and husband painter Scott Marvel Cassidy (played by Ólafur Darri
Ólafsson in the series), her career as a comedian, spokesperson, and actress,
and her childhood in Duluth with her parents and friends. These events are
deliberately not rendered in a realistic fashion, but rather in a heightened and
often absurd ways that emphasize Maria’s alienation, shifting emotional and
mental states, and her fraught relationship with her family.
Themes or messages that appear as subtext in many other series are often
made text within Lady Dynamite. While Master of None implies a relationship
between the past and present, Lady Dynamite makes overt the connection
between events of the past and their relationship to and impact on Maria’s
present and future. Season two has three timelines in operation within each
episode. The first is set in 1987 Duluth, when Maria is in high school and
experiencing the early symptoms of as yet as undiagnosed Bipolar2 disorder,
including suicidal ideation. The second is the “present” where Maria is deal-
ing with her engagement and wedding to Scott. And the final timeline is the
“future” where Maria is filming a television series based on her life, that is very
similar to Lady Dynamite but with science fiction elements. In the final episode
of the season the seemingly unrelated timelines come together as it is revealed
that the “future” represented in the series is the result of poor decision making
in the “present.” These connections are made explicit within the series, with
Maria clearly recognizing and articulating the relationship between the two
timelines. She says: “I will not lose my mind over a dumb TV show, I’ve got
integrity … I will not regret this, I’ve seen the future in my head.”
Lady Dynamite shifts between different time periods throughout each epi-
sode. These shifts are marked by interstitial title cards and the employment of
different filmic and aesthetic language, depending on whether the scenes are
set in the past, present, or future. Scenes set in the “past” use a laugh track and
sound cues reminiscent of 1980s family sitcoms. Unlike in the “present” and
“future” the camera work in the “past” is smooth and controlled. Scenes set in
the “future” use a synthetic discordant soundtrack and a frenetic editing style
that highlights how Maria experiences reality as disjointed. These kinds of
tonal and stylistic shifts keep the audience in a constant state of flux, whereby
it is not always immediately clear what the objective of a scene or scenario is.
Lady Dynamite positions itself stylistically and narratively at the fringes
of traditional televisual content, as it employs an absurdist logic and tone
that distinguishes it from much of the contemporary television content in
circulation. Lady Dynamite uses shifting styles, forms, and narratives to put
the audience on edge and create a sense of unpredictability within the series.
Dear White People: Interrogating Blackface

The Netflix series Dear White People is based on the critically successful indie
film by the same name. The 2014 film was directed and written by series’
creator Justin Simien and established the world of the television series—a
fictional Ivy League College named Winchester University. The series’ first
season distinguishes itself from the film by using the episodic structure to shift
perspective with each episode. This allows the audience to experience the
same event and reactions to that event from different characters’ perspectives.
An almost didactic voiceover (voiced by Giancarlo Esposito) is one of the
few constants in the series, and it is used to deliver exposition and develop a
running commentary on the series’ repetition.
The instigating event of the series is a blackface party hosted by a pre-

dominantly white student group that invited its guests to “dress up” as African
American. The party is swiftly broken up by students from various campus
political groups and the controversy is captured on camera and covered by
a campus newspaper. Throughout the first season, we return to the party to
further uncover the enabling circumstances and to explore the aftermath
and how it impacts various characters. This structure allows the audience to
witness the event and its ramifications from numerous often contradictory
perspectives. In the first episode, we see the party through Samantha White
(Logan Browning)—a campus activist, mixed-race Black-identified woman,
Head of the Black Student Union, and host of a campus radio show called
“Dear White People.” Sam uses her radio show to call out subtle and overt
racism, such as probing questions about hair, hygiene, class, and familial back-
ground, and the proposed forced integration of the only all-Black student
housing on campus. In the first episode, Sam addresses her fellow students
via her radio show as follows, “Dear White People, here is a list of acceptable
Halloween costumes: a pirate, a slutty nurse, any of our first 43 Presidents.
Top of the list of unacceptable costumes: me. Winchester couldn’t get through
2017 without blackface?” Sam is initially the audience’s proxy in the diegesis,
but she is not the only entry point, rather just one of many.
Returning again and again the blackface party effectively forces a rethink-
ing of the race, class, and gender politics at play. No singular vision is given
priority, but rather the blackface party becomes a space upon which questions
of marginalization and privilege centered on race are played out and debated.
The structure of the first season allows for the perpetual renegotiation of these
issues in a way that does not allows for a simple, singular understanding or
solution to the systemic structural issues that impact the Black students at
this fictional (but very much based in reality) Ivy League college campus. The
series makes apparent that there is no easy solution to the ingrained racial
issues, because they operate at all levels of the university administration and
the system operates to increasingly oppress Black students, while providing
many opportunities for white students to succeed.
Dear White People privileges perspectives and characters that are generally
understood and represented as liminal. Furthermore, this “liminal” perspec-
tive is multifaceted and often contradictory. The series presents and examines
different kinds of African American experiences, embodiments of blackness,
and engagements with racial politics. No two characters are depicted as agree-
ing on how to address the blackface party or the potential forced desegregation
of the Black college housing. Sam is outraged and suggests organizing protests
in response to these events, but Troy (Brandon P. Bell) wants to work with
the university administration to come up with a solution. Racism and its asso-
ciated marginalization are represented in Dear White People as both a lived
experience with a material emotional, physical, and psychological toll and a
systemic ingrained problem that is perpetuated through complicity and com-
placency. Those in power benefit from inequitable racist systems, even if those
in power are people of color themselves, such as in the case of Troy’s father
Dean Fairbanks (Obba Babatundé).
Politically, narratively, and formally Dear White People is one of the more
innovative and progressive original dramedies on Netflix. Form and narrative
structure force the audience to sit in the discomfort and contradictions of race
and racism in contemporary America. The Black experience is not simplified
to be easily digestible or funneled through a single character or perspective.
Rather the series enables race and class to complicate and deconstruct limin-
ality and privilege.
“Liberty Belle” vs. “Zoya the Destroyer”:

Conflict in GLOW
GLOW stands for “Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling” and the Netflix series is
a fictionalized take on the real professional women’s wrestling league estab-
lished in Los Angeles in the 1980s. The series is created by Liz Flahive and
Carly Mensch and produced by Orange Is the New Black creator Jenji Kohan.
GLOW has many similarities with Orange Is the New Black, including its
blending of low and high culture, its use of a predominantly low-key aesthet-
ics, and its employment of a large diverse women-centric cast. Like Orange Is
the New Black, GLOW also uses a young pretty white woman—Ruth Wilder
(Alison Brie)—as its way into an exploration of a world dominated by non-
white women with varying body sizes and shapes.
GLOW makes the fight between privilege and marginalization literal
in its depiction of women’s wrestling, at the level of story and character.
The central character conflict is between actresses Ruth and Debbie (Betty
Gilpin). In the first episode it is revealed that Ruth has been having an affair
with Debbie’s husband, while Debbie has been caring for their newborn
child. This conflict spans the duration of the first season and manifests both
in and out of the wrestling ring as they are cast opposite each other, with
Debbie as the all-American girl “Liberty Belle” and Ruth as a Soviet-style

communist aggressor “Zoya the Destroyer.” Debbie’s animosity towards Ruth
outside the ring fuels their rivalry inside the ring as they learn the moves
and work through their issues. Ruth and Debbie are both marginalized and
privileged and different ways. Ruth is a struggling actress with no prospects
who is depicted as difficult. Debbie is a former soap star who left acting
to become a fulltime mother and now feels irrelevant and ignored. Both
actresses are seeking a space that values their talents. Placing these two
ostensibly attractive, white, heterosexual, skinny women in a context where
they are surrounded by women of color of various body sizes and shapes
effectively highlights their privilege.
The wrestling personas assigned to each of the women by their white male
boss (played by Marc Maron) rely on overt racial, class, and gender stereo-
types. Many characters have reductive and offensive wrestling personas, such
as a Latinx wrestler “Machu Picchu” whose defining features are her race and
size, “Beirut the Mad Bomber” who is instructed to “act like a terrorist,” and
African American wrestler “Welfare Queen” who brags about her dependence
on the welfare system. These are far from progressive characters, but the series
uses these stereotypes to explore the parameters of identity, as well as critiquing
these stereotypes at both a diegetic and series level.
The thematic conflict of GLOW is between those who take wrestling seri-
ously and those who do not. For many of the women depicted in the series,
wrestling offers an opportunity to “perform,” which is not otherwise available
because of the their race, class, gender, appearance, and/or abilities. Wrestling
provides a space where their particular set of characteristics and talents are
valued. In popular culture, professional wrestling is largely framed as a silly
form of entertainment that is enjoyed by undereducated people (Mazer, 1998,
p. 18). While this may not be accurate, GLOW uses the lack of prestige asso-
ciated with professional wrestling, in particular women’s wrestling, to explore
how women’s cultural products (both those aimed at women and featuring
women) are often undervalued and disrespected. This operates as a meta-com-
mentary on the historical devaluing of television, in particular melodrama,
as women’s entertainment. Obviously, there is a male audience for women’s
wrestling, but the series does not court the male gaze. The women’s bodies are
not sexualized, eroticized, or objectified by the camera; it does not linger on
the women’s breasts or legs, but rather focuses on their muscles at work, the
wobble of their thighs, and the concentration on their face as they learn new
maneuvers.
In many ways GLOW follows the template set out by Orange Is the New
Black, which is not surprising given the overlap in creative teams. Both Orange
Is the New Black and GLOW explore liminality and privilege through theme,
story, and character. While Master of None, Lady Dynamite, and Dear White
People are more experimental and often progressive in form, politics, aesthet-
ics, and style, Orange Is the New Black and GLOW ease the audience into their
worlds with familiar characters, aesthetics, and narratives. Despite their var-
ied approaches, each of the series I have examined highlight different aspects
of the experience, depiction, and ramifications of liminality and privilege.
Conclusion
This chapter explores how Netflix’s location at the nexus of liminality and
privilege manifests in its scripted original dramedy series. Although it is
largely considered mainstream today, Netflix still operates at the fringes of
the traditional US television and uses a model of production and distribu-
tion that is still relatively unusual. Despite this, Netflix has been critically
and commercially successful in its investment in original scripted program-
ming. Therefore, Netflix is simultaneously operating within a liminal yet
privileged space. These industrial conditions materialize in some of their
original scripted drama series through form, genre, tone, aesthetic, narrative,
style, and theme. My examination highlights how liminality and privilege
are intersecting, but distinct concerns that manifest in across various Netflix
original dramedies.
While I have focused on five key Netflix original dramedies—Orange Is the
New Black, Dear White People, Master of None, Lady Dynamite, and GLOW—
this chapter’s conclusions could be extended to other Netflix series which
operate at the nexus of liminality and privilege, including Unbreakable Kimmy
Schmidt, Grace and Frankie (2015-present), One Day at a Time (2017–2019),
and Santa Clarita Diet (2017–2019). Can this seemingly niche content strategy
continue as the industry behemoth continues to grow? The (assumed) popu-
larity of these existing series suggests that it can. Netflix continues this niche
tendency with its recent acquisitions that circulate as Netflix Originals outside
the US market, such as The Good Place (2016-present), Marlon (2017–2018),
Great News (2017–2018), Good Girls (2018-present), and Champions (2018).
Hopefully, this suggests Netflix’s commitment to privileging marginalized and
liminal voices, both behind the camera and on-screen.
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·7·
programming gendered content
Industry, Post-feminism, and Netflix’s Serialized
Exposition of Jessica Jones
Jason A. Smith, Briana L. Pocratsky, Marissa Kiss,

and Christian Rafael Suero
Streaming services offer a new way for audiences to engage with messages
encoded in television programming, challenging the traditional format of
network and cable television. In addition to this novel way to engage with
content, streaming services have responded to the demand for more and bet-
ter representations in television and film. Netflix has consciously attempted
to offer original programming that complicates tired, and regularly problem-
atic, status quo depictions. However, cultural texts associated with progressive
depictions can (re)produce inequalities in the guise of progressive content,
ultimately creating a new form of unequal representation or contributing to
the solidification of preexisting tropes and stereotypes. Therefore, there is
an urgent need for scholars to critically engage with the influx of program-
ming content that is labeled as, or brands itself as, progressive, alternative, or
diverse as a means to distinguish itself in the market.
This chapter addresses content of Netflix programming through a case
study of the character Jessica Jones. As a product of the Netflix/Marvel televi-
sion partnership, Jones is a character who appeared in both her own self-titled
and individual show, Jessica Jones, and The Defenders, an ensembled cross-
over mini-series. Utilizing a media industries approach on the “interrelation
of macro-political and micro-political analyses” (Johnson, 2009, p. 57) of
Netflix programming, we highlight the connection between production and

representation of the female hero Jessica Jones in both series. This chapter is
grounded in literature covering the televised female hero and feminist theo-
ries of representation to understand how Netflix programming enters this cul-
turally relevant subgenre of television studies. The larger political economy of
Netflix programming interplays with the production and representation that
is present in those programs. Thus, the serialized exposition of Jessica Jones
offers a useful case study to examine the ways that gendered representations
are malleable in the post-network era of media content. Crossing from her
own self-titled show to an ensemble miniseries, Jones is a character reflec-
tive of Netflix’s attempts to generate programming in a post-feminist cultural
environment. The production of these two shows must contend with the need
for original and innovative content while maintaining a commitment to the
political economic structure of the Netflix/Marvel deal. This chapter asks if
Jessica Jones offers a nuanced representation of a female hero or does the char-
acter simply repackage stereotypical narratives, profiting from a post-feminist
cultural moment?
A Media Industry Approach to Netflix

Due to its structured and organizational mode of production, media content
is not merely a way to entertain ourselves. As scholars who engage in “media
industries” approaches attest, the media content which we use in our daily
lives is a cross-current of political and economic dimensions that intersect
with the social realm of our society. These approaches highlight the politi-
cal economy of media and the ways that content is formulated based around
the need for media companies to produce revenue or maintain control on
a particular segment of the news and entertainment markets. Additionally,
these approaches are often historical in their outlook and pay close atten-
tion to changes that occur within the institutions that intersect with media
industries. Critical sociological studies of media compliment media industry
approaches in their attunement to issues of power and inequalities as embed-
ded within institutions—noting that “strategy follows structure” (Benson,
2014) within media organizations.
Speaking toward this structure, Amanda Lotz (2009) categorized contem-
porary television as belonging to the “post-network era.” In this post-network
era, the medium has undergone fundamental changes to its production and dis-
tribution patterns which impact its cultural relevance. The “bottle-necking”
programming gendered content 115
of content in the past among a handful of networks loosened with the spread of
cable television and have given way to a large variety of programming genres
and formats in the contemporary media landscape. As Lotz further noted, the
digitization and accessibility of content through mediums other than tele-
vision have increased cultural diversity at a surface level yet paradoxically
fragmented audiences’ engagement with this diversity. In the post-network
era, it becomes difficult to assess how media content has a cultural impact and
whether counterhegemonic narratives can maintain their presence once they
have emerged. Feminist discourses that are distant, or oppositional, to the
status quo walk a fine line in gaining visibility within the media landscape.
The Netflix/Marvel Deal
Within this post-network era, Netflix has emerged as one of the most rec-
ognized streaming services for media content. The shift to original content
in 2011 has been a concerted business choice to establish itself as a leader
in the streaming television field. Ted Sarandos, Netflix’s Chief Content
Officer, has distinguished the company’s approach to programming as distinct
from other “quality” and “niche” cable-channels such as HBO, AMC, and
FX. Rather than focusing on specific programming genres, Netflix is about
personalization—as Sarandos has stated, “I don’t want our brand to influence
our programs, and I don’t want the programs to influence our brand … M aking
our brand about one thing over another risk polarizing our customers” (quoted
in Curtin, Holt, & Sanson, 2014, p. 144). The Netflix strategy to content has
been a wide-reaching net, in which content for multiple audiences is pro-
duced to ensure subscribers to its service.
In late 2013, Netflix and Disney announced a multi-year plan to produce
several live-action shows to be aired exclusively on Netflix’s streaming service.
The plan centered on utilizing Disney’s Marvel properties and releasing shows
based on several characters: Daredevil (2015–), Jessica Jones (2015–), Luke
Cage (2016–), and Iron Fist (2017–). The culmination of the individual series
led to a cross-over mini-series, The Defenders (2017).1 Alan Fine, President
of Marvel Entertainment, at the time stated that the deal was “unparalleled
in its scope and size, [reinforcing a] commitment to deliver Marvel’s brand,
content and characters across all platforms of storytelling” (quoted in Flint,
2013). While Jessica Jones is a rather recent addition to the Marvel universe,
first appearing in comic form in 2001, the other series featuring Daredevil,
Luke Cage, and Iron Fist have a repository of comic book material dating back
to the mid-1960s and early 1970s respectively. In speaking more on the deal,
Alan Fine noted the benefits of a multi-series format to tap into these reposi-
tories, in which on-demand television would allow both Marvel and their fans
the “flexibility to immerse themselves how and when they want” (quoted in
McMillan, 2013).
Since the announcement and subsequent release of these television series,
reports have noted the relative success of the series both with viewers and
critics. As the need for Netflix to create and offer original content increases
in a fragmented media environment, the collaboration and business strate-
gies employed will push Netflix to produce diverse content; content that is
both engaging for its diverse population of subscribers, as well as news-worthy
to distinguish itself from competitors. By news-worthy we mean the rate in
which Netflix content attempts to become a cultural taste maker—producing
television and film content that is circulated among popular websites and is
discussed writ large in the general population (DeCarvalho & Cox, 2016;
Tryon, 2015). Netflix’s ability to become a cultural taste maker had been
fueled by its production of original content and viewing format. For example,
Chuck Tryon (2015) noted that in order to distinguish itself early on, Net-
flix sought to have its programs compared to “more privileged cultural forms”
among critics, and to cultivate an engaged audience through the practice of
binge-watching (as episodes for shows were released all at once, as opposed to
the traditional weekly episode television model).2
The task of being a cultural taste maker is not without considerable effort
or the need to make risky decisions. In the 1980s and 1990s, channels such
as FOX and HBO gambled in producing content for African-American audi-
ences (Squires, 2009; Zook, 1999). Likewise, with issues regarding women and
work, television networks before, during, and after the feminist movement of
the 1970s struggled with producing shows which wrestled with the changing
cultural ideologies of women’s roles in society (Press, 1991). As a new content
producer in the post-network era, Netflix must thread the needle between
content that pushes against, as well as molds, cultural trends and cultivating
a sizeable audience for its streaming services. Jessica Jones, a female private
eye with superpowers, is a prime case study to evaluate content and notions
of gender diversity on television in the post-network era. As part of the suc-
cessful Marvel Studios effort to move their comics onto film and television
screens, Netflix makes an economically viable bet to maintain and generate
its subscriber base.3 At the same time, producing a show with a female protag-
onist also taps into areas of cultural relevance.
The Female Hero Genre and Post-Feminism

It is important to consider how mainstream media play a role in influencing
perceptions and expectations of the self and others. As a site of discourse
production, entertainment media offers commentaries on power dynamics in
society regarding if and how identities are represented. Media representations
can produce and maintain social inequalities; however, representations also
have the potential to challenge inequalities. Media industries as of late, such
as Netflix and its ever-increasing list of original series, offer seemingly subver-
sive or alternative representations of identities that include multidimensional
characters that complicate or challenge status quo representations (e.g., Artt
& Schwan, 2016). These series attempt to tell stories that we rarely, if ever,
encounter in mainstream media. However, it is important to consider how
these narratives fit into a capitalist media system.
Earlier theories and studies regarding the representation of women in
mainstream media argued that women were depicted as objects of the male
gaze (Mulvey, 1975) and that they were almost entirely absent from or
adhered to limited representations in mass media (Tuchman, 1978). In this
sense, women were one-dimensional characters who did not move the plot
forward or play an active role in the storyline of media content. While rep-
resentations of women on television and behind-the-scenes employment has
generally increased across various platforms since early studies regarding the
representation of women in popular media, “gender stereotypes on television
programs abound” on broadcast networks, basic and premium cable channels
and streaming services, along with unequal employment behind-the-scenes
between men and women (Lauzen, 2017, p. 2).
Evolving digital platforms, such as social media, allow audiences to chal-
lenge representations of women and other underrepresented or misrepre-
sented groups. As audiences have become increasingly media savvy, media
producers have had to adapt to this new arrangement with content that meets
the needs of multiple audiences. More recent mainstream media appears to
offer content that includes more women (quantity) and more nuanced repre-
sentations (quality). These narratives use a lens that intersect at multiple axes
of identity to tell a story that is not usually represented in mainstream media.
While this seemingly progressive step toward more and better representation
of identities that fall outside of the dominant narrative may seem like repre-
sentations of women are changing in meaningful ways, is this just occurring
on the surface in the guise of girl power discourse? One way to make sense of
the proliferation of the production of seemingly counterhegemonic narratives

is to consider a post-feminist perspective.
It is important to note that post-feminism (and feminism and postmodern
analysis for that matter) can have many meanings and interpretations. How-
ever, post-feminism is generally situated in relation to second wave feminism.
Angela McRobbie (2004) explained that we are currently in a “post-feminist”
moment and under a new gender regime, in which the transformative fem-
inist gains of the 1970s and 1980s are rapidly becoming undone as a result
of a substitute for feminism—a faux-feminism—present in media and state
discourses. McRobbie (2004) stated that, “through an array of machinations,
elements of contemporary popular culture are perniciously effective in regard
to this undoing of feminism, while simultaneously appearing to be engaging
in a well-informed and even well-intended response to feminism” (p. 255).
McRobbie posited that media, specifically popular culture, played a major role
in this undoing of feminism. Post-feminism is situated within a capitalist econ-
omy that uses neoliberal rhetoric to repackage traditional femininity. Rosalind
Gill stated that “post-feminism should be conceived of as a sensibility” (2007,
p. 254) that included analyzing characteristics of postfeminist media culture
such as self-surveillance and discipline, individualism, choice and empower-
ment rhetoric, the prevalence of the makeover genre, increased sexualization, a
reliance on irony, and consumerism present in contemporary media. McRobbie
maintained that while media may include a strong feminist narrative at certain
moments, this is usually ephemeral as texts need to constantly change in order
to stay relevant and seemingly fresh to survive the capitalist market. For exam-
ple, some media avenues, such as television shows, may begin with progressive
content or a less popular structure and then adapt to mainstream values or
interests in order to stay on the air (Ng, 2013; Paproth, 2013).
Understanding the female hero in film and television within a post-
feminist framework can provide a critical understanding of complex and con-
tradictory ways women are represented in the media. The female superhero is
a particularly interesting case to analyze because the notion of the superhero
signifies traditional masculinity by default, and it is important to consider if
female superheroes play with or challenge gender stereotypes. In analyzing the
superheroine in comics and film, Gray (2011) explained that like male super-
heroes, “superheroines are typically white, middle or upper class, and have
strong heterosexual appeal” (p. 77). In addition, Gray noted that superhero-
ines, whose representations usually adhere to the male gaze, are threatening
but not too threatening in order to appeal to the heterosexual, male audience.
In the mid-1990s, shows with a strong female hero such as Xena: Warrior
Princess (1995–2001), Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997–2003), and La Femme
Nikita (1997–2001) were popular on cable television. While the protag-
onists of these shows are largely praised by critics and academics for their
nuanced and feminist representations, Mary Magoulick (2006) claimed that
“these female heroes, conceived of and written mostly by men in a still male-
dominated world, present male fantasies and project the status quo more than
they fulfill feminist hopes” (p. 729). However, some argue that these shows
of the mid-1990s played an important role in challenging gender stereotypes
and the notion of the female hero. Wim Tigges (2010) demonstrated how
Xena’s feminization of traditionally Western male spaces of heroism, such as
the Shakespearean play, offered a commentary on gendered power dynam-
ics and stereotypes. Using a post-feminist framework, Carol Stabile (2009)
argued that following the September 11th attacks, sexism in the superhero
genre was evident as feminized characters (i.e. women, children, the elderly)
were depicted as vulnerable and in need of protection by active masculine
characters in order to respond to the particular socio-cultural moment of
fear and anxiety. Stabile (2009) explained that “[shows such as] Heroes may
appear on the surface to be multiracial and gender neutral insofar as it fea-
tures women, people of color, and immigrants, but at the end of the day, only
white men protect, or survive to protect” (p. 89). Furthermore, Richard Gray
(2011) claimed that the representation of the new millennial superheroine
relied on “hotness,” which is “a delicate balance between sex appeal and phys-
ical strength” (p. 81) to make the superheroine approachable.
While film and television female heroes of the 1990s and 2000s relied
on a level of “hotness” to counteract their physical strength and/or intel-
lect, portrayals of the female hero as of late seem to challenge this balanc-
ing act. As an entry into this genre, Jessica Jones was spearheaded by Melissa
Rosenberg—operating as creator, showrunner, executive producer, and writer
of the series—emerging in a contemporary moment where female superheroes
seem to be getting their due. Journalist Sian Cain (2015) wrote,
And then there is Jessica Jones. Where Agent Carter is playful and tongue-in-cheek
and Supergirl is warm and bright, Jess is a markedly modern superhero. Currently in
early retirement, she wears a constant scowl, has a taste for cheap bourbon and enjoys
sex unashamedly, a superhero for the Girls generation.
As Cain noted, the “superhero for the Girls generation” (emphasis added) is
indicative of a postfeminist ethos within contemporary popular culture. On
Jessica Jones Jeffrey Brown (2017) stated, “[b]y featuring a superheroine who
refuses to don a spandex costume and slink around fighting bank robbers or
aliens, Jessica Jones offers a mature character and an intimate story of abuse
and its effects that expands not just the Marvel Universe, but the possibilities
for female characters within the genre” (p. 59). Yet the cross-over series The
Defenders, which would culminate the individual Marvel/Netflix series, was
led by Douglas Petrie and Marco Ramirez—functioning as showrunners on
season two of Daredevil. Petrie and Ramirez sought to include the other series’
showrunners through character and script consultations, hoping to situate The
Defenders as within each of the characters’ own adventures and narrative arcs
in order to create a sense of consistency for viewers (Li, 2017). Within such
a complex production cycle, in which multiple visions from showrunners can
impact content, Jones—both as a series and a representation of contemporary
female identities—is in a unique position to evaluate television content in the
post-network era.
Single White Female

At a descriptive level, Jessica Jones is portrayed as a flawed, yet complex,
female lead. Throughout her self-titled series, she regularly disrupted tradi-
tional notions of masculinity and femininity and worked at expanding what
viewers were given as a superhero within televised content. This is seen in the
ways Jones challenged dichotomous understandings of gender expectations
through her intellect, self-representation, and actions in the show. As well
as amplified by the fact that she is, despite having a supporting cast, a loner.
Her profession as a private investigator lent itself to this characterization to
the point that her investigatory skills are rooted in solitude and her need for
isolation—a need that corresponded with her own alcoholism. However, the
show balanced this individualism with a supporting cast that is used to distin-
guish Jones from traditional forms of femininity (i.e., her best friend Trish who
adheres to traditional femininity in her appearance and actions).
The characteristics listed above help the narrative develop its overarch-
ing themes in relation to feminist perspectives. In addition, Jones’ body was
not overtly objectified in a way that adhered to Mulvey’s (1975) notion of
the male gaze. The flip of the gaze was seen in Jones as a skilled private inves-
tigator, a traditionally male occupation, who challenged the concept of the
gaze by secretly watching and taking photographs of others throughout the
series. While this is not the gaze in Mulvey’s voyeuristic sense, Jones as an
investigator is the one watching rather than the one always being watched.
However, the power inherent in the gaze is present throughout the series as
several camera shots are centered on Jones’s posterior and, we argue, focused
on this body part as a means of subtle objectification. Such voyeurism is appar-
ent when dealing with female superheroines (Gray, 2011) yet operates in a
contradictory nature within the context of Jessica Jones. This is exemplified
in a sex scene between Jones and Luke Cage in which their mutually-shared
abilities of enhanced strength equalized them during the act.
Luke Cage: My bad, my bad.

Jessica Jones: It’s okay. It’s okay, I won’t break.
Luke Cage: Yeah, you will.
Scenes such as these exemplify the post-feminist tension within the show. In
an interview with Vulture, showrunner Rosenberg stated why we see Jones
engaged in a number of sex scenes, “One of the things I love most about her is
she’s very unapologetic about who she is … Her sexuality, her powers—they’re
simply a matter of fact” (Riesman & Buckley, 2015). The male gaze is com-
plexified in the series as scenes such as these occur between the two characters
and highlight a voyeuristic gaze that is also reflected from the female’s point of
view by acknowledging Jones’s own preferences and sexual agency.
The descriptive elements and gaze are indicative of the larger themes
and feminist tones that are present within the series. Across the entirety of
the series, the narrative centered on issues regarding gender-based violence.
Solitude, alcoholism, and her gruff demeanor stem from the experiences that
Jones had gone through at the hands of the show’s antagonist, Killgrave. As
a superhero with incredible strength, Jones faced dangers to showcase her
abilities and provide audiences with action sequences to drive the show for-
ward. The physical attributes are normal for the superhero genre, and it is
unsurprising to see them featured in Jessica Jones. Yet the degree to which we
see her own body subjected to acts of violence is stark given her solitude. In
relation to the Black Widow, who has starred in several of the Marvel Cine-
matic Universe films as the token female in the boy’s locker room, Jones does
not need to share the screen with other male superheroes. This allows Jones
to enact physical violence, as well as allowing physical violence to happen to
her (rather than be perpetually saved or shielded by male heroes). This point
is raised as it takes place within a shared cinematic space and functions within
a media industry that is built around developing such connections into poten-
tial franchises. Jones’s physicality and the use of that physicality allows the
viewer to delve into feminist critiques of media representations (van Zoonen,

1994) regarding stereotypes and socialization, bodily abuse, gendered power
relations, and the often deep pains of psychological abuse.
Tied to physical violence and rooted more into the feminist represen-
tations we see in the show is the emotional vulnerability and psychological
trauma Jones experienced. Despite Jones being a victim of these various forms
of violence, the fact that she is the protagonist and we follow her experiences
is distinct from usual media depictions of gendered violence (Cuklanz, 2013).
Having survived her prior experiences with Kilgrave, who had used his mind
control powers to rape and force her to be his companion, Jones’s main nar-
rative seeks to end Kilgrave’s repetition of those actions onto other women.
While rape is not shown on screen, we do see incidences of Jones being sexu-
ally assaulted and experiencing intimate partner violence enacted by Kilgrave
through unwanted touching or kissing in flashback segments—a critique of the
male gaze and placing it within a context that is toxic for women. In addition
to his violation of Jones’s body, Kilgrave further used her body as protection
for himself—making use of her powers, particularly her strength, to defend
him when needed. The effects of Jones’s time with Kilgrave can be seen in her
struggle with PTSD and alcoholism throughout the series. Her characteristics
stem from these past experiences and are used in the show’s attempt to thread
the dynamics of rape and rape culture throughout the narrative.
One of the Boys

The broader feminist themes that are present within Jessica Jones fail to tran-
sition once Jones finds herself in The Defenders. As mentioned above, the
explicit focus on rape culture and vulnerability which make up the narra-
tive in Jessica Jones situated (whether deliberately or not) feminist discourses
on these subjects into a mainstream show. Despite Jones’s confrontation, and
on-going resolution, with her experiences from her self-titled show, these
themes in which she engaged with fall to the wayside when she is partnered
with the all-male team. The unique storyline that is present gets substituted
for a generic superhero narrative of good guys (and a gal) saving a city from
villains. Becoming one of the boys undoes many of the gains that Jessica Jones
momentarily achieved through its first season.
To expand on this argument, the dynamics which take place regarding rep-
resentation are worthy of note throughout the show. As stated above, Jones’s
powers allow her body to experience acts of violence that carry with them a
dual-reading regarding violence and vulnerability in relationship to women.

Yet in The Defenders Jones is put within a context which subverted her phys-
icality and abilities. Whether it was from her first encounter with Detective
Misty Knight—who upon meeting Jones states, “I heard about her. Thought
she’d be bigger”—to her action scenes with the other Defenders, in which
she is continually covered and saved by various members, Jones faced a seem-
ingly consistent undermining of her powers. This reverberates post-feminist
themes that center on empowerment while maintaining traditional notions
of gender. The fact that Jones cannot hold her own alongside Daredevil, Iron
Fist, and Luke Cage further feminized her in relation to their abilities. Despite
her strength being on par with Luke Cage, his ability of unbreakable skin set
him apart and justified his protection of her in multiple action scenes. Like-
wise, for Daredevil and Iron Fist, their martial arts expertise set them apart
from Jones—where her inability to effectively fight trained henchman led to
multiple scenes in which she needed saving. In a later episode of the series,
in which the Defenders are attacked by members of the Hand, Jones yells out
during the fight:
Jessica Jones: Ah! Jesus, am I the only one left who doesn’t know karate?
Although this scene was ideally meant for brevity, Jones’s reaction is telling of
both her physical use in the series and her own perception of the situation she
has found herself. Throughout many of the action scenes in the series Jones is
situated as taking up space—unable to participate in fighting, Jones resorted
to using her strength to merely throw objects, and not drive any of the action
scenes toward a resolution. It is not until the very end of the series, when
Jones is carrying an elevator up a ladder, that her abilities are met with a sense
of wonderment from Luke Cage and Iron Fist.
Additionally, the base characteristics which Jones possessed regarding her
sullenness and alcoholism are related to developing an empathetic view from
the audience in the self-titled show. As The Defenders is intended to be seen
as a continuation, taking place directly after each of the individual series, the
story building behind Jones as a character is undermined. Throughout The
Defenders her alcoholism is maintained as a comedic or surface level char-
acteristic (e.g., pouring liquor into her morning coffee in the first episode or
needing a drink between fight scenes in later episodes) that renders her as
one-dimensional. Whereas in Jessica Jones her alcoholism is portrayed as a
coping mechanism, in The Defenders it is disembedded from any contextual
background to ground her reasons for alcohol consumption in the later series.
We raise this point in that it contrasts with the male characters who main-
tained characteristics related to their story arcs from their own previous series
which carried through once the Defenders were assembled.
Given how the major plot revolved around material introduced in Dare-
devil and Iron Fist, we echo Stabile’s (2009) critique of the superhero genre as
a reaffirmation of the white male as both Daredevil and Iron Fist are members
of the team which became central to various action scenes and were piv-
otal toward moving the plot forward throughout the series—thus both Jessica
Jones and Luke Cage became secondary characters within the ensemble. The
series’ showrunners, having previously come from Daredevil, likely are utiliz-
ing material they have the most familiarity with. The Hand, as the collective
antagonist in both Daredevil and Iron Fist, retained their position within The
Defenders and from a narrative position it made sense for the showrunners to
continue those narrative arcs. But when considering the potential for alter-
native (or feminist) perspectives to appear within television genres, paying
attention to these issues of production are of vital importance. As she crossed
series, Jessica Jones became nothing more than a shell of a character—where
character traits define her, not character development in which she is seen to
change/adapt to narrative devices, or to drive the narrative herself.
Conclusion
The complicated balancing act of (post-) feminist narratives is present in
comparing the representation of Jessica Jones in the two Netflix series; despite
a strong showing in Jessica Jones such feminist-oriented content fell to the
wayside once the character was drafted for service in The Defenders. Although
she was able to maintain individual characteristics across the series, Jones
was unable to carry with her the nuanced themes that dealt with gendered
violence and vulnerability—or to develop new themes relevant to feminist
media criticisms. This presents Netflix with a contradiction in its program-
ming: Provide culturally relevant content that pushes the boundaries of television,
all the while maintaining a successful business strategy to keep its subscriber base
high (and continuously growing). Herman Gray (2016) noted this dynamic as a
current conjecture of “precarious diversity” in the post-network era—where
diversity and multiculturalism are ordered around consumer branding rather
than addressing exclusion and invisibility. The Marvel deal is undoubtedly
part of the latter strategy to maintain a subscriber base for Netflix. While the
individual shows can be creative in their approaches to representation and
narratives that are outside the status quo, they ultimately abandoned that cre-
ativity once culminating to The Defenders. Regarding the creation of female-
led superhero content, the “tricky connotations” (Howell, 2015) of gender
make feminist-centered programming difficult for media companies that must
find ways to profit from them.
The explosion of content seen on Netflix and other prestige, or niche,
television should be critically evaluated in relation to the structures which
produce them. Netflix has made considerable efforts to procure and produce
original content in the past seven years. Yet the quantity of content available
should never be a substitute for the diversity of content. What we see is not
a fully open media space within the content provided by Netflix. Although
diverse content does exist and could prove useful for media activism or fan-
dom to generate alternative readings, overarching content categories that reg-
ularly center on only certain perspectives (such as male, white, heterosexual,
able-bodied, and upper-middle class) remain the norm. Netflix content which
steps outside these boundaries is caught in a liminal position—being consid-
ered second-tier and willing to be co-opted into those boundaries, as well as
being potentially profitable (which would then allow such content to make
in-roads which challenge status quo perspectives). As Jessica Jones moves for-
ward into future seasons, a critical eye geared toward the relationship between
its content and where it fits within the marketing strategy of Netflix and Mar-
vel Studios should be consistently present. The post-network era is not nec-
essarily new regarding issues of content and representation, but rather reflects
old patterns that die hard.
Notes
1. The Defenders premiered five months after season one of Iron Fist on Netflix, subsequently
following the introduction of each character into the Netflix Marvel Universe. At the
time of this writing, each show has had a second season released on Netflix.
2. This is similar to scholarship and industry conversations around “quality TV,” where “pro-
gramming trends have become commercially viable and attained cultural status at par-
ticular points in time” (Logan, 2016, p. 147). Logan noted that this form of production
represents an intersection of market conditions and taste formations among privileged
social and economic demographics.
3. The Marvel Cinematic Universe refers to the films released under the Marvel Studios
production company. Beginning in 2008 with the release of Iron Man and up through
2018, there have been 20 films amassing a cumulative $6.8 billion in the United States
(Box Office Mojo, 2018). Marvel’s deal with Netflix extended the cinematic universe into
television and carried with it a potential fan-base to become Netflix subscribers.
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netflix
Culturally Transformative and Equally Accessible
Kimberly Fain
For years, Hollywood television and film has reflected the angst of American
pop culture icons. Generally, protagonists were “grimly captivating white
guys like Tony Soprano, Don Draper, and Walter White, struggling to find
a foothold in a culture and economy that were leaving them behind” (Tanz,
2016). However, Netflix’s streaming service is changing the perception that
hit shows have to feature white male heroes to succeed. With Orange Is the
New Black, Netflix “proved that hit dramas could move beyond straight white
men” (Tanz, 2016). Subscription based platforms such as Netflix are willing to
take chances “that traditional networks might consider too risky. In the mean-
time, three decades of boundary-pushing television has created a more sophis-
ticated audience, willing to watch characters that previous generations may
have found alienating” (Tanz, 2016). Still, despite the increased participation
of African American writers, actors, directors, and producers in Hollywood
and Atlanta, unless people have an opportunity to access diverse content,
they’re unable to widen their perspectives. Due to Netflix’s reasonable sub-
scription prices, their platform is accessible to a wide range of audiences here
and abroad.
Based on the past flawed representations of African Americans in
Hollywood, I appreciate Netflix’s role as a technological disruptor of

American cinema and culture by using original programming to include

diverse voices. Netflix’s original programming in the 2010s reflects charac-
terizations of complex Black characters, written, directed, and/or produced
by African A mericans. Thus, diverse audiences have an opportunity to expe-
rience African American characters, unlike past cinematic depictions, which
are well rounded and fully realized human beings. Without a doubt, there are
many Black performers and filmmakers who have laid the groundwork for the
impactful work present in the following films. However, Netflix unabashedly
features strong A
frican American content, themes, and characters without
hesitation and fear of White disapproval by streaming Beasts of No Nation,
13th, and Luke Cage.
History of Diverse Images

Pervasively excluding African Americans or including them in Hollywood
productions to perform caricatures of themselves reflects their second-class
citizenship. Perhaps the most dangerous aspect of the visual rhetoric pres-
ent, in Hollywood classic movies, is their rhetorical influence over how
America perceived the images of African Americans. Images such as graf-
fiti, photographs, propaganda, paintings, statues, or moving images in film
or video are visual artifacts that have the power of persuasion. Since images
convey meaning, they reflect the views, values, and history of a culture
and their institutions. Society may be moved to act or think about a mar-
ginalized culture in a positive or negative manner, based on the type of
images portrayed in print and/or online. Consequently, how a marginalized
group is portrayed in the media may adversely affect how they’re treated in
America.
In Defining Visual Rhetorics, Hill and Helmers (2004) discuss how Life
magazine and National Geographic’s images effectively molded America’s con-
scious and our position in the world. In other words, they seek to discover
how images rhetorically act upon audiences. Moreover, since our focus here
is on Netflix’s portrayal of digital images, we should contemplate the viewers’
rhetorical response, meaning their level of engagement with Netflix’s depic-
tion of African American images, and the cultural effect subsequent to their
online encounter. However, in order to determine the transformative nature
of Netflix’s programming, we must examine how Black images were depicted
historically on stage and in the cinema.
netflix 131
Blackface Minstrelsy
With regard to the entertainment industry, due to Jim Crow laws of the South
and racial discrimination in general, Whites were either not exposed to Black
images or they saw Black images through the gaze of White fear, prejudices
and stereotypes. Unfortunately, early on, Black minstrelsy was the preferred
manner to vicariously experience Whites’ interpretation of Black culture and
Black people. Although some may argue that minstrelsy is not offensive, their
view is generally rooted in a lack of understanding of how damaging min-
strelsy is to the subjects of blackface—African American people.
Blackface minstrelsy centers a White actor, director, and producer’s
(oftentimes erroneous) interpretation of blackness, in terms of language,
dialect, and characterization. As opposed to later stage and cinematic depic-
tions of blackness, centering an actual Black actor who inhabits the personal
insights of Black life, and the introspection that accompanies authentically
interacting with Black people and experiencing Black culture.
In Making America Home, Michael Rogin (1992) states that blackface
minstrelsy was the most popular form of mass entertainment. Blackface,
which is the cultural practice of White actors darkening their skin with burnt
cork or shoe polish to play Blacks on stage and in films, represents both “racial
aversion and racial desire” (p. 1052). Meaning the oftentimes offensive art
form sought to both differentiate European American culture from African
American culture and simultaneously, the early art form expressed a dual
desire to identify with marginalized people.
Yet, I conclude that this attempt at identification communicated a percep-
tion that African Americans were visually and mentally inferior to European
Americans. White actors exaggerated their accents, movements, and features,
such as their lips, which was perceived by Blacks as a mockery of their eth-
nic features. According to José Miralles Pérez (2011) blackface performers
wore “woolly wigs, gloves, tailcoats, or ragged clothes to complete the trans-
formation” (p. 134). When audiences saw actors in these “woolly wigs,” the
hair appeared unkempt and the “ragged clothes” insinuate that all Blacks are
hobos or lacking in economic resources. In other words, minstrelsy failed to
depict the cultural diversity present in our hair texture and economic status.
Thus, the entertainment industry placed African Americans in a monolithic
box that left no room for alternate representations of Black identity. For the
literary giant who authored Invisible Man (1952), Ralph Ellison, this demean-
ing expression of Black culture under the guise of art was culturally dangerous.
In Ellison’s opinion, “blackface art has a malignant effect on the African

American culture because it substantiates irrational fears and prejudices of
white Americans” (Fain, 2015, p. 5). In Shadow and Act, Ellison (1964/1995)
said blackface was a figment of white imagination and cultural misappropri-
ation of black cultural performances, in terms of “Negro idiom, songs, dance
motifs, and word-play” (p. 47). Ellison (1964/1995) considered blackface
spectacle to be an inferior representation of blackness and demonization of
Black people; the “ringing of banjos and rattling of bones, … cackling jokes
in pseudo-Negro dialect, … nonsense songs, … bright costumes and sweat-
ing performers” is dehumanizing (p. 48). In other words, “minstrelsy creates
a black mask that imprisons the black male within a one-dimensional prism
of buffoonery” (Fain, 2015, p. 5). Unfortunately, for decades these limited
perceptions of blackness restricted the opportunities of Black performers. Due
to the inundation of stereotypical images of Blacks, Whites were unable to
imagine Black actors as dynamic characters or fully realized human beings.
Consequently, for years to come Hollywood produced movies that featured
characters, plots, and themes that exemplify the normalization of whiteness
and demonization of blackness.
The Birth of a Nation
Over the years, scholars and critics have discussed the harmful impact of the
visual imagery, representations, and symbolism of blackface in The Birth of a
Nation (1918). Michele Faith Wallace writes in “The Good Lynching and
The Birth of a Nation: Discourses and Aesthetics of Jim Crow,” that this “is
the only historical epic focused on the fear of so-called Negro domination
in the Reconstruction era” (p. 86). The director, G. W. Griffith, based his
classic movie on Thomas Dixon’s virulently racist novels, The Clansmen and
The Leopard Spots. For this Southern pastor, an ever-present theme of D
ixon’s
books was his obsession with white genealogical purity. Griffith builds on
Dixon’s racial intentions by subsequently emphasizing “the undeserved and
unearned prosperity of blacks during Reconstruction” (Wallace, 2003, p. 87).
To emphasize his revolutionary skills as a filmmaker and the predominant
notion of audiences that whiteness is an ideal, Griffith uses black and white
nitrate film. Additionally, Griffith employed melodrama and nostalgia for
the Confederate fight to preserve slavery. Not to mention, he presented a
heavy dose of pathos in order to emphasize the Southern narrative of White
victimhood.
netflix 133
As for the stereotypical Black characters, the Mammy and the elderly
trusted Black males slave, those actors were played by Whites in black-
face; meanwhile, Black actors played the joyous slaves working in the fields
(Wallace, 2003). In other words, until the intervention of Northerners, the
racial discourse of this movie emphasizes that Southern slave owners and
slaves were happy with one another. However, once the slaves are freed after
the Civil War, Dixon strikes fear into White audiences by depicting Blacks
as corrupt legislators; incompetent and ignorant voters; and obsessed with
miscegenation.
Black members of the state legislature are shown seated with their bare feet on their
desks, openly drinking whiskey. Blacks are shown selling their votes outright or sim-
ply unable to comprehend what voting means. Black demonstrators are shown with
picket signs demanding mixed marriages. (Wallace, 2003, p. 93)
Even though the socio-political rhetoric of The Birth of a Nation is dangerous,

perhaps the most culturally damaging element of this movie is its advocacy of
the Ku Klux Klan. Despite the harsh reality of lynching, as seen in postcards
and photographs, Griffith romanticized the vigilantism of the Klan. Moreover,
this glorification of the Klan ignores the harsh reality of the festive crowds
who witnessed victims (mostly Black males) “tortured, slowly burned alive,
or castrated” and then distributed “their body parts … among the crowds as
keepsakes” (Wallace, 2003, p. 94). In the film, Griffith creates a lynching
scene, featuring the stereotypical Black brute, Gus, played by a White actor in
blackface. Gus is set on raping “the youngest Cameron daughter; rather than
be defiled by the black male body, she commits suicide by tossing herself over a
cliff” (Fain, 2015, p. 11). Although most would agree that rapists are horrible
people who should be punished regardless of their race, the preservation of
White female purity justifies terrorizing and murdering Black men without an
investigation, trial, and legal conviction in The Birth of a Nation.
Additionally, it ignores the legacy of White men raping Black women
during slavery and the Reconstruction era. This film perpetuates the stereo-
typical notion that Black men are rapists and White men are honorable, even
when they’re criminals avenging White womanhood. Ignatiy Vishnevetsky
(2015) reiterates that the film is “unquestionably white supremacist and rac-
ist... and is animated by some of the ugliest rhetoric America ever produced.”
Aesthetically, the women are featured as “so pale and delicate that, photo-
graphed from the right angle, they appear noseless,” which emphasizes their
dependence on men and desperate need for male protection because of their
“fair-skinned feminine purity” (Vishnevetsky, 2015). In sharp contrast to the

soft beauty of White womanhood, the Black male is featured as ugly, vio-
lent, and monstrous. Therefore, Griffith’s glorification of the KKK’s methods
of maintaining White supremacy is redemptive, and preserving White domi-
nance is the pathway to salvaging the White culture.
Gone with the Wind
Like The Birth of a Nation, Gone with the Wind (1939) championed South-
ern characters as the moral victors of the Civil War. According to Molly
Haskell (2009), the classic movie still causes uproar because it’s perceived
as racist, melodramatic, and “apologia for the plantation culture.” However,
she dismisses those negative perspectives and focuses on a progressive take
of Margaret Mitchell’s bestselling book. The film features star-crossed lovers
Rhett Butler (Clark Gable) and Scarlett O’ Hara (Vivien Leigh), “the agony
of war, of economic loss and devastation, the resilience of a woman who won’t
accept defeat” (Haskell, 2009). Scarlett is depicted as revolutionary because
she refuses to be controlled, dictated by love, and submissive to Yankees. Yet,
she still vows to keep her father’s plantation, Tara, going despite the invasion
of the North and the opportunistic carpetbaggers (Smith & Schneider, 2015).
Perhaps one of the many reasons that Scarlett captured the heart of audiences
was her Southern belle wardrobe featured in Technicolor, as well as her brav-
ery as she walks among the wounded Confederate soldiers in gray and her
“dash through the blazes as Atlanta burns” due to General Sherman’s orders
(Smith & Schneider, 2015, p. 150).
For those reasons, although Scarlett is a progressive White heroine for her
times, the racial rhetoric and imagery in Gone with the Wind communicates
a message of African American inferiority. In particular, the aesthetic depic-
tion of African-American actress Hattie McDaniel as the Mammy is in stark
contrast to Scarlett. Donald Bogle (2013) notes in Toms, Coons, Mulattoes,
Mammies, & Bucks that the 1930s Hollywood era featured more “black faces
carrying mops and pails or lifting pots and pans than the Depression years”
(p. 36). According to Bogle (2013), the Black servant figures provide societal
hope because of their sarcastic humor, foolish behavior, lighthearted person-
alities, and fidelity. In essence, the subservient Black characters, says Bogle
(2013), were a symbol of stability in American life: “The servants were always
around when the boss needed them. They were always ready to lend a helping
hand when times were tough” (p. 36). Even though some may deem these
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subservient characteristics as positive, the servants were often mistreated and

demeaned by the owners in these roles.
Whereas, the subservient roles of Black men are problematic in Gone with
the Wind, Hattie McDaniel’s performance was hailed by critics, which led to
the first Academy Award received by an African American. As the Mammy,
Hattie is proud of her devotion to the O’Hara family. Bogle (2013) notes how
she boasts of having “diapered three generations of O’Hara women” (p. 88).
But, she freely criticizes anyone who defies her sense of morals, including Scar-
lett and Rhet. Furthermore, Mammy is a powerful maternal figure for Scarlett,
which Bogle (2013) states is a more accurate portrayal of the mother-daughter
relationship consistent with practices in the old South (p. 88). But the
Mammy’s ambivalent status is dependent upon the will of her White owners.
Additionally, her status over the plantation and her fellow workers is
respected because she’s upholding the positions of Southern White hierar-
chy and maintaining their property, which equates to the wealth of the own-
ers. Still, Mammy’s ability to run the Big House, according to Bogle (2013)
was “her brand of black power” and her familiarity “with her white employ-
ers” caused Southerners to complain (p. 92). Nevertheless, the purpose of
the Mammy figure is to suggest that Black women operate exclusively in the
domestic sphere and, in order to demonstrate usefulness, they should not
appear aesthetically pleasing as the Southern Mammy archetype in their slave
or servant clothing.
Kwate and Threadcraft (2015) writes in “Perceiving the Black Female
Body: Race and Gender in Police Constructions of Body Weight” that this
perception of Black women as Mammy figures prevails today: “the public face
expected from Black women is one of obedience, attentiveness to the physical
and emotional needs of the White body and thus consummately nurturing of
that body and of acceptance of placement in the racial hierarchy” (p. 214).
In other words, the stereotypical Mammy is way of defining the boundaries
(physical and behavioral) between subservient Black woman and elite White
Woman (Kwate & Threadcraft, 2015, p. 214).
Although Gone with the Wind does have cinematic value in terms of act-
ing performances and cinematography, it maintains the stereotypical notions
of the Mammy figure whose sole purpose for being is to nurture White women
as they pursue their goals, fight for love, and find their place in this world. For
African American women who seek to see themselves accurately portrayed on
screen, it cannot be understated the damage these Mammy stereotypes have
on the psyche and self-esteem of young Black women.
Netflix: Programming and Access

Netflix: Why Diversity Is a Top Priority
Netflix is recognized for its diverse programing. Diversity in creating,

casting, and programming is an intentional priority not just a fashionable
trend. Pilot Viruet (2017) writes in “Why Netflix Has Decided to Make
Diversity a Top Priority” that in 2017 the streaming service plans to feature
shows that have “predominately non-white casts.” Shows, such as Master of
None, Orange Is the New Black and Narcos, are evidence of Netflix’s com-
mitment to diversity as they continue, “to greenlight more diverse shows”
(Viruet, 2017). What sets Netflix programming apart from others is how
they actively explore “the specificities, cultures, and lived experiences of
marginalized groups that don’t often get to tell their stories—or have them
told at all” (Viruet, 2017). In other words, Netflix programming reflects the
growing demographical changes that are oftentimes sidelined because they
represent a minority.
Although Hollywood popular culture still tends to elevate traditional
voices that represent the majority culture, Netflix provides a digital plat-
form where marginalized people are seen, heard, and are active partici-
pants, as actors and of the creative process, as producers, directors, and/
or writers. Shows such as Dear White People demonstrate how Netflix con-
fronts issues of the marginalized and “picks apart race issues instead of tip-
toeing around them” (Viruet, 2017). As a result, Netflix’s diversity formula
succeeds with audiences because their stories come from the people who
have actually lived these experiences and their characters are well rounded
(Viruet, 2017).
Sara Boboltz and Brennan Williams (2016) write in “If You Want to See
Diversity Onscreen, Watch Netflix,” that Netflix has a “hands-off approach”
that “starts at the very top.” By allowing creators to create with less interfer-
ence, their methods for producing diverse content result in “fewer creative
roadblocks in developing original series” (Boboltz & Williams, 2016). Since
streaming services don’t have preconceived notions of how a “show should
look and sound,” narratives reflect marginalized voices that are authentic.
Netflix’s origins were content distribution and only transitioned “into original
shows and films within the past few years” (Boboltz & Williams, 2016). Ulti-
mately, they have created their own playbook because they distribute their
content to massive audiences (Boboltz & Williams, 2016).
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Beasts of No Nation
Beasts of No Nation (2015) is based on Uzodinma Iweala’s 2015 book about

child soldiers. The novel’s raw and gripping authenticity had wide appeal
despite its violent depiction of militant Africans at war. As the story goes,
after troop invaders murder Agu’s (Abraham Attah) father and brother, his
mother and sister must abandon their home (“Beasts of No Nation”). Sud-
denly Agu is left wandering in the forest; militants, led by the Commandant
(Idris Elba), capture and force him to become a child soldier (“Beasts of No
Nation,” 2015). With Agu’s transformation from an innocent to a mur-
derer, pillage and rape by the rag tag rebels and the relentless abuse by the
Commandant mar his journey through life. Despite the painful abuse suffered
by Agu, he must come to terms with his sexuality, masculinity, and humanity.
Directed by Asian director, Cary Joji Fukunaga, the desperate quest to retain
one’s humanity, despite tragic circumstances is a complex depiction of this
young, African boy’s life.
Allison Mackey (2013) writes in “Troubling Humanitarian Consump-
tion: Reframing Relationality in African Soldier Narratives” that the best
manner to consume narratives of child soldiers is to put ourselves in the
place of the other (p. 118). In other words, consider the fact that you’re
reading about another culture and social history and the global implications
on their expression of their humanity. To Mackey (2013), “The troubled rep-
resentations of the troubling figure of the child soldier in these texts points
to the importance of registering awareness that a much larger, multivalent
understanding of community is necessary” (p. 119). In essence, empathy for
the condition of these child soldiers is not enough. People should use expo-
sure to the condition of the marginalized to engage in the betterment of our
collective humanity.
During the award season, in which Beasts of No Nation was honored by
multiple nominations, Elba pushes Hollywood and America to look inward by
making reference to the #OscarsSoWhite controversy, while presenting clips
from the movie at the SAG (Screen Actors Guild) awards. As he glanced
at the audience, Elba joked “‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to diverse
TV,’” as he stood “alongside his young Ghanaian co-star, Abraham Attah”
(Jagannathan, “Idris Elba Mocks Oscars Diversity”). Perhaps, the Academy
didn’t appreciate his cultural dis, while he was at another awards show because
Beasts of No Nation was overlooked at the 2016 Oscars. Alyssa Sage noted
(“Oscar Snubs: Idris Elba,” 2016) that Amobee Brand Intelligence analyzed
the “digital content engagement” with regard to the “Oscar nomination upsets
on Jan. 14,” the company determined:
By assessing over 600,000 mobile, video, web and social sites to measure what people
were seeing, reading, interacting and engaging with regarding the topic of Oscar snubs.
Not only was Netflix’s “Beast of No Nation” the most-discussed snub, but the war dra-
ma’s lead actor Idris Elba topped the actor category. (“Oscar Snubs: Idris Elba,” 2016)
Not to mention, his charming sarcasm may have caused the overall message
of his award speech to be lost by those who were offended by his candor: “‘We
made a film about real people and real lives... and to be awarded for it is very
special, because a lot of people were damaged,’” says Elba (Jagannathan, “Idris
Elba Mocks Oscars Diversity”). Ultimately, Elba received two SAG awards for
his performances in “Netflix’s ‘Beasts of No Nation’ and the BBC crime drama
‘Luther’” (Jagannathan, “Idris Elba Mocks Oscars Diversity”). Nevertheless,
Elba was nominated as best supporting actor for the BAFTA, Golden Globes,
Image Awards, and the entire cast was nominated for their performances at
the SAG awards (“Beasts”). Both Elba and Attah won for the Film Indepen-
dent Spirit Awards & Ghana Movie Awards including the director Fukunaga
(“Beasts”). Based on, the number of awards the director, Elba and his co-star
Attah were nominated for and the disgruntled digital response to Elba’s and
The Beasts of No Nation Oscars snub, the movie had a huge impact on a wide
range of diverse audiences.
Ava DuVernay’s 13th
Ava DuVernay’s 13th (2016) is an award-winning documentary on how mass

incarceration is modern day slavery. The poignant “imagery, historical footage,
and insight from notable speakers,” such as Michelle Alexander, Jelani Cobb,
and Angela Davis, uncover how the Amendment legalizes slavery via the
prison system and perpetuates “economic inequality through legislation such
as minimum sentence laws” (Terry, 2017). DuVernay depicts how “Chaining
black people benefited white people for a very long time. It still does. Only
now, slavery exists under a different name: imprisonment” (Sukhera, 2017).
In essence, to serve the country’s economic needs, the government and cor-
porations create legislation that results in the mass imprisonment of African
Americans and Latinos.
Without fear of Hollywood retribution, DuVernay calls out White
Americans for their complacency in failing to end racism (Terry, 2017). By
netflix 139
showing images of “publicized police brutality, the growth of Black Lives Mat-
ter, and the presidential election,” DuVernay validates her argument that the
“racial conversation” must take place by confronting our “ancestral ghosts”
(Terry, 2017). By taking the audience on a “150+ year journey from the 1865
Emancipation Proclamation on Capitol Hill to the 2016 shooting of Philando
Castile in Falcon Heights, Minnesota,” DuVernay uses factual statistics and
images to highlight this American problem (Sukhera, 2017). Perhaps, one of
the most disturbing images is how “Emmett Till’s open casket funeral is con-
trasted with a KKK parade. Footage of a black man being shoved around at
a Trump rally plays concurrent with archival footage of civil rights-era water
hoses, attack dogs, and beatings. One era calls out to another” (Sukhera,
2017). By juxtaposing past and current images of racial oppression, DuVernay
points out that despite various forms of social progress, we’re still dealing with
demons from America’s racial past.
Ramon Molina and Danny Mussie write in “Being Shocked Into Paying
Attention” (2017) that DuVernay assists the audience in picturing black his-
tory in America: “Images of re-enslaved African-Americans from the 1870’s
are coupled with images of incarcerated African-Americans in the present
day.” The audience is visually forced to confront the images of racial oppressed
human beings. Moreover, everyone must acknowledge the historical fact that
the loss of free Black labor from the abolishment of slavery decimated the
Southern economy: “Thus, a gross exploitation of law and sentiment towards
African-Americans led to criminalization and marginalization” (Molina &
Mussie, 2017). Painfully, we, as the audience are forced to wonder, “what if
being black was the crime one was being convicted of?” (Molina & Mussie,
2017). As the documentary ends, Black bodies tumble to the ground as a fast
“wave of bullets fly by,” while the audience witnesses “the light fade from
their eyes” (Molina & Mussie, 2017). This twisted mixture of “race, ideology,
and ulterior motives” is the continued reason for the condemnation of black-
ness (Molina & Mussie, 2017). Ultimately, the historical evidence proves that
the powerful will suppress the efforts of African Americans, in their quest for
equality (Molina & Mussie 2017).
Vincent Stierman writes in “When the Hidden Injustices Are Brought to
Light: A Review of 13th” (2017) that the “graphic imagery” made him “pause
and collect” himself. DuVernay’s employment of “dark images and graphics”
creates a “mysterious and ominous” tone (Stierman, 2017). In other words,
there’s an unsettling sense of doom that mirrors the condition of unequal jus-
tice and mass incarceration. As DuVernay uses her camera lens to shine a light
on the damaging effects of the 13th Amendment, interviewees hold nothing

back. Dr. Jelani Cobb explains the motivation behind mass incarceration.
According to Stierman (2017) “Perhaps the most convincing speaker in the
show is Dr. Jelani Cobb. He introduces the idea that black people have often-
times been viewed not as human beings but as economic resources.” Meaning,
big businesses benefit from the leased labor when prisoners are forced by the
prisons to build and/or make products. Truthfully, the audience must conclude
that their complacency equates to acceptance of this institutional and sys-
temic oppression of Black bodies “for personal gain” (Stierman, 2017).
Impressively, DuVernay alternates her interviews primarily between two
settings: an abandoned warehouse and individual offices. The activists and
scholars interviewed in the abandoned warehouse are “intimately knowledge-
able and involved with the struggle for equality” (Stierman, 2017). Accord-
ing to Stierman (2017), the Republicans and lobbyist “filmed in their offices
seemed much more out of touch with the issues.” DuVernay highlights the dif-
ferences, in lifestyle and privilege, with the use of imagery, for those affected by
mass incarceration and those whose policies benefit from mass incarceration.
As a skilled filmmaker, DuVernay navigates the camera to reveal hid-
den truths, such as mass incarceration and calls on us Americans to act. As
a visionary, she discusses the transformative nature of film for an interview
printed in Black Camera. DuVernay spoke earnestly about how film empowers
her to share stories with other filmmakers around the world (Martin, 2014).
Furthermore, she insists that film has the power to unify “an eclectic audience
of races, cultures, and ages. And it’s the power of films that’s palpable and
meaningful for” her, and that’s why people “congregate around these images”
(Martin, 2014). DuVernay’s ability to capture graphic images of the Black
experience and make her message have a cross over appeal led to an Academy
Award nomination for her documentary in 2017.
According to DuVernay, Netflix was the most supportive environment
she’s experienced. Ramin Setoodeh (2017) writes in “Ava DuVernay on Why
Netflix Understands Artists and Diversity” that when approached by Net-
flix, they encouraged her to realize her creative vision. DuVernay had never
received an offer where she was both respected as an artist and told that her
vision would be supported (Setoodeh, 2017). Netflix was “a safe, produc-
tive artist space” where she was given the freedom to express her creativity
(Setoodeh, 2017). DuVernay credits Netflix’s CEO Ted Sarandos with their
positive environment; she says that the executive notes are “not like studio
notes. They are not prescriptive” (Setoodeh, 2017). Instead of receiving
netflix 141
demands on what to change, an executive asked if she wanted to do more

with her documentary, and she recalls saying she didn’t have the funds for it.
Netflix responded by offering her more money.
Even though DuVernay thought that 13th would end up on the “back chan-
nels of Netflix and downloaded by some librarians” (Setoodeh, 2017), Netflix
believed in the film so much they submitted it to the New York Film Festi-
val. 13th was featured on their opening night “as their first documentary ever”
(Setoodeh, 2017). Finally, DuVernay says that their vision for how 13th should
be seen and “reach people was greater than” her own because they “launched
the Oscar campaign” and “pushed it into theaters” (Setoodeh, 2017). The
opportunity to reach larger audiences, as a “person of color and a woman” was
thrilling. Moreover, she didn’t have to “go through the same five studios and
three networks and hope that they recognize” and find value in what she was
creating. Prior to Netflix, there wasn’t enough inclusion and now there are
more options for filmmakers: “Inclusion is a necessity for survival” (Setoodeh,
2017). Since Netflix responds to the changing times and demographics present
here in America, it makes them revolutionary in comparison to the other five
major studios and three networks that are less willing to take chances.
Luke Cage
Marvel’s first African American superhero, Harlem’s Luke Cage, was created
due to the popularity of 1970s Blaxploitation films (Tanz, 2016). For many
audience members, Netflix’s Luke Cage will be their first encounter with a
Black superhero. Luke Cage never had the blockbuster success of other
Marvel superheroes, but he did have a loyal cult following (Tanz, 2016).
Unlike some of Marvel’s other superheroes, he doesn’t have a fancy suit, but
his superpower is his bulletproof skin (Tanz, 2016). He is an ex-convict that
the audience relates to because he’s a hardworking man who loves and sup-
ports his community. Therefore, he’s committed to “accept his responsibility
to help defend Harlem from the many forces that threaten it” (Tanz, 2016).
Creator, producer, and writer Cheo Hodari Coker “was inspired to serve as
showrunner when he realized the ramifications of a series about a black man
with impenetrable skin and how that might empower him to take on both
criminals and crooked authority figures” (Tanz, 2016). In essence, how does
literal unbreakable skin make a superhero braver, more daunting, and fearless
when he encounters dangerous people who seek to destroy the Harlem Luke
Cage knows and loves.
There have been African A merican superheroes on our screens before—such as

Wesley Snipes’ titular turn in Blade—but Luke Cage is the first to be surrounded by
an almost completely black cast and writing team and whose powers and challenges
are so explicitly linked to the black experience in America. “I pretty much made the
blackest show in the history of TV,” Coker says, laughing. (Tanz, 2016)
By intentionally making African Americans visible, behind the scenes and

onscreen, Coker’s creative strategy won over audiences. African Americans
saw a cast of characters, good, evil, and complex that reflect the multiplicity
of the Black cultural experience. Even before Luke Cage premiered, the media
buzz alone had African Americans talking. Colter says that “people began
stopping him on the street to tell him how important Cage was to them.
‘They didn’t have any other character they could relate to, an A merican
black guy from the streets,’ Colter says. ‘That became important to me’”
(Tanz, 2016).
Nevertheless, where there’s a hero there must be a least one villain to
prove the heroism of a superhero. Cottonmouth (Mahershala Ali) is one evil
man who’s determined to exploit both Harlem’s resources and people. Despite
Cottonmouth’s criminal behavior, Ali was able to bring his humanity to the
surface because he understood the motivations of his character. Ali “sympa-
thized with the villain who wanted to be king” (Li, 2016). To Ali, Cotton-
mouth was a product of his environment and “the result of having to react to
his circumstances” (Li, 2016). But, in the process of trying to control his own
circumstances, “he became a person he didn’t intend to become” (Li, 2016).
Consequently, despite the fact that Cottonmouth succumbed to his evil side,
the audience can relate to the feeling of having to access one’s humanity in
order to avoid making the wrong choices.
Conclusion
With Netflix’s streaming service, in the comfort of one’s home, individuals
can expand their cultural perceptions and increase their engagement with
Black content via their digital platform. In other words, Netflix streaming
service distributes culturally diverse content, which may not have received
a platform on mainstream channels, such as ABC, NBC, CBS and premium
cable channels, such as Showtime, HBO, and The Movie Channel. This
equity of access promotes marginalized texts in a manner that makes African
Americans more visible and culturally acceptable to mainstream audiences.
netflix 143
For individuals with limited access to marginalized people, the rhetorical

expression of diverse cultures may have less meaning.
By viewing diverse images via Netflix Cary Fukunaga’s Beasts of No Nation
(2015), Ava DuVernay’s 13th (2016), and Marvel’s Luke Cage (2016), the
exposure and consumption of Black digital content increases, which conse-
quently decreases the distance between mainstream and Black culture. Thus,
the message of African American humanity becomes more meaningful and
valuable as opposed to more arbitrary and distant. Reason being, audiences
develop a closer relationship with African American culture due to their
viewing choices. In effect, by offering a broader view of Black content, than
competing media channels, the visual rhetoric and images are more compre-
hensive and inclusive with Netflix, due to the presence of Blacks behind the
scenes and onscreen. Consequently, with regard to Black images and public
discourse, the interpretation of those culturally diverse images, due to Net-
flix’s cultural influence, transforms representations from a monolithic inter-
pretation into a multifaceted rhetoric of a marginalized people, resulting in an
authentic communication of African American humanity.
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·9·
from viki to netflix
Crossing Borders and Meshing Cultures
Oranit Klein Shagrir
Broadcast TV is an essentially national activity.

—Ellis (2002, p. 5)
Ellis’s assertion is still valid as far as broadcast TV goes. Nowadays, however,

consuming televisual content can also be a global activity thanks to online
fandom communities and international content streaming services (Lee,
2017), such as Netflix or ViKi, which cross national and cultural borders. At
the same time, they transform TV viewing into an individualized activity
as well.
This chapter considers the series Dramaworld (2016) as a case study of a
“streaming televisual form” and its analysis will make it possible to examine
the transformations in the production, distribution, and consumption of tele-
visual content as video streaming becomes globally and commercially preva-
lent. The discussion will reveal the crossing of cultural, national, lingual, and
medial borders; the meshing of cultures and professional practices; and the
changing role of the viewer in the digital age.
Dramaworld is a comedy-drama set in Los Angeles and Seoul. It tells the
story of Claire, an American student and avid fan of Korean dramas, who
gets “transported” into her favorite show. The series was directed by Chris
Martin and produced and streamed by the video-streaming provider ViKi, and
later distributed internationally by Netflix. Although very popular in Asia,

ViKi is less familiar to American and European audiences. It is owned by the
Japanese e-commerce company Rakuten and claims to have more than one
billion viewers in 195 countries. While the service is ad-supported and free
to viewers, it also offers a paid, ad-free subscription option. ViKi’s emphasis
is on Asian content, especially from China, Hong Kong, Korea, and Taiwan,
and it makes use of a large number of volunteers who produce subtitles in 200
languages (Cunnigham, 2017).
Streaming services such as ViKi, Netflix, Amazon, Hulu, and the like
are becoming ever more salient and influential players in the rapidly chang-
ing mediascape. The underlying assumption of this chapter is that as the
media environment transforms due to technological, cultural and commer-
cial developments, numerous long-standing traditional lines are becoming
blurred, borders are being crossed, and previously defined dichotomies are
crumbling.
The Changing Mediascape

In recent decades, the media environment has been undergoing a series of
fundamental changes, with “old” mass media meant for “passive” consump-
tion being joined by numerous “new” media that afford interactive com-
munication (McQuail, 2010). Web 2.0 and an increase in time-shifted and
on-demand content across devices are reshaping the ways in which viewers
access, consume, and interact with audiovisual content, and technological
developments are enabling them to become producers of media messages.
Thus, the line between the roles of producers and receivers of media messages
has been blurred, and consequently, the boundaries between the traditional
spheres of media production and consumption are less clearly drawn (Rice,
1999; Roig, San Cornelio, Ardèvol, Pau & Pagès, 2009). Some scholars claim
that in the wake of this transformation, the reference to old and new media is
no longer warranted, since what we have now is simply a variety of platforms
and screens on which content can be consumed (Boyle, 2014). Contrary to
Ellis’s assertion at the top of this chapter, for many people, the act of television
viewing is now less national and more personal and individually determined,
thanks to the new technologies (Groshek & Krongard, 2016). This state of
affairs has undermined the old logic of multichannel television, creating new
media forms that allow for a varied and global selection of content and a
unique individualized viewing experience.
from viki to netflix 149
Crossing National and Cultural Borders

The technological changes in the mediascape enable national and cultural
borders to be crossed more easily. As the global market for televisual content
grows, international fan communities are flourishing, as are the opportunities
for joint international production ventures. International streaming services
have given rise to unexpected cultural trends, such as the popularity of Turkish
dramas in Croatia, South Korean movies in Saudi Arabia, and Colombian
telenovelas in the Philippines (Park, 2014).
This crossing of borders is reflected in both the production and the narrative
of Dramaworld. First, the series is the product of international cooperation. It was
produced by Japanese-owned video-streaming platform Viki in a joint venture
with Chinese, Korean, and American media companies, and it was streamed
internationally first by ViKi and then by Netflix. ViKi’s corporate structure is
itself multicultural, with offices in San Francisco, Singapore, Seoul, and Tokyo.
Moreover, both the production team and the actors in Dramaworld are multina-
tional and multilingual, and the episodes were shot in Los Angeles and Seoul.
In addition to the global nature of the commercial architecture of video
streaming services such as Netflix and ViKi, the content they offer is also cul-
turally varied. Streaming services generally rely on televisual content that can
travel across cultures. In the words of former ViKi CEO, Razmig Hovaghim-
ian: “Really good story lines are universal … There’s a reason why Colombian
drama travels well to the Philippines … When it travels, it travels with its
nuances, its culture and its beauty” (Park, 2014).
Traveling across cultural borders is easier when audiences are acquainted
with the culture portrayed and the genre of the content. Dramaworld was
conceived by its producers as an introduction to Korean culture, or more
accurately, to the culture and norms of Korean drama (popularly known as
K-Drama), intended for viewers who are unfamiliar with the genre. As ViKi’s
CEO, Tammy H. Nam, explains:
It’s going to include a lot of K-drama and Asian drama tropes that are going to be
immediately recognizable … but at the same time it’s going to be very acceptable to a
broad consumer mainstream audience. So if someone who’s completely new to Asian
drama watches the show, I think that it would be a really great introduction to the
genre for them. (“Why ViKi is getting …,” 2015)
When Claire enters Dramaworld, she acts as a guide, or translator, of the

culture of K-drama, which is foreign to non-fans. She explains the various
character types, the plot devices, and the rules and conventions of the genre
as spelled out in the Dramaworld Handbook:
Law number 1: A drama ends with true love’s kiss. True love’s kiss is defined as
occurring between the leading man and leading lady.
Law number 2: The leading man must always embody the traits of a leading
man. Confident, handsome, slightly arrogant, but always with
the leading lady’s interest at heart. Everything is for her.
Law number 3: The leading man will take a hot steamy shower.
Law number 4: There can be bumps and detours, but every twist is actually lead-
ing towards true love.
Law number 5: Upon true love being achieved, the drama will be reset. Charac-
ters’ memories will be wiped clean in preparation for their next
drama so that they can fall in love for the first time again, and
again, and again. (Episode 2)
As a result, the series might be seen as a “Rosetta Stone” for K-drama,

enabling viewers who are unfamiliar with its codes to understand and enjoy
it. They are symbolically represented by the brief appearance of the director,
Chris Martin, as an innocent and uninterested customer in the diner where
Claire works. After ordering a sandwich, he gets a detailed explanation about
the nature of K-Drama, which he does not really appreciate:
Claire: You’ve got to understand, in Korean drama that first kiss is every-
thing. It means they’re in love! It’s not like American shows
where a kiss means nothing. In K-drama, when a guy kisses a girl,
that’s it! That’s true love forever.
Customer: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Claire: Taste of Love is the most popular drama on Korean television.
Customer: Nobody freaking cares. Just make the sandwich! (Episode 1)
While the international popularity of Anime and Manga is attributed to

being “culturally odorless” (Iwabuchi, 2002), Korean TV is culturally distinc-
tive. Nevertheless, it has gained popularity around the world through inter-
national streaming services (Jin & Yoon, 2016; Lee, 2017). Dramaworld is a
cultural hybrid—that is, a union of “two hitherto relatively distinct forms,
styles, or identities … which often occurs across national borders as well as
across cultural boundaries” (Kraidy, 2005, p. 5). This hybridity highlights the
uniqueness of each cultural identity, Korean and American, on the one hand,
and the universality of the human experience on the other. Thus, the multi-
cultural production process and commercial cooperation resulted in a series
whose narrative also reflects two different cultural points of view, and even
two languages.
Crossing Lingual Borders

Seth: Everything here is subtitled, so after a while you won’t even notice it.
It will be like you’re speaking Korean.
Claire: I speak Korean? [Funny colorful Korean subtitles on screen]
…
Claire: Wait, do you speak English?
Joon Park: Of course. English, Français, Español, Nihongo and a few words of
Malagasy. (Episode 2)
Miraculously, the characters in Dramaworld can understand both Korean and

English, enabling the narrative and characters, as well as the viewers, to cross
the lingual barrier that often hinders televisual content from travelling inter-
nationally. In Dramaworld, Claire celebrates the crossing of this border enthu-
siastically. When she realizes that a local taxi driver can understand English,
she asks him in amazement: “Can you understand what I am saying?” and in
response to his positive reply, she exclaims happily: “I can speak Korean!”
(Episode 2). Obviously, she can neither speak nor understand Korean. How-
ever, as a character in the series she effortlessly crosses the lingual barrier and
becomes part of the drama. This scene can be seen as an allegory of the expe-
rience of consumers of international streaming services, who can leap over the
lingual barrier thanks to the platforms’ efforts to translate the streamed con-
tent into as many languages as possible. Netflix currently supports more than
20 languages and is seeking to expand its subtitle offerings in order to widen
its international appeal. Expressing a desire “to delight members in ‘their’ lan-
guage,” the company declares it is looking for “top-notch translators” (Musil,
2017) in order to ensure the quality of its subtitles and has even introduced an
online tool to test the translation skills of candidates. While Netflix relies on
paid professionals, ViKi relies on crowdsourced subtitles, that is, on its view-
ers’ free labor. It claims to have more than one billion viewers in 195 countries
thanks to an army of volunteer viewers who produce subtitles in 200 languages
(Cunningham, 2017). Indeed, the Asian-based streaming provider portrays
itself as viewer-oriented, enabling fans to add real-time comments on its site
that pop up throughout the show, or to request certain content they would
like the company to acquire and stream. Its most popular shows, coupled with
fan-powered subtitles, are also distributed to Netflix and Hulu (Park, 2014).
In addition, ViKi released a Learn Mode designed to help viewers build for-
eign language skills by allowing them to interact with the subtitles of streamed
content (Chong, 2017). Thus, the Dramaworld environment in which cultural
and lingual borders are easily crossed is the very same environment that inter-
national streaming providers invest considerable effort in creating for their
viewers worldwide.
Blurring the Lines of Professional Practice

Depicting itself as “a community-powered or ‘crowdsourced’ Internet plat-
form,” ViKi’s method of using crowdsourcing and collective intelligence to
translate content is traditionally associated with piracy or illegal platforms
(Dwyer, 2012). Taking advantage of the platform’s technological affordances,
it utilizes volunteers to produce what are called “fansubs” in numerous lan-
guages, thereby contributing to the expansion of televisual content worldwide
(González, 2007). ViKi therefore marries professional and nonprofessional
practices (Dwyer, 2012), crossing the line between piracy translations and
legitimate subtitling practices, and giving free rein to fans’ creativity (Denison,
2011). “Fansubbers” are allowed to challenge the norms of subtitling by
using different fonts and colors, and they can often add their own notes and
impressions to the content in a designated space in the frame referred to as
“headnotes” (Eunjae, 2016). These practices break the traditional rule of the
minimum presence of the translator in the translated text (Dwyer, 2012) and
open a new avenue of interaction between viewers and translators “formerly
known as viewers,” to paraphrase Rosen’s famous distinction (2006). The use
of fansubs demonstrates how piracy practices can be co-opted by a commer-
cial streaming service, and it is identified with a general move towards viewer
empowerment and the active modes of consumption evolving in the digital
mediascape (González, 2006 in Dwyer, 2012).
Viki proudly differentiates itself from other streaming services by offering
an engaging, community-oriented, lean-forward approach: “Unlike the soli-
tary ‘lean back’ experience offered by Netflix … [Viki encourages] subscribers
to interact with the programs it offers, and with each other” (Cain, 2017).
ViKi’s model involves buying copyright licenses from content providers with
whom it shares advertising revenue and establishing partnerships with online
video services like Hulu and YouTube (Kim, 2010 in Dwyer, 2012) as well as
licensing its subtitled content to Netflix and Hulu.
However, when Dramaworld was streamed on Netflix it was impossible to

tell that the translation subtitles were actually crowdsourced “fansubs,” and
there was no sign of viewers’ “timed comments” originally embedded in the
content on Viki. Compared with the engagement Viki offers its viewers, it is
fair to say that the Netflix’s viewing experience, although personalized, is less
active and engaging.
The invitation to become an active viewer—a “prosumer” (Bruns,
2009)—is epitomized in Dramaworld by Claire, who crosses the line into the
drama and goes from being a passive fan to an active participant.
Transforming the Fan

When Claire is magically transported into the world of her favorite Korean
TV drama, Taste of Love, she metaphorically crosses the line separating the
viewers’ world from the world of television (Couldry, 2002). At the same
time, two additional symbolic lines are crossed: the line between viewers and
characters in the series, and the line between the on-screen narrative and the
production process behind the scenes.
Claire’s story is a contemporary version of the fantasy beautifully portrayed
in Woody Allen’s film The Purple Rose of Cairo (1985). In the movie, the line
between the viewers’ world and the “movie world” is crossed twice: first when
one of the characters in the film comes out of the screen and into the movie
theatre, and again when he goes back into the film, taking with him Cecilia,
a lonely fan who has seen the movie numerous times. When she crosses over
into the film, she is amazed to come face to face with the characters. However,
she is still a stranger in their world and does not become one of them. Instead,
she remains a viewer who accidently finds herself in the wrong environment.
In Dramaworld, Claire enters the TV world through her smartphone, and
even though it is apparent that she is a “foreigner” in this environment, she
immediately becomes a player in it, literally standing between the two leading
characters as they lean in to kiss each other and wind up kissing her, to their
astonishment. This is the moment that marks her transformation: she is a fan,
a viewer, but she can now also participate as a character in the story. Soon
afterward, she discovers that she has been brought to Dramaworld as a “facil-
itator,” a person from the real world whose job it is to help keep the narrative
on track. Unlike Cecilia in The Purple Rose of Cairo, Claire is not passive. She
is given significant power over the plot and characters, and she has permission
to impact their actions.
According to the traditional dramaturgic arrangement (Goffman, 1974),

there are two different “information states”: that of the actors and production
staff who are familiar with the narrative and that of the audience who has less
information about the unfolding story. This distinction is overturned in Dra-
maworld. Contrary to the traditional arrangement, Claire, a “former member
of the audience” (Rosen, 2006), knows more than the characters. They are
not even aware that they are playing a role in a televisual drama, and Claire
is warned not to enlighten them. As her guide, Seth, explains: “These charac-
ters cannot know they are in a drama. If there are any secrets that you know
that they don’t, you cannot tell them.” (Episode 3).
Another line is blurred in Dramaworld when Claire is told to cease being
a viewer altogether. Rule number three of facilitation is: “Do not watch the
drama.” Once again, Seth supplies the reasoning behind this rule: “This is not
a TV show for them. How would you like it if some creeper started staring at
your intimate moments?” (Episode 3).
This warning completely voids Goffman’s concept of “performance frame”
(1974), whereby stage actors are positioned in a place and situation that allows
other people to watch them intently for an extended period of time without
being perceived to violate their privacy. In Dramaworld, the characters in the
drama are no longer treated as performers but as real people, while the real
people in the audience, like Claire, can be transformed into performers, thus
blurring the traditional Goffmanian framing.
This role exchange, like the inversion between the two “information
states,” echoes the transformation of the role of the media audience in the
digital world. In recent years we have been seeing more “ordinary people”
on screen, as viewers are invited to participate in TV shows, to impact them
in various ways and to interact with the producers and other viewers on-line
(Enli, 2009; Klein-Shagrir, 2017, Lunt, 2004; Turner 2010). Whereas in the
past, TV producers set the viewers apart from the show unless they were
members of the studio audience, yet they are now inviting viewers to cross
the line and become part of the program (Jermyn & Holmes, 2006). Thus,
in the contemporary mediascape, the line between consumers and producers
of media content is often blurred, and viewers can become participants and
even produce their own content and distribute it worldwide from their own
homes. These circumstances, known as participatory culture (Jenkins, 2006),
are reflected in the slogan promoting Dramaworld: “What would you do if you
fell into your favorite K-drama?” It depicts Claire as a representative of all
viewers, and it invites them to imagine themselves entering the TV world and
even participating in it. Dramaworld demonstrates this crossing of the line in a

creative fantasy inspired by participatory culture and the promised change in
power relations between producers and consumers of media content.
Furthermore, Claire represents the development of female audiences
as described by media researchers over the past few decades (Liebes, 2003).
She goes from being a passive starry-eyed fan who escapes her own reality
by immersing herself in an endless string of dramatic content, to an active
participant who becomes part of the story and makes an impact on it. In the
first episode, she is depicted as a devoted fan of K-dramas who raptly watches
one series after the other on her mobile phone. The camera zooms out from
Claire’s face and we see her sitting on the toilet with her eyes glued to her
smartphone when her father’s voice jolts her: “We’ve got customers!” Look-
ing embarrassed, she refuses to face the reality of her life and goes back to
the drama unfolding on the screen of her phone. Later in the episode, she
explains her fascination with K-dramas and is reprimanded by her father for
her escapism:
Claire: In here life is exciting, and people are beautiful, and they fall hope-
lessly, madly in love. The leading man and the girl no one ever looked
at before. They kiss and there’s a happy ending.
Father: Look at the door! That’s real-life Claire. That stuff doesn’t happen.
Claire’s manifest escapism is reminiscent of the radiophonic soap opera

fans studied by Herzog (1941). The women listened to as many as twelve epi-
sodes a day of their favorite radio series and were characterized as lonely, with
low self-esteem, and seeking to escape from their own dreary reality by living
on a “borrowed experience.” Claire is also lonely and insecure. As she herself
says: “I am not even a main character in my own life” (Episode 2). K-Dramas,
described by fans as an escapist experience that “takes you away from your life
and world” (Lee, 2017, p. 7), serve her as “borrowed experiences” in place of
her own boring life.
The more engrossed Claire becomes in the romantic fantasy of the series
she is watching, the more alarmed she is that the narrative is not proceeding
toward the anticipated happy ending. Much like Radway’s romance readers
(1985), she finds it hard to contend with the unknown when she suspects that
the essential “true love’s kiss” might not happen.
The turning point comes when Claire is plunged into Dramaworld and
becomes a participant in the narrative in an allegory of the participatory cul-
ture characteristic of the digital age. Once she is inside the TV world, she acts
not only as a “facilitator” for the narrative, but also as a guide for the viewers
to the drama’s back stage and production process. She explains production
procedures and reads to the viewers extensive excerpts from the series’ produc-
tion manual, or “bible.” Unveiling the production apparatus and behind the
scenes activity of media production is a prevalent practice in contemporary
TV, reflecting producers’ perception of viewers as media-savvy consumers who
expect to be involved in, or at least informed about, the production process
behind the content they watch (Duffy, Liss-Mariño, & Sender, 2011). Research
has shown that producers strongly believe that viewers wish to engage with
media texts (Enli, 2009; Sundet & Ytreberg, 2009) and want to be included
in the production process itself (Klein Shagrir, 2017). The backstage that is
revealed, however, is not always the actual backstage of the production, but
rather a staged backstage created order to give viewers a sense of involvement
in the production and closeness to the production team (Klein Shagrir, 2015).
Dramaworld’s backstage is similarly staged: there are no production crew mem-
bers, cameras, or sound crew in sight. Nevertheless, the series replicates the
process whereby viewers are transformed from passive members of the audi-
ence to empowered players who can design their own experience, participate
in the action, and even witness parts of the production process.
Crossing Medial Borders

Streaming services like Netflix represent the disruption of distinctions between
film, television, and online platforms such as Vimeo or YouTube (Jenner,
2016). It is not surprising, therefore, that the lines between a TV series and
a web series are often blurred as well. While Netflix primarily streams con-
tent which conforms to televisual formats, Viki produced the series Drama-
world which crosses the line between media time and again. On the one hand,
unlike the episodes of a TV series, the episodes of Dramaworld are extremely
short (10–15 minutes). On the other hand, the narrative takes place in the
world of TV, specifically the world of K-dramas originally produced for and
broadcast on Korean TV channels. Moreover, this content is now consumed
in many countries not through TV, but online.
The short, bite-sized episodes are particularly suited to contemporary
viewing habits. Viewers can easily watch an episode or two on their phones
during their lunch break or their commute to work, or binge watch the whole
series in a little over two hours. As many scholars and producers are ques-
tioning the very definition of TV as a medium in light of technological and
cultural changes, we might ask whether TV is defined by its technology, i.e.,

the broadcasting of analogical or digital signals, or by a combination of com-
ponents such as its text, form, organization and industry. This question is even
more intriguing in light of the audiovisual content on streaming services. Dra-
maworld is a hybrid, a “streaming televisual form” that constantly blurs the
media line between TV and the web, not only technologically, but in form
and narrative as well.
Conclusion
With the mediascape changing literally before our eyes, content streaming
providers such as Netflix and ViKi are impacting the ways media content is
produced, distributed, and consumed. Some claim that Netflix represents the
future of television: choice, freedom, and democracy (Yale, 2016). Whether
these aims can indeed be attained is highly debatable. Moreover, although
streaming services are considered global, their catalogs are differentiated both
temporally and geographically. In other words, at any given time, users in dif-
ferent countries have different content to choose from. Thus, while streaming
providers may be conceptually global, they can also be seen as an array of
national services linked to one common platform (Lobato, 2017). That said,
in this chapter I have tried to show that they do, in fact, cross borders, mesh
cultures, and blur traditional distinctions, and as such, they may represent one
possible trajectory of TV in the digital age.
The analysis of Dramaworld, a series produced by one streaming service
(ViKi) and distributed by another (Netflix), reveals a contemporary form that
incorporates the cultural, technological, industrial, commercial, and aesthetic
transformations of televisual content that can now be seen in the mediascape.
The series demonstrates not only the impact of new platforms for production
and distribution of content, but also the changing role of the media consumer
and shifts in viewing habits.
Dramaworld illustrates the transformation of the traditional media fan
into the new empowered viewer who can select the content she wants and
watch it whenever and wherever she wants. Furthermore, the series portrays
a new version of fan who becomes a participant in the series as well, a “fan-
subber” as it were, who adds not only subtitles, but also commentary, to the
narrative. The series also throws a spotlight on other changes in the media
world today: the growing global fandom of televisual content; the developing
market for international content and formats; international joint production
projects; and the conversion of illegal practices, such as crowdsourced subti-

tles, into professional procedures. While Viki aspires to become the “Netflix
of the world,” (Russel, 2013) it distinguishes itself from Netflix not only by
focusing on Asian content but also by creating a more socially and globally
engaging experience for its community of viewers. As described by the com-
pany’s CEO: “Our subscribers become superfans. They want to learn about the
language, to learn about the culture … we are really about embracing the true
love and passion our fans have and their desire to share that with other people
in our community.” (Cain, 2017)
Thus, Dramaworld, which I have dubbed a “streaming televisual form,”
demonstrates how content today can travel across borders, cultures, lan-
guages, and media, and at the same time transform viewers into participants
and prosumers.
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section iii
viewer practices
·10·
transforming media production
in an era of “ binge - watching ”
Netflix’s Cinematic Long-Form Serial
Programming and Reception
Sheri Chinen Biesen
Over the last decade, Netflix has been heralded and critiqued for its capacity to
revolutionize the way we watch cinema and television and for fostering a new,
changing media production, distribution, and reception climate that has dra-
matically transformed in an era of “video on demand” (VOD) media streaming
and “binge watching” home viewership. Netflix executives have insisted, and
the company has shown, it has changed the nature of what a television program
is and the very nature of media viewing itself. Netflix has transformed media
reception and distribution practices in the U.S. and abroad, and provided an
ideal global media platform for encouraging “binge watching” and considering
how traditional and new media “converge” at home. Netflix has also produced
an array of original program content which has prompted other major media
companies to adapt and respond with competing media production, distribution
and reception strategies. This chapter investigates how Netflix transforms media
programs and programming content to maximize serial long-form “binge watch-
ing” viewing of media and reimagine traditional cinematic and televisual recep-
tion. In particular, this chapter will focus on Netflix programs and programming
content in the context of its platform and viewing reception practices to exam-
ine how the nature of Netflix media programs, overall programming (content),
media platform, and its “binge watching” reception climate (viewer practices)
affect the intrinsic way in which we see and experience cinema and television.
Netflix programs and programming content epitomizes what media

scholar Henry Jenkins describes as “convergence culture” and “transmedia
storytelling” with a “whole new vision of synergy” in the “flow of content
across multiple media platforms” to create an industrial, technological, social,
and cultural context where “the art of story-telling has become the art of
world-building, as artists create compelling environments that cannot be fully
explored or exhausted within a single work or even a single medium” (Jenkins,
2006, p. 114). While Netflix began as a way to rent movies by mail, it is often
compared to television. Netflix cofounder and CEO Reed Hastings calls it a
“web-based” internet TV “network” (Wu, 2013). Media scholar Chuck Tryon
and industry analyst Tim Wu compare Netflix to HBO (like Netflix suggesting
cinema viewing in its moniker, “Home Box Office”) with a “premium” sub-
scriber (rather than conventional commercial advertising) base. Like HBO,
Netflix also shifted from screening films to original high quality dramatic pro-
gramming. The Economist observed that “If Netflix were a cable channel, its
subscriber revenues in 2013 would put it third in America behind ESPN and
HBO” (“Thinking Outside,” 2013, p. 69). Netflix has become a benchmark
for media companies. Responding to Netflix’s success and effect on media,
Disney, HBO, CBS, Amazon (expanding from online retailer to emulate a
film studio), and others are offering streaming services, competing with Net-
flix and heralding a “new era of à la carte television” and promising it will
“look a lot like Netflix” (Steel, 2014). Tryon observes in an age of cord cutting
amid the growth of Netflix and media streaming options, “digital distribution
raises new questions about how, when, and where we access movies and what
this model means for entertainment culture.” Ironically, while digital media
“seem to promise that media texts circulate faster, more cheaply, and more
broadly than ever before,” Tryon suggests that despite the “promises of ubiqui-
tous and immediate access to a wide range of media content, digital delivery
has largely involved the continued efforts of major media conglomerates to
develop better mechanisms for controlling when, where, and how content is
circulated” (Tryon, 2013, pp. 3–4).
Netflix has certainly transformed media viewing. As a result of the pop-
ularity of Netflix, other major media companies (e.g., TV networks [HBO,
Showtime], film studios, Amazon Films, Hulu, Apple, Google, WarnerInstant,
FilmStruck, Google/YouTube) have recognized its influence as Netflix pro-
duces original content and produces/streams increasingly serialized cinematic
long-form dramas, and tried to simulate or compete with Netflix in response
to its success. Yet the “transformation” of these media companies would be
transforming media production 165
“impossible,” Wu (2013) argues, “without the path blazed by premium cable.

HBO pioneered the subscription-fee model” and its “success made possible the
specialized programming on other premium networks, like AMC and the rest.”
He explains that: “The DVD box set gave hard-core enthusiasts the first taste
of the binge-viewing that is a Netflix trademark. The company’s achievement
is to bring it all together and target the entire TV-watching population—not
just a few selected die-hards, but every individual based on his or her own
interests and obsessions.” Thus, Wu projects that “nearly all scripted shows”
will “become streaming shows, whether they are produced or aggregated by
Netflix or Amazon, CBS or a (finally unbundled) HBO.” Yet, premium sub-
scriber cable channels (HBO, AMC, originally known as “American Movie
Classics,” and satellite television companies like DirectTV) are marketed not
as conventional television, but rather as something closer to cinema providing
a quality, high caliber cinematic viewing experience.
Not only are Netflix (original) programs and programming influential.
It is fascinating how a television series can be originally conceived and pro-
duced to be aired on a conventional broadcast or cable channel for an hour
once a week at a certain time with commercial interruptions, yet viewers may
never even watch it on conventional TV. However, viewers then discover and
“binge watch” entire seasons in sequence without commercial interruptions
on Netflix (at home, while traveling, on a mobile device) and subsequently
become dedicated viewers and fans of a series. This is especially the case in
an era of “cord-cutting.” For instance, consider the increasingly serialized
nature and cross-promotion of the CW network’s The Flash and Arrow, or
AMC’s Mad Men, Breaking Bad, and Better Call Saul. These series reference
and promote each other across and between different yet related programs,
and enjoyed greater popularity by being “binge watched” by viewers stream-
ing the television shows on Netflix. Moreover, Netflix’s original Marvel series
Daredevil, Jessica Jones, Luke Cage, Iron Fist, and The Defenders reference each
other and have characters starring in each other’s shows, moving across and
between programs to create a long-form serialized “meta” narrative. Such
long-form serial programming encourages and furthers binge watching on
Netflix. Netflix’s serialized “meta” narrative is encouraged as original series
Glow stars recognizable actors (Alison Brie, Rich Sommer) from AMC’s Mad
Men. Jessica Jones (Krysten Ritter) and Better Call Saul feature actors/char-
acters (Bob Odenkirk as Saul Goodman) from Breaking Bad. Daredevil actor
Charlie Cox starred in HBO’s Martin Scorsese production Boardwalk Empire.
Narcos star Pedro Pascal was in HBO’s Game of Thrones. Not only are Netflix
originals House of Cards, Daredevil, Jessica Jones, The Crown, Glow, and Narcos
popular. AMC’s Mad Men, Breaking Bad, and prequel Better Call Saul became
highly viewed by being binge watched on Netflix. Moreover, Netflix pro-
moted serial binge viewing of Breaking Bad, House of Cards, and The Crown in
high definition 4K Ultra HD, for better quality cinematic images not always
available on cable or satellite.
In terms of Netflix programs and programming content on its media plat-
form, for example, even series created for conventional viewing on regular
TV with commercials once a week cross-promoting other shows, such as the
CW network’s The Flash and Arrow, are better when viewed in immersive
commercial-free long-form binge watching sessions on Netflix rather than
when aired on the conventional broadcast networks they were created and
produced for with commercial interruptions that disrupt the flow of the meta
narrative. However, television shows which are not specifically created to
be binge watched, but rather cross-promoted between different series across
alternating “shared” episodes in a once a week format, such as Arrow and The
Flash, often disrupt the sequence and flow of the binge viewing experience of
individual series where missing episodes are in a separate series. This type of
broadcast cross-promotion specifically intended for a once a week airing of
a show creates new problems which interfere with televisual binge viewing
via media streaming. Such issues also reveal conventional networks’ lack of
understanding about the nature of binge watching itself in the inherent incep-
tion of the television series’ creation, production, and media platform.
As networks (CBS, CW, NBC, FOX, ABC) respond to Netflix and add/
create their own media streaming service for shows, they interrupt program-
ming content with commercials and charge more for less content. Even PBS’
streaming service previously interrupted shows with commercials not shown
when originally aired (they later eliminated commercials during the pro-
grams). Amazon, Hulu, HBO, Showtime, Starz, and Disney offer streaming
services with user interfaces, sound and image quality not as good as Netflix.
Thus, serialized long-form television dramatic series are more ideally viewed
on Netflix. For example, when Hulu struck a deal with Criterion, pulling Cri-
terion art cinema from Netflix, Hulu streamed Criterion’s international art
cinema classics, such as Akira Kurosawa masterwork Ran, interrupted by com-
mercials. (Criterion later made a deal to stream art cinema on FilmStruck.)
The serialized nature of Netflix’s long-form dramatic programs and pro-
gramming platform for its media content has been encouraged by other media
conglomerate competitors ending their deals with Netflix and pulling their
media content (such as classic film titles) from its delivery platform for media
streaming distribution. In response to Netflix’s popularity, even media con-
glomerate companies and channels which previously had joint partnership
deals with Netflix, such as Starz and Disney, increasingly view Netflix as a
rival competitor and ended their agreements, opting instead to pull their film
libraries and remove media content from Netflix and offer their own pro-
prietary media streaming services to show films/programs to compete with
Netflix. Other serial programs such as Jane Campion’s 2013 neo-noir detective
crime drama series Top of the Lake, starring Mad Men’s Elizabeth Moss, which
enjoyed popularity on Netflix, later moved to competitor media streaming
service Hulu.
In an ever-evolving streaming media production, distribution and binge
viewing climate, the very nature of Netflix and its cinematic televisual pro-
grams and media platform content has dramatically changed in intrinsic ways
which foster greater long-form serialized binge watching. Netflix has trans-
formed itself and its programs and programming content. James Surowiecki
(2014) of The New Yorker recognizes Netflix’s influential history of innovation
and argues that the media company has “created two markets practically from
scratch—online DVD rental, then video streaming. In the process, it has rein-
vented itself” from a “traditional pay-per-rental company, turned itself into a
subscription rental service, went into streaming, and then moved into original
content.” Netflix programs and programming has changed as it previously had
less original content and a much bigger catalogue of licensed content than
HBO and Showtime “pay-TV” services. “But the differences are diminish-
ing,” he explains: “Streaming matters more to pay-TV networks now, while
Netflix is adding more original shows and movies. Toss in Amazon’s streaming
service—which has been licensing lots of TV shows and films and has also
begun producing its own shows—and you’re looking at a crowded market-
place” (Surowiecki, 2014).
In recent years, as Netflix became a popular successful film/television
“aggregated” media distribution outlet, global media conglomerates (e.g., film
production studios, distributors, television cable companies) viewed Netflix
as a competitor rather than a supplemental means of making movies and
programs available to viewers, especially with the exploding popularity of
Netflix’s video on demand “VOD” streaming service which enhanced home
viewing and “binge watching.” In contrast, early on, Hollywood motion pic-
ture studios, television media conglomerates, and cable companies (includ-
ing pay channels such as Starz) underestimated the lucrative potential and
popularity of video on demand streaming and were thus happy to make films
and series available on Netflix. In the emergent days of streaming, what
set Netflix apart was that it had “far more—and far better—content than
anyone else. It was able to build up a sizable catalogue of movies cheaply,
because the streaming market was still small and Hollywood was happy to
get the extra revenue,” Surowiecki argues. As an example, Netflix initially
made a deal to license/stream hundreds of films from pay TV cable chan-
nel Starz for $25 million a year. However, after this original arrangement, in
later years, “Once content providers saw how popular streaming was becom-
ing,” he explains, “they jacked up the price of their content. Netflix’s success
also attracted new competitors to the market (like Amazon), and encouraged
existing competitors (like HBO) to invest more in streaming” (Surowiecki,
2014). Jeffrey Ulin, who ran distribution at Lucasfilm, observes that because
there is now intense competition for streaming viewers from media companies
responding to Netflix, it’s now “harder to get content. And the content you
do get costs more.” After the Netflix-Starz agreement ended in 2012, “In the
past few years, Netflix has lost thousands of movies as licensing deals expired,”
and two years later in 2014 it paid at least $3 billion for content. Surowiecki
insists, “Though Netflix still streams plenty of great films, no one really thinks
of it as a dream video store in the sky anymore.”
Thus, Netflix offers fewer classic films to be viewed via “video on demand”
media streaming. As video stores and art cinemas disappear, these classic films
will no longer be seen if they disappear from Netflix. Yet, media conglomer-
ate competitors which terminate Netflix distribution deals and pull media
content (such as classic films) from Netflix often later go on to complain that
Netflix no longer offers this classic cinema to binge on its media program-
ming platform. However, Netflix has moved aggressively and extensively into
expanding their streaming service globally and making international produc-
tion deals for original long-form serialized dramatic programs and program-
ming content for its media platform while acquiring other programs from
overseas for its diverse offering of Netflix originals.
By February 2017, Mark Scott of the New York Times reported that Net-
flix’s media streaming company also expanded media partnerships into new
corporate relationships: by cutting deals with international telecom conglom-
erates. In fact, conventional broadcast television channels frequently run ads
for mobile device cell phone companies such as T-Mobile which show Netflix
original programs and media programming content, such as House of Cards
and Narcos, to advertise that the telecom company will offer new customers
free Netflix membership if they sign up with T-Mobile. Netflix advertises cin-
ematic long-form quality dramatic original serial programs and programming
content (House of Cards, The Crown, Narcos, Jessica Jones, Daredevil, and
$90 million scripted drama series Marco Polo, globally shot on location across
continents in Italy, Kazakhstan, and Malaysia in 2014–2016), during televised
cinema and Academy Awards broadcasts. Such promotional meta narratives
suggest the connection of Netflix original serialized media programs and pro-
gramming content on its streaming media platform to prestigious high-quality
art cinema now also made available to view and stream across an array of
mobile devices, thus expanding and redefining the “binge watching” viewing
experience.
As viewers find new ways to experience televisual programs and create
new meanings by engaging in different platforms and media contexts, chief
technology product officer Neil Hunt praised Netflix for breaking free and
transcending the limitations of conventional television’s weekly half-hour
and hour formats and the need to hook a viewer in a particular time frame.
Thus, he insists viewers might not even “recognize” TV shows, as programs
“can be as long or as short as you want, and it doesn’t have to tease you into
the next episode because you can binge right into the next episode … stories
we watch today are not your parents’ TV” (Lapowsky, 2014).
These developments regarding Netflix and the evolution of convergent
media are certainly more complex and less simplistic than some conceptions
suggest in considering Netflix or traditional cinema shifting to conventional
models of television. Netflix has already proved Hunt to be correct: what
we previously thought and conceived of television itself is being reimagined
entirely. Netflix has transformed the television home media viewing experi-
ence, the reception and distribution context of cinema-going (binge watch-
ing at home rather than in the theater), and created its own personalized
cinematic experience for films and quality dramatic TV series reformulated
in the image of cinema and made more widely available. In short, television
may look more like cinema in a serialized long form dramatic format binge
watched in a home viewing reception environment. Netflix promotes its
original productions (e.g., Golden Globe and Emmy award winning neo-noir
House of Cards [based on the 1990 BBC series], The Crown, Narcos, Jessica
Jones, and Marco Polo) in theaters, during televised movies and motion picture
award shows (e.g., Oscars, Golden Globes) to simulate the communal cine-
matic experience in a new reception context. Netflix’s move into producing
original programming has inspired other competitors, including new media
technology companies Amazon Films and premium channel Starz, to repli-

cate studios as entities producing and distributing films, television, and online
media content.
In this changing media production and distribution climate, Netflix is
increasingly producing and offering programs and programming that tradi-
tionally other major media companies would produce to be viewed, binge
watched and consumed in a way in which Netflix has made more popular and
pervasive. For instance, Netflix streamed and made available Billy W ilder’s
classic 1944 film noir Double Indemnity, which then disappeared from Netflix
programming content. However, the original neo-noir Netflix series House of
Cards showed a portion of the film in the fifth season and the actors recited
the dialogue to each other as the film projected on the big screen in the
background.
Such original Netflix series as House of Cards, Narcos, The Crown, Glow,
and Five Came Back are innovative quality long-form programming that would
typically air on other conventional broadcast or premium cable channels such
as HBO or the BBC. In fact, the BBC lamented that it could not compete
when Netflix produced The Crown (without BBC involvement), and Netflix’s
Steven Spielberg serial filmed adaptation of Mark Harris’ Five Came Back is
a quality long-form dramatic documentary that would typically be an HBO
miniseries, however, it is shown in a way ideally suited for binge watching
on Netflix, and is also accompanied by other related programs (the original
World War II documentaries discussed in the Netflix original program) avail-
able to view on Netflix, shown in a way in which it would not have been seen
on conventional television.
For example, Netflix released its acclaimed original dramatic biopic series
The Crown, sumptuously filmed on location in 4K Ultra HD and co-produced
with Left Bank Pictures and Sony Pictures Television, on N ovember 4,
2016, with a second season airing December 4, 2017. However, as early as
August 2015, John Plunkett of The Guardian reported that BBC Television
chief Danny Cohen “warns of US threat after big-money Amazon deals”
and insisted BBC “cannot compete” and was “rebuffed” when it “asked to
co-produce” the lavish Netflix long-form dramatic series The Crown. “One
of the BBC’s most senior executives has warned of the threat posed by its
US on-demand rivals,” Plunkett observed, after “Netflix rebuffed the corpo-
ration’s approach to co-produce its £50m royal epic The Crown” (and, further,
Amazon spent £160m to sign Jeremy Clarkson). Plunkett noted that BBC
director of television Cohen recognized that the Netflix original program The
Crown, starring Claire Foy as Great Britain’s Queen Elizabeth and John Lith-
gow as Winston Churchill, written and produced by Peter Morgan (inspired
by Morgan’s Oscar winning 2006 film, The Queen, starring Helen Mirren, and
based on his play The Audience), co-produced and directed by Stephen Daldry
and Philip Martin, was a “classic BBC subject.” Yet Cohen explained that
“at a time when the BBC’s spending power is being cut … we just couldn’t
compete with the amount of money that Netflix were prepared to pay for that
production even though we would have loved to have been a co-producer
with Netflix on it.” Cohen maintained that the BBC had “tried to work with
the US firm on the drama, intended to be a 50-part series about the ‘inside
story of two of the most famous addresses in the world, Buckingham Palace
and 10 Downing Street,’ but Netflix wanted to go it alone” (Plunkett, 2015).
Significantly, in an increasingly international media viewing environment
and a changing reception context with greater demand for streaming media
and binge watching of long-form dramatic programs, Cohen admitted that for
Netflix, “Their model is built on having global rights and we have got to respect
that. They are a very smart, impressive bunch of people.” This rapidly grow-
ing overseas market for viewing Netflix steaming media is greatly expanded
from a more traditional national “domestic” audience viewing model of live
broadcast programming previously and historically that typically targeted by
the BBC in airing series at a specific time. He added, “The key thing we look
at more and more is the impact of global competition rather than just in the
UK where very big companies can distribute their content around the world.
That is a very big challenge.” The BBC’s Cohen praised Netflix and House of
Cards, yet criticized some other content which was “not quite so good,” and
declared, “if that had been on BBC1 you’d have crucified us.” However, the
fact that the BBC felt compelled to compete with Netflix and other streaming
services such as Amazon for quality productions and programming is in itself a
major milestone which would not have even been considered just a few years
ago. As the popularity of Netflix and streaming becomes ever more prevalent,
Cohen recognized the increasing trend, especially with younger demographic
viewers to watch exclusively on-demand which “posed big questions for the
BBC.” Cohen insisted, “That trend is going to seriously impact our finances”
(Plunkett, 2015).
House of Cards star and co-producer Kevin Spacey commended Netflix
for its quality “prestige” programming (e.g., House of Cards written and co-
produced by Andrew Davies) on par with British television productions, as
in celebrated long-form BBC series (e.g., the 1995 BBC miniseries written
by Davies adapting Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice), and international art
cinema productions. However, ironically, while Netflix is increasingly produc-
ing high quality cinematic long-form original dramatic programming such as
House of Cards and The Crown, which foster and create an ideal “serialized”
viewing climate for binge watching, similar to the quality programming BBC
had previously been known and acclaimed for, more recently the financially
strapped BBC has also turned to showing cheaper reality shows. Defending
the less expensive yet highly criticized “lightning rod” imported Dutch reality
show The Voice airing on the BBC, Cohen complained, “I don’t know why
entertainment has suddenly become a dirty word in the context of the BBC.”
Netflix original programming such as The Crown, House of Cards, Narcos,
Jessica Jones, Daredevil, Glow, and Five Came Back rival and are better than
several highly promoted but less impressive BBC, ITV or PBS series such as
Poldark, Victoria, or even some HBO “Home Box Office” programming, previ-
ously considered the gold standard of quality cinematic long-form television
programming. Like HBO, Netflix has promoted itself as being better than
ordinary television: specifically, a more cinematic quality long-form commer-
cial free alternative to previous regular TV shows airing interrupted with ads
for a specific duration at a certain time. Netflix executives have heralded, and
media scholars and binge viewers acknowledge, that Netflix has transformed
the very nature of television, its programs and programming content, what
a TV show is, and changed the way we watch and experience media. As the
nature of what constitutes television programs changes and evolves, Tryon
(2015) suggests the “redefinition” of television which is rapidly occurring
“takes place as TV itself becomes increasingly difficult to define.”
By September 22, 2017, Jeremy Kay of Screen Daily reported that a recent
study from January 1 to August 31, 2017 revealed that, perhaps not surpris-
ingly, Netflix dramas dominate streaming originals demand in North A merica,
despite fierce competition by other major media conglomerates adding their
own proprietary streaming services to the media viewing market. For instance,
even a major broadcast channel CBS, which includes commercial ads inter-
rupting its programming and is available to watch for free, has brought back
and rebooted a new Star Trek: Discovery series which only aired the first epi-
sode once, then encouraged viewers to pay (nearly as much as Netflix) every
month to watch the rest of the episodes of the series with commercial inter-
ruptions on CBS’s “All Access” streaming service. Not surprisingly, this new
paid programming incentive was widely panned on social media. After the
new Star Trek: Discovery show’s premiere, some television viewers went so far
as to complain on twitter and post online rants about their grievances, declar-
ing: “I will pay $6 a month if I can watch Star Trek without ads for other CBS
shows. This channel is an absolute wasteland.”
In other words, after increasingly viewing Netflix as a competitor in recent
years, in an effort to cash in on the popularity of video on demand streaming
of televisual (and cinematic) media programming content, other major media
conglomerates seem to miss the point as to the nature of Netflix’s popularity:
that is, such offerings are too little too late and are realistically not very com-
petitive with Netflix. Seeking to emulate Netflix’ success, Amazon, HBO,
CBS and others offer streaming services (in the case of HBO, a stand-alone
VOD service that will not require a traditional cable television subscription).
This significant development grew out of the tremendous influence of Netflix.
Reuters’ Jennifer Saba (2014) concluded, “The move to take HBO ‘over-the-
top’—media jargon that means consumers can watch the channel with only a
broadband connection—is a significant milestone for a channel long depen-
dent on cable distributors. It could be a further catalyst spurring more people
to dump their cable subscriptions by cutting the cord. It could also prompt
other media companies to follow HBO’s lead.” CBS unveiled their streaming
service the day after HBO’s heralded streaming announcement in October
2014; Amazon formed Amazon Films and announced an ambitious schedule
of original productions.
Amazon, Disney, HBO, and CBS compare their media steaming to Net-
flix. New York Times reported HBO’s plans for a new streaming service with an
“eye on cord cutters” in a “move that intensifies the premium cable network’s
growing rivalry with Netflix.” Emily Steel explained, “The two companies are
battling for a new generation of viewers who increasingly pay only for Inter-
net access. Instead of subscribing to cable or satellite television, this growing
audience watches television shows and movies via streaming options like Net-
flix, Amazon, Hulu, YouTube … HBO.” Hastings admitted Netflix considered
HBO its “primary long-term competitor, especially for content” since 2011
and thought it was “inevitable” and “sensible” that HBO offer a “stand alone”
streaming service. “The industry is definitely moving to Internet video, so it is
a big mark when HBO moves over. They have a great opportunity. We have a
great opportunity. We can both prosper.” He acknowledged, “We are Internet
disrupters, through and through. We are continuing to push that edge” (Saba,
2014; Steel 2014). Netflix’s relatively low cost has contributed to its success
by providing more “bang for the buck” with better graphical user interface
for binge viewers than competitors. As companies like Disney, HBO, CBS,
Showtime, Starz, TCM/FilmStruck enter the market it will be intriguing to

see how successful they are if they are more expensive (or offer less effective
or appealing streaming products) than Netflix.
Netflix original programs, even interactive narratives like Puss in Book,
offer new ways for viewers to engage with media, determine story narratives
and endings, and construct meaning via the serialized long-form flow of a
meta narrative to be binge watched.
Yet, the popularity of viewers binge watching Netflix original program-
ming frequently occurs “beneath the radar” because these series are not aired
and tweeted live on social media as are live broadcasts of TCM classic movies,
sports, theater, music or political events, and Netflix does not release view-
ing data or ratings of programs. Further, even traditional quantitative metrics
for measuring televisual viewing habits and the popularity of TV shows and
network programming—for example, via Nielsen ratings—also do not apply
to Netflix in the way programs are aired, viewed and typically assessed on
conventional broadcast network or cable television in the absence of Netflix
viewer metrics for television shows, films, and programming content.
In an era of cord cutting, Netflix is rapidly becoming the preferred tele-
vision “network” of choice as well as streaming media preference for many
viewers, especially younger viewers. However, when a Nielsen family house-
hold selected Netflix as their favorite television network on the Nielsen
questionnaire, that household was not selected to rate television shows for
Nielsen (Nielson Research Correspondence, 2017). Nielson opting not to
receive viewer responses related to Netflix reveals how the popularity of
Netflix is underreported by conventional televisual media-viewing ratings
metrics.
Netflix’s own programming content rating system on its media platform
has recently changed from a one to five star rating system to a more simplis-
tic thumbs up or thumbs down for Netflix programs and movies. Moreover,
new Netflix content viewing features on its programming platform encourage
binge watching of long-form media content by allowing spectators to auto-
matically play/watch and skip the opening title credit sequences to create a
more seamless, immersive “fluid” cinematic flow of sequential serial content.
Ultimately, the nature of Netflix media programs, overall program-
ming (content), media platform, and user interface affects and transforms
the intrinsic way in which we see and experience cinema and television to
encourage and maximize serial long-form “binge watching” viewing prac-
tices of media and reimagine a traditional cinematic and televisual reception
climate. Despite other media conglomerates increasingly endeavoring to

compete with Netflix by offering their own streaming options (e.g., Disney,
CBS, HBO, Showtime, Starz, Amazon, Hulu, Apple, Google, WarnerInstant,
FilmStruck, TCM, YouTube), Netflix still offers the best streaming quality
and experience for binging media programs and dominates the market, and is
certainly not going away by any means. As evident in Disney ending its Net-
flix deal, pulling content from Netflix, and acquiring Major League Baseball
Advanced Media (BamTech) streaming technology company to develop its
own streaming service to rival Netflix (Barnes & Koblin, 2017), the fact that
all the major media conglomerates are now more than ever trying to do what
Netflix does (become a media streaming company producing and distributing
serial long-form media programs and programming content to “binge watch”
on a streaming media platform) in order to compete with Netflix is indeed
remarkable, and is in itself a testament to the tremendous influence of Netflix
on media production, distribution, and serialized televisual “binge watching”
viewing reception.
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·11·
binge - watching the
algorithmic catalog
Making Sense of Netflix in the Aftermath of
the Italian Launch
Fabio Giglietto, Chiara Checcaglini, Giada Marino,

and Lella Mazzoli
Following the end of September announcement, the on-demand streaming ser-

vice Netflix was officially launched in Italy on October 22, 2015. Long-awaited
by local fans and enthusiasts of TV series, the platform’s launch in the Italian
market expanded the existing offerings of TV content providers. The main
players in the pre-Netflix Italian television landscape were: free-to-air digital
terrestrial television/DTT (Rai and Mediaset channels, La7), digital satellite
subscription channels (Sky), and SVOD platforms (Infinity by Mediaset, Chili
TV, Sky Online). Beside official providers, illegal consumption of digital con-
tent was, and still is, a widespread phenomenon in Italy. According to a recent
study, 39% of consumers illegally watched films, TV series, or television and
entertainment programs at least once in 2016 (FAPAV-IPSOS, 2017).
While entering a rich market (Murschetz, 2016) of existing established
players and practices, Netflix allowed the Italian audience to experiment for
the first time with some of the exclusive features that made the service popular
worldwide. On the one hand, Netflix makes binge-watching easier (Jenner,
2015; Matrix, 2014; Pittman & Sheehan, 2015) by advancing to the next
episode. On the other hand, it delivers a radically new metaphor for finding
and discovering contents based on the algorithmic analysis of viewer’s prefer-
ences and tastes (Cohn, 2016; Gillespie, 2014; Gomez-Uribe & Hunt, 2015;
Hallinan & Striphas, 2016).
While a constantly growing amount of literature is dedicated to both

these aspects, the launch of Netflix Italia provided an opportunity to study the
ways viewers expected, reacted, consumed and made sense of these innovative
features in the aftermath of the launch.
More specifically, our study addresses the following research questions: RQ1.
How did Italian audiences restructure their daily routine, in terms of time and
space, to make place for Netflix? RQ2. What were the first reactions to the algo-
rithmic catalog in a population mainly accustomed to browse contents by genres?
Framed in the existing literature on binge-watching and algorithms, this
study presents the results of a multimethod and multi-staged research effort
that combines a quanti-qualitative content analysis of Twitter’s conversa-
tions sparked by the launch of Netflix Italia, and a qualitative analysis of 15
in-depth interviews with younger and older Italian Netflix users after one year
from its launch.
The research processes and findings are presented through each method-
ological step in order to provide readers with an easier navigation. To be more
specific, we will first outline our theoretical framework, which draws on well-
grounded studies on TV consumption in the domestic space and more recent
literature on binge-watching and algorithmic catalogs. Next, we will present
the outcomes of our analysis step-by-step, starting from a content analysis
of tweets, describing the innovative recruiting procedure employed, and the
results from in-depth interviews. We then conclude by synthesizing the find-
ings and highlighting implications for future research in the field.
Television Consumption in Domestic Spaces

Television consumption has always been an issue of domestic practices con-
fined to a private space (Hirsch & Silverstone, 2003), but not necessarily
an individual experience. According to Roger Silverstone (1990), watching
television is a practice that is “vulnerable to the exigencies, the social struc-
turing, the conflicts and the rituals of domestic daily life” (p. 179). Domestic
space is in fact peculiar. Television, as a preferential technology for domes-
tic use, could be considered—provocatively—as an additional member of
the family (Gunter & Svennevig, 1987). Actually, television is concretely
linked to family everyday life because it is the hub of “domestic social rela-
tion” (Silverstone, 2007): its role changes along with transformations in fam-
ily dynamics (e.g., the children growing up), and it is a crucial medium due to
its relational uses (Lull, 1980), facilitating communication within the family
binge-watching the algorithmic catalog 181
members, determining power, social inclusion, or exclusion dynamics, and

activating socialization processes (Lull, 1980).
The process of screen multiplication, starting with the ownership of mul-
tiple TV sets in a family and accelerated by the increasing number of screens
that include digital mobile and often personal devices (D’heer, Courtois, &
Paulussen, 2012; Marinelli & Celata, 2012), profoundly affected the dynam-
ics observed by these classic studies. At the same time, diversity of program
offerings, sometimes tailored to specific targets and niche audiences, greatly
expanded during the last few years.
The combination of these two factors influenced TV watching practices,
opening the way for more individual and segmented television viewing habits.
The social uses of television (Lull, 1980, p. 71) are thus increasingly charac-
terized by a shift away from a traditional collective vision happening inside
the same room—typically the living room (D’heer et al., 2012). This shift in
turn affects the power dynamics: most often, each member of a family is now
metaphorically holding their own remote control, once considered a symbol
of power, for their personal mobile screen (D’heer et al., 2012).
Building on this context of increasingly fragmented (both in terms of time
and space) (Marinelli & Celata, 2012) TV consumption and on this theo-
retical framework, we specifically analyzed the emerging practices of binge-
watching and the changing process of choosing and then consuming content
from large, on-demand repositories through an algorithmic catalog.
Binge-watching
Historically, the practice of binge-watching is tightly associated to the con-
sumption of serialized content. Binge-watching can be defined as “the experi-
ence of watching multiple episodes of a program in a single sitting” (Pittman &
Sheehan, 2015). However, scholars have pointed out the difficulty of drawing
precise boundaries around the practice, thus identifying the exact threshold
of continuative time and/or number of episodes to fit the “binge” requisites.
Jenner (2014) reported a survey commissioned by Netflix in which a “binge”
was defined as 2–3 episodes in a row, and yet she underlined the personal com-
ponent of such viewing habits. As a clearly individualized practice, binge-
watching shapes the identity of the viewer as a consumer (Jenner, 2015).
Writing about her own experience, scholar Debra Ramsay (2013) high-
lighted the suggestion of a “shameful indulgence” or “a vague distaste for
the medium” implied in the term “binge.” She also underlined the sense of
pleasure involved in excessive, “forbidden” habits, and she attributed this

negative connotation to the persistence of cultural hierarchies when televi-
sion is compared to other media.
Actually, the rise of binge-watching stresses a strong connection to serial
narratives’ quality shift which took place in the 2000s, lending complex, dar-
ing TV series a much higher cultural value. As Lotz (2014) and Brunsdon
(2010) pointed out, binge-watching emerged with the rise of “TV-on-DVD
box sets” (Mittell, 2010) in early 2000s (Kompare, 2006), as a viewing modal-
ity typically practiced by fans and particularly committed viewers.
The practice of binge-watching stabilized with the development of VOD
platforms; Jenner observed that it had gained relevance in the contemporary
audiovisual industry, where viewing patterns, branding strategies, and indus-
trial structures shifted away from the television set (Jenner, 2014, p. 240).
VOD services like Netflix and Amazon use binge-watching to distinguish
themselves from traditional scheduled television, making it the perfectly dis-
tinctive characteristic of their brands.
The increasing consideration earned by serialized texts, the spread of sea-
sons’ box sets, and intensifying viewer engagement are all effects of the above
mentioned quality shift in serialized television that occurred thanks to shows
produced firstly by HBO, then by other cable channels (Brunsdon, 2010).
The enduring connection between prestige TV series, cultural acclaim, and
binge-watching (first through DVD and then through VOD) has endorsed
binge as a form of legitimation: according to Jenner, “[b]inge watching serves
the interests of the emerging VOD industry” because “supposedly ‘bingeable’
texts also legitimize the viewing practice, and thus the medium” (Jenner, 2015,
p. 2). Jenner thus underlined that binge-watching has a strong strategic value
for VOD industries, because it intensifies the relationship between the text
and the viewers, who appreciate the absence of advertising and scheduling
rules. To Netflix commercial purposes it is crucial to have satisfied, engaged
subscribers who enjoy the advantages of a free-of-ads service.
Some TV scholars and critics have raised concerns about the effects
of binge-watching both on viewers’ perceptions of the text and on the
industry itself. Recalling the food compulsion analogy implied in the term
“binge-watching,” Bassist (2013) referred to the practice as an unhealthy,
addictive habit; Pagels (2012) asserted that it would compromise the integrity
and the specificity of serialized texts and also prevent fans’ interactions and
conversations based on synchronic consumption. Opposing these ideas, Ram-
say observed that binging increases the awareness of complex narrative arcs,
technique, and commitment to the series. In his study about the relationship
between Gen Y-Z and binge-watching, Matrix argued that for the Facebook
generation “the Netflix effect […] is […] also about connection and commu-
nity” (Matrix, 2014, p. 120). His results showed that “[f]or many Netflixers,
including members of its younger demographic, VOD and binge watching
are not about social exile but about enabling and enhancing participation in
social conversations” (Matrix, 2014, p. 127). As discussed later on, some Ital-
ian viewers share this sense of connection and participation to the collective
conversation about Netflix and its contents.
Algorithmic Catalog
The state of digital abundance (Keane & Moir, 1999) discussed above per-
tained to a television consumption scenario after the advent of the Inter-
net, and it has produced, over time, a multiplication of content also made
more spreadable by the medium (Jenkins, Ford, & Green, 2013). This ever-
changing scenario revealed the necessity for content aggregators to categorize
their items in order to make them searchable. The algorithmic catalog was
thus created in response to the need for easier content searching.
In order to provide a more efficient user experience aimed at browsing the
set of possible records of an archive (Bowker, 2005), invisibility emerged as
a relevant issue to determine which “pattern of inclusion” (Gillespie, 2014)
could provide the audience with the most appealing collection of content and
what else, instead, should be left invisible.
Most of the recommendation systems, such as Amazon’s, are implemented
in a semantic direction: a set of different intrinsic attributes (some keywords
about the items) is linked to specific content (Szomszor, Cattuto, Alani, &
O’Hara, 2007). Also personalization becomes a relevant issue, because the
user is able to create one’s own personal profile, which represents a part of her/
his interests (Szomszor et al., 2007).
Exactly for this reason, on one side content organization depends on
matching attributes with the user’s interests, tastes and preferences; on the
other side, it means that the algorithm is able to constantly trace the user’s
behaviors inside the platform. This feature opens a debate about individual pri-
vacy and about the necessity of finding a balance between its preservation and
the creation of the most personalized (free or low-cost) browsing experience.
The ongoing shifting focus from a human selection of cultural items to a
machine-driven one, as described by Hallinan and Striphas, could probably
influence the interpretation of the meaning of culture itself (2016). The so-called
“algorithmic culture” (Hallinan & Striphas, 2016, p. 119) phenomenon doesn’t
aim only at using computational processes to order people, places, objects, and
ideas (Hallinan & Striphas, 2016, p. 119), but also at shaping habits of thought that
arise in relationship to those processes (Hallinan & Striphas, 2016, p. 119).
Compared to linear broadcasting services, both cable and free-to-air,
Internet TV includes choices that the audience should take by itself (Gomez-
Uribe & Hunt, 2015). In a catalog with thousands of options, such as Netflix,
it is essential to help subscribers to find new content quickly and easily; in
fact, according to Netflix consumer research, subscribers tend to lose their
interest in choosing which content to watch in 60–90 seconds and scrolling
among 10 to 20 titles (Gomez-Uribe & Hunt, 2015). Then they leave the web
page or the application.
Unlike traditional Internet VOD platforms that tend to organize their
content by browsable genres, Netflix employs an innovative algorithm to ana-
lyze users’ tastes in order to recommend content specifically tailored to them.
To improve the efficiency of its recommendation system, in 2006, Netflix
launched a public contest aimed to improve their existing recommendation
engine. Furthermore, to make the user experience even more engaging and to
simplify the binge-watching practice, Netflix engineers built the recommen-
dation system as a set of different algorithms. Each algorithm is qualified for a
single action: for instance, top-N video ranker aims at ranking content person-
alized for each member; continue watching ranker sorts the videos in the Con-
tinue Watching row; trending now is based on the latest viewing trends, both
monthly and yearly; video-video similarity aims at suggesting videos by referring
to set up lists of similar content; and so on (Gomez-Uribe & Hunt, 2015).
Content Analysis
In order to study these emerging TV consumption practices in the Italian

context, we have designed a two-step mixed methodology that combines an
analysis of the Twitter conversation sparked by the launch of Netflix Italia
with in-depth interviews of Italian Netflix users. More specifically, results
from the content analysis were used to develop the interview protocol, the
main code items and to recruit our subjects.
We started by analyzing a dataset of 36,976 tweets created by 22,635
unique contributors between 10/20/2015 and 10/24/2015 containing the offi-
cial hashtag #ciaoNetflix, a mention to the official Twitter account of Netflix
Italia (@NetflixIT) or the generic term Netflix in tweets written in the Italian
language. Purchased on February 23, 2016 from Gnip through DiscoverText,
the dataset contains a complete set of tweets matching our filtering rules.
We initially performed a content analysis on a subset of the dataset con-
taining the official launch hashtag #ciaoNetflix (N = 4,621 created by 3,083
unique contributors). The content analysis was performed individually by two
coders (both co-authors of this paper) after four rounds of training, resulting
in an acceptable level of intercoder agreement (Krippendorff’s Alpha = 0.73).
Designed to address the two research questions, the codebook (Tab. 11.1)
consisted of the following, non-mutually exclusive codes:
Table 11.1. Codebook of tweets.

Description Example
Time & Readjusting the daily routine – I think there’s no better thing than
Space for binge-watching watching a good show on netflix at
night #SmallPleasures
– A whole week at home… spend-
ing time this way—Watching
Narcos—Netflix
News and How to use Netflix, url, – Netflix in Italy, everything you
How-to articles about Netflix and its need to know about it [url]
functions
Catalog Opinions about the catalog – Everyone talking about #Netflix
lack of series, and what about the
lack of movies? Ridiculous catalogue
Competitors Mentioning a competitor – My favourite TV series: one on
Infinity, one on Netflix, One on
Sky. I think I’ll subscribe to Torrent
Aesthetic Mentioning specific content – God bless Netflix. #Daredevil
Objects
Device Mentioning devices and tech- – Enjoy Netflix with Sony consoles
nologies related to Netflix [url]
Subjective Personal points of view about – HALLELUJA! #ciaoNetflix
Reactions Netflix: – Pizza and #Netflix tonight
– emotional POV: uppercase,
exclamation points,
emphasis marks;
– reports: anecdotes
Source: Authors.
The codebook was developed with the aim of describing the contents
and its contributors in light of our research questions. More specifically, Time
& Space and Device categories directly relate to the way users claimed to
have modified their habits to make place for Netflix (RQ1). The Catalog,
Aesthetic Objects, Competitors and Subjective Reactions categories aimed
instead at isolating conversations dealing with the users’ reactions to Netflix’s
algorithmic catalog (RQ2).
The results of the content analysis is reported in Table 11.2.
Table 11.2. Distribution of tweets in the dataset by codes.

Tweets (%) Contributors per
N = 4,621 category1
Time & Space 10.6 492
News and How-to 8.4 391
Catalog 5.1 240
Competitors 7 322
Aesthetic objects 9.3 432
Device 2.5 116
Subjective reactions 20.1 930
Non-applicable 38.92 1,793

Non-codable 3.2 152
Source: Authors.
The discourse around the launch of Netflix in Italy was strongly influ-
enced by the marketing efforts effectively organized and carried out by the
U.S.-based entertainment company through its digital channels and social
media presence. Nevertheless, a qualitative analysis of the tweets in each
category has pointed to a diffuse anxiety (often played out in terms of jokes
synthesized by the hashtag #AddioVitaSociale3) on the way to accommo-
date the practice of watching Netflix in one’s existing daily routine. As
GM, a female contributor, pointed out in her tweet “#CiaoNetflix your
arrival in Italy makes me very happy. But you could have waited my grad-
uation #goodbyegraduation #goodbyethesis #goodbyesociallife.” Tweets
categorized as Time&Space often make explicit connections between Net-

flix and binge-watching. At the same time, a number of tweets coded as
Competitors point out the “dumbness” of paying for something you can
have for free.
Most of the tweets seem to undervalue the “anytime, anywhere” nature
of Netflix service, referring primarily to home spaces, couches, bedrooms as
favorite places to use Netflix. References to the use of the service on the go
(and therefore to make a better use of time while traveling) are practically
absent. Also worthy of note was the polarization between the voiced dis-
appointment of the scarcity of the catalog (missing specific movies and TV
series) and the tendency—denoting a potential inclination to follow algorith-
mic suggestions—to start the exploration of the catalog and thus the online
conversation from Netflix own productions that were very prominently pre-
sented in the user interface.
In-depth Interviews
Evidence in the data pointing to the emergence of two different approaches

to the exploration of the catalog helped in shaping the interview protocol
and the next research phase of the study. The content analysis was in fact
employed to classify contributors based on the category of tweets they created.
This classification was applied to design and deploy an innovative strategy to
recruit interviewees. The list of users who contributed tweets coded as Time
& Space and Catalog (N = 732) has been used as a target for a Twitter adver-
tising campaign aimed at promoting a message containing an invitation to
join our study. Unlike the Facebook advertising platform, Twitter allows the
advertiser to upload a list of usernames to be used as the target audience of an
advertising campaign. This campaign lasted for 10 days, cost €50, and gener-
ated 15 leads (contacts of potential interviewees). After an initial screening,
we interviewed 7 participants (5 males, 2 females all aged under 35).
In order to reach older users, we completed our non-probabilistic sam-
ple by employing a snowball technique (using the original 7 interviewees as
seeds) to recruit 8 additional Netflix users aged 35+ for a total of 15 sub-
jects (10 males, 5 females). All the interviews (25 minutes long on average)
were performed via Skype, recorded with the consent of the interviewees via
a Skype plugin, and analyzed using Dedoose through the codeset detailed in
Table 11.3.
Table 11.3 Codeset for the analysis of the interviews.

Description
Time & Space Where/when/how to watch contents
Device Which device is more used to watch contents
Leisure Time How Netflix influences leisure time
Opinions about the catalog and content organization through
Catalog
algorithm
Account How many accounts they have / Practices of account sharing
Source: Authors.
Italians and Binge-Watching Practices
Regarding TV contents’ watching practices, interviewees tend to point out

that they implement a set of different fruition practices to access their favorite
media products without time, space and TV schedule constraints.
The majority of interviewees reported that they use or have often used
alternative means, both legal (Sky on demand, DVD, etc.) and illegal (offline,
peer-to-peer downloads or pirate streaming platforms). For instance, VG, a
51-years-old male, stated that he usually uses a set of different platforms and
practices, in addition to Netflix, to watch content he loves, such as “down-
loaded [episodes] also from the Internet,” but also Sky, DVD, Blu-ray, etc. The
interviewee also claimed that he used to watch many episodes consecutively
even before the Netflix release.
A strong and unifying element emerged from the interviews analysis:
most interviewees admit that Netflix facilitates binge-watching. The use of
the platform has implemented this specific viewing habit or it has encour-
aged the viewer to start binge-watching because of its “convenience,” that
is to say the high quality of the viewing experience and interface usability.
Most interviewees report that before the Netflix release, the binge-watch-
ing practice was “uncomfortable,” especially because illegal streaming portals
produce a lot of pop-up windows and ads, and the technical quality of this
kind of viewing experience is often considered inadequate. AS, a 31-years-old
female, even claimed she was too lazy to binge-watch before having a Netflix
account. During her interview, she also highlighted the concrete, technical
difficulties in watching content through illegal streaming platforms, generally
due to “the power on the computer, the content doesn’t load, or the connec-
tion doesn’t work.”
Netflix probably satisfies the need of a certain part of the Italian audience
to watch two or more episodes consecutively (in the past fulfilled by another
set of platforms), with the advantage of providing the viewer an improved
binge-viewing experience.
From the interviews, two different kind of behaviors emerge. Early
adopters (those interviewees who used Netflix or somehow knew Net-
flix before the Italian release) tend to have a closer relationship with
binge-watching practice; late adopter interviewees are instead not so inter-
ested in binge-viewing. They are usually more attached to a somewhat
more traditional TV schedule mindset, so they tend to watch only one or
two episodes of a series per week. Despite the prevalent use of Netflix, the
media content viewing experience remained cross-platform, especially for
the first group of interviewees. VA, 28-years-old male, used to use a set of
different platforms to binge-watch, but he also said that Netflix “is hold-
ing you on the couch to watch more,” thanks to the “continue watching”
algorithm; this appears to be the main reason why the user experience is
perceived as better than on other platforms, because the user doesn’t have
to “get out of the platform and to go to watch another content on another
webpage.”
Netflix and the Italian Leisure Time: Time, Space,

and Cultural Consumptions
The television set is the most used device for the Italian audience (Andò &
Marinelli, 2017) and from our interview analysis, this preference has also
emerged regarding Netflix: generally, respondents tend to prefer a domestic
and high-quality image on a Smart TV or a TV screen connected through
a Chromecast4 device. For instance, ME, a 21-year-old male, claimed to
enjoy the combination of Smart TV and optical fiber to get the high-
est possible quality viewing experience, at the same level of as a Blu-ray
disc.
Obviously, that doesn’t mean that the TV set is the only device used by
Italian audiences. In fact, interviewees often use mobile devices; for example,
the tablet works well for simultaneous viewing, and they use it as a screen
to watch Netflix content while they are working on computers or doing
housework.
Night night. At night while I work. I have a screen here and mail here. (Male, 34)
As we said above, respondents’ favorite place to use Netflix is generally

their home. The living room is the preferred space of the house to watch Net-
flix content, as is the one where there is the TV screen.
Also relevant is the example of family fragmentary watching habits: family
members at home, usually enjoy different content simultaneously on different
devices and through different Netflix profiles. For instance, VV, a 39-year-old
female, liked to watch Netflix primarily on a TV screen, while her daughter
watched cartoons on the iPad and through her “Kids” profile.
Netflix functionality with mobile devices presents some issues, especially
of infrastructural nature, such as slow connections and excessive use of mobile
data.5 In any case, outside the house, interviewees tend to use Netflix when
they are at work, usually during breaks or idle time.
Definitely not when I am moving because of the gigabytes and a bit because, indeed, if the
service, the network is not stable it does not allow you to watch videos on Netflix. (Male, 28)
Therefore, the Netflix viewing experience is primarily related to leisure

time. Respondents tend to watch Netflix content especially at night, after din-
ner. It is a viewing experience tied to the television one, in which the traditional
schedule is replaced by the one customized by the audience. The analysis has
revealed that Netflix use probably takes the place of the TV viewing experience
and sometimes will replace the television schedule in the interviewees’ leisure
time. Netflix’s platform is also used as “background TV,” mainly on mobile
devices, while working or doing housework. The interviewee AV, a 58-year-old
female, claimed to save 45 minutes to watch Netflix during the evening, when
she came back from work, and she was waiting for her husband. Furthermore,
she stated that this time for Netflix viewing is the moment to “calm and relax
from the day,” also because of the high quality of its watching experience.
The analysis reveals that, contrary to the anxiety emerging from tweets,
Netflix viewing practices did not seem to steal social time or from other activ-
ities and cultural consumption. According to what interviewees said about
when and where using Netflix, we can assume that Netflix is replacing the
traditional TV schedule in interviewees’ leisure time.
Italian Users and the Netflix Catalog

When questioned about the composition and the usability of the Netflix cat-
alog, many interviewees emphasized that they already watched TV series by
the time Netflix arrived in Italy, and they approached Netflix already knowing
that television was the main content category.
When asked about what categories they use the most, the majority of
interviewees’ answers concerned TV series. The most mentioned shows were
Netflix original ones: Marvel’s block (Daredevil, Jessica Jones, Luke Cage),
Stranger Things, Orange is the New Black, Narcos, British shows Black Mirror
and The Crown.
For many interviewees, the absence of House of Cards in the Italian
catalog was a huge disappointment. Despite House of Cards being a Netflix
original series, it is not part of the Italian catalog, due to previous agree-
ments between Netflix and Sky Italia. Some respondents were aware of such
distribution agreements, but they also expected this hit show will be on
Netflix Italia soon.6 For instance, the interviewee AV, a 38-years-old female,
exclaimed with particular emphasis, “don’t even want to talk about it”; also
VA, a 28-years-old male, reaffirmed that “House of Cards is still missing.”
Some interviewees demanded more TV series, usually because they tended
to misinterpret the nature of Netflix’s distribution system. Some respondents,
such as AC, a 22-years-old male, or DP, a 40-years-old-male, expected more
“new” series, i.e. US cable and network shows such as Game of Thrones or
“Shondaland”7 series.
The interviewees shared a primary interest in the series section, followed
by documentaries and fiction films. Two noteworthy aspects emerged from
analyzing the answers to the question, In addition to series, what other contents
do you prefer to watch?: a feeling of surprise and satisfaction towards the docu-
mentary section; and a feeling of dissatisfaction towards the number and the
quality of films on the catalog. In fact, some viewers stated that they have
never watched documentaries before Netflix, and that the service helped to
discover the genre.
Did you already watch documentaries before Netflix?
Yes! Although on “alternative channels” there are many movies but few documentaries,
in fact when I opened the catalog for the first time, what struck me the most was the
huge amount of documentaries, I thought “it will take me forever to watch them all.”
(Male, 43)
The high visual quality of documentaries was greatly appreciated, as well

as their educational value. Historical and scientific documentaries stood out
among the most praised products. Cosmos, which explores the secrets of our
Universe, was probably the most cited documentary. Another one was the
series of documentaries Chef’s Table, in which every episode tells the story of
an outstanding international chef.
I watch many documentaries, I like them, they’re interesting, they’re very well done […]
About documentaries, Netflix suggests the ones you could enjoy … They’re so many that
you could waste hours to choose, so [suggestion system] works quite well. (Male, 37)
Even though Italian Netflix users seemed to be more interested in the

TV series section, they still scrolled the film one and they expressed mixed
opinions about it. For instance, many interviewees lamented the scarcity
of relevant movies, even though they found that the catalog covers some
genres more than others, e.g. animation. A number of respondents espe-
cially enjoyed the presence of classical Disney movies, while also complain-
ing about the lack of latest releases. ME, a 21-years-old male interviewee,
stated a love for Disney movies and always watched them during holiday
times. Also GC, a 34-year-old male, claimed to be satisfied with the ani-
mated movies selection. Few respondents also complained about the inad-
equate presence of comedies and indie movies, such as MB, 33-years-old
male, who had already given up because the Italian catalog is not as rich as
the abroad ones.
For some interviewees, Netflix seemed to perform as an archive of cine-
matographic and televisual memories. For those who were young in the 1980s,
who watched US movies broadcast on TV, it was particularly engaging to
enjoy the movies of their childhood.
When they chose to add 90s movies, the ones that smashed in the 90s and 80s, I re-watched
them all, like Pretty in Pink, Sixteen Candles, Beverly Hills Cop … They’re all movies
I enjoyed twenty, thirty years ago and I really loved watching them again. (Female, 39)
I watch a lot of sci-fi series, I used [Netflix] to pleasantly rewatch old Star Trek series.
I really enjoyed it. (Male, 51)
In summary, according to what emerged from the interviews, Italians

have expanded their range of TV series’ consumption, even though a number
of the interviewees already accessed TV shows through irregular practices.
Netflix also led them to discover new genres and new types of audiovisual
content, e.g. documentaries. Generally, film category is perceived as the
weakest point of the catalog, but the level of satisfaction or dissatisfaction
of the users also depends on individual preferences and previous audiovisual
experiences.
Even though no one expressed explicit acknowledgement of the algorith-

mic system, the actions of the algorithm appeared between the lines on the
interviewees’ answers. The predominant mention of Netflix original series
reveals what the algorithm chooses to highlight in its home page. In addi-
tion, those who are prone to browsing the catalog are more open to discover
new genres and consequently new consumption preferences, emphasizing
a dynamic tension between the guiding function of the algorithm and the
agency of the exploring user.
Discussion and Conclusions

The advent of Netflix was presented to and welcomed by Italian consumers
as a revolution. As with all the revolutions, the excitement and fears were
clearly visible in the conversations emerging online in the aftermath of the
launch. The claim used for the launch, “It will no longer be the usual story”
and the discourse around the popular user-created hashtag #AddioVitaSo-
ciale (#GoodByeSocialLife) both reinforced a narrative of a caesura and dis-
continuity that is not reflected in the real experiences of the consumers, as
emerging from the interviews, one year after the launch. The consumption
of Netflix has been instead rapidly incorporated in a set of pre-existing but
evolving practices and routines.
While evolutionary instead of revolutionary, the finding of this study
points to a potential long-term effect of the incorporation of Netflix in the
everyday life of the Italian consumer under three perspectives.
The binge-watching facilitating features of Netflix were clearly welcomed,
especially by consumers with previous experience of on-demand streaming
services, as a significant improvement of their previous TV viewing experi-
ences. Nevertheless, we heard only a few voices claiming to have drastically
departed from previous practices and on-demand content providers. The real
competition seems instead to be between on-demand and traditional linear
television. If anything, Italian TV consumers—as clearly pointed out by early
adopters—are making space in their daily routine for Netflix by watching less
linear television.
Concerning places and devices, we observed a similar phenomenon.
While home and the TV screen remain the center of media consumption
habits, the multiplication of the available screens brings, at the same time,
both an individual multi-screen experience and a more distributed and indi-
vidualized consumption pattern in the household. While the contemporary
use of more than one screen was primarily mentioned by early adopters and
technology enthusiasts, the individualized consumption pattern within the
members of the same family is more widespread. Most of the time, this indi-
vidualized consumption happens in distinct spaces of the house but sometimes
it also takes place in the same room by means of headphones as a virtual space
separator. In both cases, Netflix did not cause but reinforced this trend by
allowing multiple users to share the same account.
Finally, concerning the Netflix catalog, the discourse on its algorithmic
and personalized nature never surfaced spontaneously in the answers of our
respondents. They were either unaware of it or did not feel confident to
discuss what is commonly perceived as a mere technical issue. Neverthe-
less, when asked about specific contents, they mainly talked about those
more prominently presented in the user interface (often Netflix original
productions). Furthermore, most of the complaints about the scarcity of
the catalog seems to raise as a result of a failed search for a specific movie or
TV series. On the other hand, consumers with a more exploratory approach
to the catalog claimed to have successfully discovered new content and
sometimes genres (as in the case of documentaries) matching their tastes.
In other terms, those who let—aware or not of its existence—the algorithm
drive their choices were generally more satisfied by the service. Under-
standing the reasons and the full implications of this finding fall beyond
the scope of this paper and are left open for future studies on the effects
and accountability of algorithms in on-demand online entertainment
systems.
Notes
1. A unique contributor may appear in more than one category.
2. Includes the tweets discussing the official party organized in Milan that featured several
Netflix stars and the following-day press conference.
3. #GoodbyeSocialLife.
4. Chromecast is a Google device able to connect the TV screen to a wireless network in
order to provide some streaming services to a TV set.
5. At the time the interviews were performed, the feature allowing the users to download the
content for offline use was still absent.
6. At the time we are writing, three seasons of House of Cards are now available on Netflix
Italia.
7. Meaning TV series created by showrunner Shonda Rhimes (Grey’s Anatomy, Scandal, How
to Get Away with Murder).
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·12·
the netflix experience
A User-focused Approach to the Netflix
Recommendation Algorithm
Daniela Varela Martínez and Anne Kaun
Introduction
A large part of the user experience of Netflix is based on the recommenda-
tion algorithm that suggests content to subscribers. The chapter employs a
user-focused approach to the study of algorithmic culture using Netflix’s rec-
ommendation algorithm as a case study. While current research has focused
on questions of black boxing (Pasquale, 2015), algorithmic biases in terms of
visibility (Bucher, 2012), and socio-technological power of algorithms (Beer,
2017), there is a lack of research addressing the perception of algorithms
and their logics by casual users. Theoretically, the chapter draws on current
studies engaging with the notion of algorithmic culture suggesting a strong
anchor in science and technology studies to develop an understanding of
how technological innovations are actively adopted and appropriated by
users in often unexpected ways (MacKenzie & Wajcman, 1999; Striphas,
2015). The chapter is empirically based on material gathered through a walk-
through of Netflix (Light, Burgess, & Duguay, 2016) and in-depth interviews
with heavy Netflix users in Singapore. Based on the gathered material, we
investigate both habitual and counterintuitive usage and perceptions of the
recommendation algorithm.
The chapter suggests a rethinking of the role of the user for algorithmi-
cally enhanced cultural production. Based on our findings, we consider users
as co-producers of content, contributing data and knowledge through their
practices to the platform development and consequently to its success. This
implies a shift in conceptualizing the consequences of algorithmic black-box-
ing, both in terms of ontology and epistemology. Our approach reinforces the
idea of users not as passive data providers, but as active co-creators of cultural
products. This also ignites the discussion about demands of opening the black
box from a user’s perspective moving beyond questions of ethics. Applying this
perspective enhances the need for commercial platform providers to acknowl-
edge the active role of users for their own development. Consequently, the
chapter argues for a shift in the study of algorithmic culture taking user prac-
tices and perceptions seriously rather than foregrounding the platform and its
algorithmic configuration. Overall, the chapter revisits the current streaming
culture, analyzing the role of the viewer as co-producer of algorithmic culture.
Researching Netflix
Previous research on Netflix has largely focused on either its content, such as
Orange Is the New Black, Black Mirror and House of Cards (Artt & Schwan,
2016; Salem, 2011) or on Netflix as an emerging media platform, including
discussions of the role of algorithms for the development (Finn, 2017, 93).
Since this chapter is mainly interested in the user experience of engaging
with Netflix in relation to its technological properties, we will focus on studies
dedicated to the latter.
Ed Finn (2017), for example, studies the implications of algorithms on the
creative process while crafting House of Cards, and the possible outcomes and
consequences of those decisions for user’s behavior and further content cre-
ation. He argues that “this app has assembled a sophisticated algorithm model
for describing the cultural relationships among individual film and television
works, a model that fully embraces the gap between computation and culture”
(Finn, 2017, p. 93). Blake Hallinan and Ted Striphas (2016) in contrast, have
focused on the Netflix Prize project as a way to outsource the platform’s devel-
opment to external stakeholders, users, and generally interested people. The
Netflix Prize was an online contest offering US$1 million to whoever could
improve the accuracy of Cinematch, the company’s existing movie recom-
mendation system by 10% (Hallinan & Striphas, 2016, p. 117). The challenge
announcement did not specify what “improving Cinematch” might mean. The
the netflix experience 199
definition of improvement was rather one of the key outcomes of this contest,
and although none of the suggestions were applied in the end, Netflix did come
up with a solution to this matter by incorporating “taggers,” meaning more pre-
cise, in-depth yet “human” characteristics in the form of adjectives or descrip-
tions, where more information was suddenly available and the system could
perform at its best (Finn, 2017, p. 89). By instituting the Netflix Prize, the plat-
form aimed to innovate the recommendation algorithm through crowdsourcing.
An interesting finding of this aforementioned research—besides improv-
ing the current recommendation algorithm—is what the authors discuss as
the way “how new meanings and practices can insinuate themselves into long-
established routines, transforming the latter in ways that may be just reaching
popular awareness” (Hallinan & Striphas, 2016, pp. 118–119). A general lack
in current research on Netflix is, however, a focus on user experience engaging
with the streaming service and its recommendation logic.
In terms of recommendation systems, Jockum Hildén (2017) divides
between recommendations based on (a) demographics; (b) media use and
content similarity; (c) similar users; (d) user feedback; (e) social networks. He
further adds that recommendation systems usually complement other, more
general recommendations, such as curated content recommendations (such
as editor’s picks), most viewed content, and most recent content. Netflix’s
system is a combination of several types of recommendation systems. It relies
heavily on previous usage and suggests similar content but combines it with
recommendations based on user feedback and curated content (the role of
Netflix’s original content is particularly important here). However, Netflix,
like many other applications and platforms, does not fully disclose the charac-
teristics of its algorithms.
Theoretical Background: Algorithmic Culture

Algorithms shape the way we consume entertainment, communicate and
connect. In that sense, algorithms now figure as cultural objects themselves,
while also shaping our understanding of culture. According to Striphas, big
data and large-scale computation logics—such the one Netflix uses—alter the
way humans think, conduct, organize, practice, experience and understand
culture (Striphas, 2015, p. 396). The author defines it as the shift of delegat-
ing the work of culture of “sorting, classifying and hierarchizing people, places,
objects and ideas” to computational processes that eventually modify the way
we practice, experience and understand them (Striphas, 2015, p. 395).
An important aspect which also showcases that “tethered self” (Turkle, 2006,
p. 6) and the blurring of boundaries is that personalization production happens
at two levels: an automated one, where algorithms, marketing interests, and pre-
vious consumer behaviors are being considered, and a “human” one, based on
user’s agency, where personal choices are also determined by peers, friends and
a reference community. As Jones argues, these customized, individual choices of
content are “not based on invisible interactions with machines […] we should
not be blind to the fact that is real people who occupy that space, virtual or oth-
erwise” (Jones, 2002, p. 3). Jones considers in his analysis the music sphere, but
the similar issue can be identified in the broader entertainment sphere.
Following Gillespie, we argue that algorithms should be understood as
“‘socio-technical assemblages’ joining together the human and non-human, the
cultural and computational” (Gillespie, 2014, pp. 404–405). Drawing on Flusser’s
approach, Striphas argues that algorithm culture “is the automation of cultural
decision making processes, taking the latter significantly out of people’s hands”
(Flusser, 2011, 1, 1117 cited in on Striphas, 2015, p. 408). Hence, a platform is
either the material or immaterial support for a social activity to happen. Usu-
ally, these social activities are formatted into protocols, meaning the expected or
correct way to happen, and this phenomenon is presented to the final user with
a friendly look or interface (van Dijck, 2012, p. 4). “Any platform’s connective
structure is mediated by protocols: formal descriptions of digital message formats
complemented by rules for regulating those messages in or between computing
systems” (van Dijck, 2012, p. 4). Protocols can be “technical sets of rules” that
work independently and indifferently from its very own content, but they can also
improve and reframe their usability and goal, and differ from its original program-
ming and intent, due to the way their owners use them (van Dijck, 2012, p. 4).
In this case, the platform is the Netflix application on a TV, tablet, phone
or computer that plays entertainment content. The protocols are the pro-
grammed and formatted series, movies, and documentaries available to stream
and then, when the users decide what to watch and their preferences start
getting set up, those protocols mutate. These processes are available to the
user thanks to a friendly interface with which they interact.
The architecture van Dijck highlights refers to what the regular user is
usually unaware of and what the savvy user is hesitant about, which is the
programming technique behind the apps and technology we use. For example,
Netflix’s copyright laws do not let users change their IP location for more or
different content; technical restrictions on other platforms include uploading
photo requirements on Facebook as well as video length on YouTube. While
we aim to focus on user practices in relation to algorithms, it is important

to keep in mind why we still mention these technical subjects as relevant.
Platforms, protocols, and interfaces contribute to illustrate this matter, partic-
ularly the link between technological and social aspects.
An algorithm is any well-defined computational procedure that takes some value, or set
of values, as input and produces some value, or set of values as output. An algorithm is
a sequence of computational steps that transform the input into the output. We should
consider algorithms, like computer hardware, as a technology. (Seaver, 2014, p. 1)
This definition is enlightening because it provides clarification of the emerg-

ing fact when “rigid, quantitative logic of computation tangles the fuzzy,
qualitative logics of human life” (Seaver, 2014, p. 2). As stated, brands, com-
munications, and media cannot be separated from everyday life and the rep-
resentation of the online self: these zeros and ones can actually be considered
a 21st century fingerprint or the users’ digital trace, which reflects on their
offline persona. The same thing applies to Netflix. “Given the personalization
[of] algorithms […] all interactions with the system are tailored to specific user
accounts” (Seaver, 2014, p. 5).
These are three very important characteristics about algorithms: in no
particular order, the first relates to the role algorithms have. “These algorithms
are producing and certifying knowledge” (Gillespie, 2012, p. 2). The second
one is how algorithms are readable and therefore usable, “only contrasted and
in cooperation with data” (Gillespie, 2012, pp. 3–4). Lastly, it is important to
state that it is not the algorithm results that matter, it is what the user does
with them (Gillespie, 2012, p. 4).
We therefore emphasize the interactive, engaging, and performative actions
of users that have to be considered in reshaping media, and therefore culture.
This understanding of active behavior is not new (Williams, 1974), but the
engagement with algorithms and automated systems adds a new layer to this rela-
tionship. This chapter will reflect upon users’ actions to develop an understand-
ing of how technological innovations are actively adopted and appropriated by
users in often unexpected ways (MacKenzie & Wajcman, 1999; Striphas, 2015).
Methods and Material

This research is empirically based on material gathered through a walkthrough
of Netflix (Light et al., 2016) and in-depth interviews with heavy Netflix
users based in Singapore. Based on the gathered material, both habitual and
counter intuitive use and perceptions of the recommendation algorithm were
investigated.
The walkthrough method allows for the examination of the app inter-
face and provides a better understanding of the embedded cultural references
shown on it that guides and shapes users’ experiences, merging symbolic
and material cultural objects (Light et al., 2016, pp. 5–7). The walkthrough
method provides vital information on how to address some of the questions
for the users’ interviews and will provide hints for the process of standardize
and analyze the quantitative content analysis.
In addition, we conducted in-depth, think aloud interviews—“a research
method in which participants speak aloud any words in their mind as they
complete a task” (Charters, 2003, p. 68). The interviewees were first asked
to turn on Netflix as they usually would and watch it for a while. In com-
bination with observing their user-practices, we asked them to reflect on
what they were doing and why. The interviews lasted around forty minutes,
each giving insights into the user’s experience and journey while using the
app. Additional questions not directly related to the practice of watching
included context information such as when, where, on which device, with
whom our participants normally watch Netflix as well as questions related to
the number of profiles, accounts, content, and experiences related to social,
technical and algorithmic aspects. Their answers were contrasted with the
information gathered through the walkthrough method. For this chapter,
however, we rely mainly on the interview material. The material gathered
with the help of the walk-through serves as contextualizing data that are not
presented extensively here.
The empirical material collection for this research was conducted in Sin-
gapore, a worldwide creative hub where 44% of the entire population was
under a work permit pass during 2016, meaning they were not considered
permanent residents nor Singaporean citizens (Statistics, 2016), providing a
cosmopolitan sample (see table 12.1 for an overview). Participants originated
from Latin America, North America, Europe, and Asia itself, which resulted
in a diverse sample to illustrate this global phenomenon. Gender and age were
also variables taken into consideration. Particularly age features as a selec-
tion criterion. Millennials, referring to the generation born between 1984 and
2004, was the generation selected for the investigation since they are more
prone to change: their age and tech skills allow them to be more flexible,
easily adaptable, and learners of new experiences (Howe & Strauss, 2000).
Table 12.1. Overview of the participants.

Sample: Singapore Based, Heavy Users, Creative Industry Employees
Nationality Gender Age
Interviewee A United Kingdom Female 31
Interviewee B United Kingdom Male 34
Interviewee C United States Female 36
Interviewee D Brazil Male 34
Interviewee E Brazil Female 28
Interviewee F Philippines Male 34
Interviewee G Philippines Female 32
Interviewee H Uruguay Male 36
Source: Author.
Finally, the last considered variable was usage. The selected Netflix users
were heavy users. They should have a Netflix account—not necessarily one
of their own—and watch it at least 3 times a week. This would allow us to
investigate a savvy user approach, maybe not an expert one, but at least an
experienced user who dealt with the app on regular basis and was familiar
with it. Taking all these variables into consideration, one can briefly sum
up that this study focused on how the Netflix algorithm was perceived by
users, conducted through a gender panel sample of millennial, ex-pat users
from three different continents currently living in Singapore and work-
ing in the creative industry. Considering the aim of understanding user
experience, it is important to define some of the limitations of this study.
Programming, coding, and Netflix’s structure will be only taken into con-
sideration throughout the user’s eyes and not the software structure. How its
algorithm and content is programmed, coded, and suggested is something
this research can infer in light of users’ experiences, but will not attempt
to clearly define how these elements are actually designed on and for
the app.
Watching Netflix: When, Where, and With Whom

The participants of the study usually watched Netflix at home and alone.
Only in some cases other people, for example partners, were present. The
experience also occurred as an after-work routine or leisure activity option.
[Netflix is] Something to keep me company if I don’t really go to sleep. Netflix and
chill by myself! (Interviewee C, Female)
This articulation of time definitely affected not only the participants’ pref-
erences on what to do during their weekends and free time but was also an
important indicator for the content: people chose to dedicate valuable time to
watch this app so, therefore, the offered content, the recommendations’ logic
and precision as well as the overall experience should be worth it. The par-
ticipants preferred watching Netflix on a smart television set or a television
connected to a laptop rather than on tablets or mobile phones. Many defining
factors: image quality and size, subtitles readability, can be enhanced with
external devices such as speakers and sound systems, and overall a television
delivers a better sensorial experience.
Feeling the Algorithm

New physical practices and technological embodiments such as clicks, swipes,
remote control usage, or screen touches are essential to the experience of the
Netflix application. One of the biggest drawbacks of the TV as the favorite
device for Netflix is the search bar and the remote control: users have to tap
letter by letter and the search bar is hidden and not much appreciated. This
pre-defined set-up tends to promote the algorithmic logic and the suggested
recommendations over the individual search of specific content. As Bull
defines it, communication technologies “embody a range of filtering practices
[…] in a world in which the cultural industry is continually trying to attract
our attention, we turn to those industries to try to manage our experience—to
carve our mediated space for ourselves” (Bull, 2007, p. 22, 23).
The idea that we actively manage our mediated spaces and lives as
expressed by Bull, figures also in a number of our interviews, particularly in
relation to finding new content. Users develop a pragmatic approach towards
algorithmically suggested content and the potentially endless archive of
unsuggested content. This respondent describes his experience of Netflix as
limiting searches and nudging the users towards suggested content:
I think they don’t want you to search, right? There’s no easy way to search for stuff …
Or at least it’s somewhere hidden … but then you have to type letter by letter, with
the control … but if you have the Apple TV you can search by voice … we have a
keyboard which we can use, but we don’t use it. … (Interviewee F, Male)
Actually, apps brought to life in phones, tablets, and computers, are “closer
to our faces and bodies, from across the room to pockets, laps and hands”
(Finn, 2017, p. 102). This is just not a physical proximity, but an algorithmic
knowledge proximity: our way of learning and interacting provided by this
app “leads to a reinvention not merely of content but of user behavior” (Finn,
2017, p. 102). According to our interviewees, users are very much aware of
the strategic design of Netflix favoring their own principles for suggesting
content rather than enhancing independent searchers. This is, however, not
experienced as a disadvantage, but as the primary value of algorithm-based
television consumption. It does not affect the perception of functionality
nor the brand image the interviewees showed towards Netflix either. On the
contrary, as stated in the above participant’s quotation, they acknowledge
it as a strategy and not as a major issue that interrupts their experience. It
is therefore an ambivalent experience of feeling enabled to find the right
content, while delegating agency to algorithms that is foregrounded in the
interviews.
Gendered Experiences of Recommendations

Netflix’s motto is “everything is a recommendation” (Finn, 2017, p. 95). This
is not taken lightly: micro-tags curate, differentiate, gather and group the con-
tent as well as the algorithm, personalizing the menu and its options from
user to user. As stated once by Netflix itself, “there are 33 million different
versions of Netflix [in US] or a uniquely tailored system for each individual to
consume” (Finn, 2017, p. 95). Given this customization and personalization
possibilities, talking about 33 million versions of Netflix is possible, but one
can also think of it differently. As Manovich (2009) explains it, users are
people and people are users. Not only merely “people” or “users” but with a
name, a last name, taste, likes, dislikes, friends, preferences and a voice, either
represented algorithmically or physically in the offline world.
Another important manifestation of “everything is a recommendation”
(Finn, 2017, p. 95) is the contextual trend strategy Netflix performs. Content
is not only generated and/or pushed randomly, it is also meticulously crafted
to match important and relevant media or real-life events: a new season teaser
of House of Cards when Trump assumes the presidency or the launch of an
original content documentary called The Cuba Libre Story when Fidel C astro
passed away. This phenomenon is also another way on how algorithmic tech-
niques and programming, that seem to be hidden under a black screen on each
device, are actually very much alive in today’s creative industry and play a
very important role feeding and shaping our daily life.
The number of categories, genres, and suggestions surprised a majority of
our participants. Recommendation rows (“Because you watched …”) tended
to be more than half of the total amount of displayed content. Usually more
than half of the recommendation rows were offered by the algorithm accord-
ing to past watched selections, pushing original content first in any of those
rows.
When it comes to content and its relationship with the algorithm itself,
there is an interesting distinction about the approach and overall perception
of the app and the algorithm logic behind it regarding gender. Male interview-
ees usually complement the app usage by other sources of online streaming ser-
vices: because of updated content, availability, taste, etc. Male users invested
more time in organization and planning their Netflix usage. They often relied
on reviews outside of Netflix, particularly to decide which series to follow,
while movies were chosen more spontaneously. Women, in contrast, tended
to select what content to watch according to their routines. They reserved
lighthearted content for breakfast or weekends, and more intense programs
such as dramas, documentaries, or thrillers for the nights. This finding raises
the question of whether they chose that content for those moments or if those
idle moments inclined them to pick those series instead. Also, the only orga-
nizing aspect mentioned was an external tool used to keep track of the airing
dates of their favorite tv shows.
The male participants in our sample would prefer a more holistic or inte-
grated approach regarding the service: they reported that if the app cross-
shared information with some of their other apps such as social media or
search behavior, the recommendation could be more accurate.
They just recommend on whatever you watched on Netflix, whereas, if you look how
people advertise on the Internet, they will track all your behavior. I wonder if Netflix
could invest more on this … Probably they don’t need to … What I mean is that
maybe they could find more relevant the things I search for on the IMDB for exam-
ple, or Google … coz I would always Google them … and take it from there. I guess
what I’m saying I just don’t only rely on Netflix telling me what to watch. If things
are in Netflix I watch it, if they are not, then I’ll torrent it. (Interviewee B, Male)
In contrast, our female participants emphasized the importance of stories and

quality of the content. Their experience is also limited to availability and time
rather than technical aspects.
Let me see … The ones like these? [showing to us the selection of that section] Yes.
I would actually have a look through this … at the moment from what they suggest I
probably would watch some of the things they’ve suggested. (Interviewee A, Female)
When it comes to gender, it is, therefore, important to distinguish the dif-

ferent practices performed by the users. While male participants tended to
organize their viewing in terms of functionality and app features, the female
participants’ organization was closely related with their offline practices out-
side of the Netflix platform, such as time management and its corresponding
content consumption and administration.
Working for the Algorithm

When discussing profiles and accounts with the participants, Western mil-
lennials, both male and female, tended to have their own accounts and were
aware of the teaching/learning principles of Netflix’s suggestion logic. They
wanted to promote it and they expected better and more accurate curation,
suggestions, and listings if they are not sharing their profile with other users.
Although most of the interviewees complained about the seldom “one off”
recommendations that were unexpected or not accurate to their profiles, they
tended to neglect the active rating feedback, assisting the app in tailoring
content and suggestions. They did not rate likes/dislikes, and they rather con-
sidered that binge watching or quickly closing a title should tell the algorithm
more than a literal thumb up would.
The usage of accounts and profiles was very interesting. Usually subscrib-
ers create several user profiles within one account. Normally, users would
respect the distinction between different profiles and only use their own. This
practice continued even if the users had moved out from their home coun-
tries: they kept sharing their accounts with people at home, although they
had access to a different catalog of options. This was one of the main issues
and concerns regarding their experience. Regardless of the active rating, our
participants tended to co-work as much as they could to help the algorithm:
even in shared profiles a couple respected the fact that only she was supposed
to use the “My List” feature while he wouldn’t, so they do not interfere with
each other’s experience.
The Netflix experience has been highly rated by all the interviewees, and
the only thing that led the user to seek for entertainment somewhere else is
the lack of content, particularly in Singapore, where the catalog was not as
vast as in other markets due to its recent launch. The majority of the par-
ticipants replied with a negative satisfaction regarding title availability but
reported positive and constant usage of the app regardless.
There was no major discomfort perceived from the interviewees when the
algorithm went wrong: not in terms technical failure, but when the app did
not suggest content the users liked or when Netflix recommended content
that had little to do with their taste. This mismatch was not perceived as
a mistake; on the contrary, this was perceived as a lack of licenses or avail-
able content but not as Netflix’s failure. No major unexpected practices were
detected more than hacks and online tricks to get better content results such
as the usage of VPNs or unveiling hidden tags for better search results. There
was a strong trust in the app and its aim to provide the best possible service for
streaming content, so this was not perceived as something that might affect
Netflix’s performance or profile submissions. It does, however, represent an
area for growth for their competitors. If the users cannot find what they are
looking for or feel that they are not being suggested the right content, they
immediately change to another on-demand app provider, torrenting site, or
even to indirect competitors such as cable TV.
Discussion
It is interesting to consider each user as a co-creator. By watching, clicking,
rating, and binge watching, people are generating valuable data that Net-
flix may use to further content creation. There might be different levels of
co-creation as well, starting from an un-aware one, as the mere act of watch-
ing and selecting content, to a conscious decision of rating the content we
prefer.
Netflix, with its algorithm system and its live generation and storage of
user behavior and data, as well as other contemporary apps, allows an increas-
ing surveillance process where “the work of being watched is steadily eclipsing
the work of watching” (Caraway, 2011, p. 698). This issue is very important
for these companies where their major asset and capital value are their users.
This leads to an interesting paradox of users paying for a service in which
they also produce new, added value for the company they are hiring the ser-
vice from. Users are improving the system as they are paying for its service
with their data at the exact same time they enjoy their favorite show. Even
during that “free month trial” credit card information, user preferences, and
new viewer behaviors can be studied and withdrawn, for example, to promote
co-branding strategies with credit cards and other brands and services that
engage with the yet new, formally unsubscribed, users.
This could be understood in the light of neo-Marxist approaches, which
suggest that users are alienated, unaware, and even losing that “fake” leisure
time they think they are enjoying, while actually producing information and
value for a third party. Or, on the other hand, this can be considered an eman-
cipatory and co-creational path towards better entertainment. Not only is
the user a key influencer and defining factor of this new on-demand logic
and economy, providing input on how the apps should function and what
they should look like, but also shapes its own entertainment pool of options.
The user becomes a co-creator of content, and the algorithms are the way
to consolidate all the input and feedback the user provides click after click.
Hence, users are co-creators and co-producers of the entertainment and cul-
tural industry they consume and live in.
Conclusions
How does the user perceive Netflix’s suggestion logic? After conducting this
research, entertainment, fun, companionship, distraction, and information
are some of the reasons for turning the app on. The catalog available on the
app has become an excuse to share, interact, and socialize on and offline for
this app generation. Netflix is currently one of the major cultural content pro-
ducers and distributors of our time. To give a recent example, if one searches
on Google 13 Reasons Why, one of its latest original productions, the search
engine will display 7.380.000 results—and this is only within 3 weeks of its
worldwide release—showcasing the cultural success, relevance, and impor-
tance of Netflix’s Originals. As reflected in this research, this app has major
repercussions for what and how users choose to spend their leisure time: “Web
2.0 platforms may be technically indifferent to the content they transport,
but they are not socially or culturally indifferent. […] Content is no longer
simply ‘water’ but a certain brand of water: its content has changed as a result
of its packaging and distribution and drinking bottled water becomes part of
someone’s identity and daily routine” (van Dijck, 2012, p. 7–8).
The user is generally aware of the recommendation logic and wants to
take the best advantage of it. This advantage is expected but not cultivated:
evaluating content and having good quality, engaging titles to watch is
important, although the users do not generally engage in rating or reviewing
themselves—at least not within Netflix. They do so through their practices
outside the platform: sharing trailers, commenting with friends, and promot-
ing certain shows.
Overall, this algorithmic logic expands the user’s experience since it
suggests titles and content the user would not choose on first sight. A more
human-focused approach has suggested nothing but to reaffirm algorithmic
logic as more than just zeros and ones. Instead of regarding algorithms as pow-
erful, all-mighty entities, they can be considered something that emerges in
relation to practices, in many places, every day, again and again, constantly
under construction (Ziewitz, 2011, p. 5). Ziewitz’s (2011) interpretation, com-
bined with the empowerment of the user/viewer is a very interesting connec-
tion worthy of further research, especially the meanings and connotations
of algorithmic narratives and how they affect not only the user experience
but also the cultural industry. User behavior, its interaction, and its use of
algorithm logic behind global entertainment apps is a yet untapped fertile
soil for the industry as a whole that is looking for insights and raw material
to generate new, more diverse and inclusive content, contemplating a more
representative sample of those 33 million recommendations, that in sum, the
user is consuming, demanding and co-creating.
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·13·
do spoilers matter ?
Asynchronous Viewing Habits on Netflix and Twitter
Theo Plothe and Amber M. Buck
As noted in the chapters throughout this collection and by the PEW Internet
and American Life Project, video streaming is an increasingly popular way
to watch television through digital streaming services, with 6 in 10 young
adults (age 18–29) reporting this method as the primary way that they watch
television (Rainie, 2017). In their study of television viewers, Bury and Li
(2015) found that over half of their survey respondents watched timeshifted
television with only 20% of respondents’ television viewing being live. 90%
also watched some sort of streaming television service.
While streaming services have grown in popularity and replaced live
broadcast television, at the same time, Pittman and Tefertiller (2015) noted
that viewers are increasingly using social media like Twitter as a second screen
application for “co-viewing” with other fans. Harrington, Highfield, and
Bruns (2013) identify live television events, particularly political, sporting
events, and reality television, as the primary types of television popular with
Twitter, though scripted broadcast programs also enjoy a live second-screen
following. These scholars also state that television “readily catalyzes audience
discussion, interaction, fandom and other social activity. Twitter has become
an important backchannel through which such social activity is sustained and
made more widely visible” (p. 405). From sporting events to political debates
and award shows, as well as even scripted dramas, hashtags are even promoted
on the screen in order to generate in the moment conversation on Twitter and

other social media platforms.
The confluence of these two trends in television viewing, however, raise
questions for social media users who want to discuss the program with others.
When temporality becomes an issue, when viewers are not watching the pro-
gram at the same time, how can they discuss the plot with other fans? This
chapter explores this question through an analysis of the first week of tweets
surrounding the Season Four premiere of House of Cards. We analyze the con-
versation around the program on Twitter in order to consider the nature of
topics discussed by viewers.
Streaming Television and Second

Screen Applications
Recent work by Pittman and Tefertiller (2015) has found that viewers of Netflix
programs engage more on Twitter than viewers of broadcast programs. These
authors compared the Twitter activity of two different broadcast programs,
Downton Abbey and Parks and Recreation with that of two streaming programs on
Netflix, House of Cards and The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt. The Twitter activ-
ity of the two program types was different; the broadcast programs had significant
spikes during the show’s air time, while the activity for streaming programs was
more uniform. As a whole, though, Pittman and Tefertiller found that viewers
of the Netflix programs engaged more on T witter than viewers of broadcast pro-
grams, yet the nature of that interaction and its content remain under-examined.
As Harrington et al. (2013) identify, live television events provide an
opportunity for viewers to connect with others in order to discuss rapidly
unfolding events, as well as to provide an update and record for those not
present. Tweeting scripted dramas on broadcast television has a similar aim of
interacting with others around particular important moments. ABC encour-
aged live tweeting during broadcasts of Scandal by promoting #OMGMoments
in their advertisements. Similarly, NBC currently displays #sharethemoment
at the bottom of the screen during key scenes of their popular This Is Us family
drama. For streaming television, those moments are not immediately shared
in real time with other Twitter users. While Pittman and Tefertiller (2015)
found more Twitter traffic connected to the Netflix programs rather than the
programs on network television, they did not examine the content of those
tweets in much depth. The content and nature of tweets about Netflix pro-
grams, then, remains underexamined.
do spoilers matter? 215
Spoilers
At the heart of this concern lies an evolving cultural etiquette around the
notion of television spoilers. With the introduction of time-shifted viewing
practices, television viewers can no longer assume that others are caught up
on key plot developments of popular programs. Perks and McElrath-Hart
(2016) found that television viewers who watch time-shifted television still
care about “spoilers,” defined by Gray and Mittell (2007) as “any revelation
of yet-to-unfold narrative developments.” Perks and McElrath-Hart argue
that while many viewers have adopted “post-network era reception practices”
(p. 3) in electing to watch television programs at a time after the original
broadcast date, they adhere to “network era norms” (p. 3) in trying to avoid
plot details. These authors note that previous definitions of “spoilers” referred
to information revealed before the actual program airdate, but that Johnson
and Rosenbaum (2015) and Gray and Mittell (2007) take into account time-
shifted viewing practices in providing broader definitions.
Etiquette surrounding spoilers on social media often involves clear label-
ing as well as warnings for unexpected readers. Castellano, Meimaridis, and
dos Santos’ (2017) study of tweets related to the popular HBO drama Game
of Thrones found that the reaction to spoilers from this television program
were slightly different because the program is an adaptation of a novel, and
viewers who have read George RR Martin’s Fire and Ice series already know
the outcome before episodes air. These scholars argue that the important issue
of the circulation of spoilers involves the fan context in which they are cir-
culated. In Castellano et al.’s research, many Twitter users noted that if they
hadn’t watched the Game of Thrones program yet, they avoided the platform
between certain hours, thereby identifying a certain time and place where
spoilers might happen. There were constant clashes, however, with fans who
had read the books and shared information with other viewers on Twitter.
Those upset with the revelations, Castellano et al. (2017) argue, draw bound-
aries around the narrative world of the television program and see the books
as a separate entity.
The conversation around spoilers still uses a discrete airdate as a marker,
however. Netflix releases an entire season of episodes at the same moment,
and unless a viewer watches the episodes consecutively without stopping, dif-
ferent viewers will be viewing different episodes at any given time. The nature
of Netflix viewing practices, then, makes the use of second screen applications
for interaction with other fans fraught with the potential for spoilers.
House of Cards
As a means of exploring the presence of spoilers in tweets about a Netflix pro-
gram, we collected and analyzed tweets from House of Cards (2013—2018),
one of the first of Netflix’s original scripted dramas, created by Beau Willimon
and starring Kevin Spacey and Robin Wright. The program is based on the
British mini-series and novel of the same name by Michael Dobbs. House of
Cards was the first exclusively online web television series to receive major
Emmy nominations, with 33 Primetime Emmy Award nominations, includ-
ing Outstanding Drama Series, Outstanding Lead Actor for Spacey, and Out-
standing Lead Actress for Wright, for each of its first four seasons.
In order to investigate the use of spoilers on Twitter, we required a
television show that was an original product for Netflix, one that had not
been seen on television beforehand, and one that released the entire sea-
son’s worth of episodes at once. We chose House of Cards for our study for
three reasons: (1) its position as an incredibly popular Netflix original pro-
gram that had won critical acclaim; (2) the nature of the drama within the
program itself, which featured plot twists and surprising moments; (3) the
level of audience engagement with the program on Twitter. At the time
of our study in 2016, House of Cards was a highly tweeted program and
one that Netflix itself promoted actively on Twitter. Cast members often
tweeted about the show during the highly anticipated launch, and Pittman
and Tefertiller’s (2015) study found twice the number of tweets from House
of Cards than from the three other programs they studied. On the day of the
second season launch in 2014, then-President Barack Obama also tweeted
about the show, specifically requesting no spoilers. His tweet read, “Tomor-
row: @HouseOfCards. No spoilers, please” (Obama, 2014). This program,
then, was the marquee example for how Netflix viewers might write about
and react to spoilers on Twitter. For these reasons, House of Cards served as
a strong example for our study.
Methodology
This study examined the public conversation on Twitter around the dedicated
hashtags for the Netflix program House of Cards. To this end, we collected all
public tweets using the official #HouseofCards hashtag sent during the first
7 days after the release of the 4th season of the program on Netflix’s streaming
service, from March 4–10, 2016. We first performed a content word search
in NVivo to analyze the most commonly used words, as well as the ways the
word “spoiler” itself and its variations were used in the data set. This analysis
assisted us in gaining a sense of the overall conversation on the hashtag, as
well as what topics or words were most prominent.
Examining spoilers required manual coding of the tweets themselves.
What counts as a spoiler is, of course, nuanced and must be determined by
human raters rather than a computer analysis. To this end, we selected a ran-
dom sample of 550 tweets to qualitatively code for plot spoilers. We defined
spoilers according to Gray and Mittell (2007)’s definition as the revelation
of specific plot details and events. For the purposes of this study, we used the
entire tweet as a unit of analysis, and we defined a spoiler as any tweet which
revealed information about the plot of that season. This did not include com-
ments about character traits or what we might consider habitual actions by
particular characters that did not reveal plot information.
Results
In total, we collected 152,520 public tweets from March 4–10, 2016. While
much of Netflix’s content is subject to country-specific licensing agreements,
Netflix generally makes its own content available in each country; the tweets
using the House of Cards hashtag in English contained tweets in nine different
languages; 75% of the tweets were in English, as seen in Table 13.1.
Table 13.1. Language of #HouseofCards tweets.

Language Tweet Count Percentage
English 114,390 75.23%
Spanish 23,239 12.26%
French 7,641 4.03%
Portuguese 5,208 2.75%
German 2,075 1.09%
Dutch 1,712 0.90%
Arabic 932 0.49%
Russian 901 0.48%
Turkish 581 0.31%
Source: Authors.
The most frequent appearing words in the tweets appear in Table 13.2. Along
with the names of the two primary characters, the most frequent words com-
ment on the act of watching or “binging” the show itself, demonstrating that
a good portion of the tweets are users just reporting on their activity of watch-
ing the show, without any spoilers. With words like “episodes,” “watch,” and
“binge,” Twitter users share their activity with other viewers. The word “epi-
sode” was also rather prevalent as well. Along with mentions of the show’s
Twitter account (@houseofcards) the main characters of the show, Frank and
Claire Underwood, are mentioned most frequently, demonstrating that Twit-
ter users discussed the characters, and potentially specific plot actions of the
characters, in tweets. The #fu2016 hashtag, frequently used in this dataset,
refers to the hashtag for the Underwoods’ presidential campaign, a hashtag
also frequently promoted by Netflix. Users included this hashtag often to refer
to the campaign, the Underwoods, and just the show itself. These word fre-
quency counts can be seen in Table 13.2.
Table 13.2. Word frequency count.

Word Count
season 25581
@houseofcards 14826
underwood 13145
time 13123
frank 12706
just 10202
claire 9596
watching 9216
#fu2016 9147
house 9001
episode 8259
que 7527
cards 7339
watch 6852
binge 6671
like 6018
temporada 5985
now 5765
Word Count
back 5385
#frankunderwood 5060
@netflix 5026
#netflix 4717
Source: Authors.
There were 2,598 instances of the word “spoil,” “spoils,” “spoiler” and
“spoilers” in the data, which was only a small portion of the entire data set,
and therefore not included on the above chart. Some of these tweets included
phrases like, “If anyone on here spoils house of cards you are garbage,” and “if
anyone spoils house of cards on Twitter endurteth the wratheth,” “If anyone
spoils house of cards I swear I’m going to …” and “I’m watching the new
season of House of Cards before someone spoils it for me.” There was, then, a
conversation around spoilers using the hashtag on Twitter that emphasized a
desire to avoid them.
After this initial analysis, we chose 550 randomly selected tweets from
the entire sample for analysis. In this sample, there were only 31 plot spoil-
ers, or 5% of the sample, ranging from small and large plot points. Some of
these tweets involved specific scenes, small actions taken by a character, such
as using a particular object, or a particular speech or line of dialogue. These
spoilers also included more important plot points of the season, including
character deaths and major events. We are not reproducing the actual spoiler
tweets here to avoid spoiling the program ourselves.
What was most striking in the data set was the way that individual Twitter
users would share broad and often ambiguous tweets in order to avoid giv-
ing away plot points. These tweets include reactions to something on screen,
such as: “Owh I love Claire Underwood. Cold hearted bitch. #HouseofCards”
(Guilty Pleasure, 2016). While this tweet is quite possibly a reaction to a
specific action that Robin Wright’s character engaged in, the tweet provides
no details, and could function as a reaction to any number of actions taken by
this character over the course of the series. The tweet acts both as a reaction
to a specific moment as well as a larger point of discussion within the larger
community of House of Cards viewers on Twitter. Reaction tweets were also
common, such as a tweet that simply read: “Yaaasssss Claire! #HouseofCards.”
(Roberts, 2016). This tweet is instead an exclamation; it exists untethered
to any particular moment in the show and rather represents a reaction to
something that Twitter user witnessed in the program. Like the previous
tweet, this one is also unmoored from a specific episode or moment. A viewer
currently on episode one and a different individual on episode twelve may
both connect to this tweet.
Other tweets react to specific characters’ behavior, such as the tweet:
“Doug Stamper you need to fuck off mate #HouseofCards” (Andrews, 2016).
Again, while this tweet does not reveal a specific plot point, it does provide
a bit more specifics about a character and his behavior that is prompting a
reaction in this particular viewer. This tweet is a bit more specific, but still
not particularly revealing in terms of spoilers: “After that speech to Kathy
Durant I’m going to have serious #PresidentUnderwood nightmares tonight!
#HouseofCards #houseofcardss4” (Bragg, 2016). While this tweet in partic-
ular does reference a very specific moment, it does so in such a way that
emphasizes the viewer’s reaction to the event rather than the content of the
conversation. All we know from this tweet is that President Underwood has
a heated, and we might assume threatening, conversation with Catherine
Durant, the Secretary of State in Season Four. Without the episode number
or any additional details, this moment could have been one of many during
the season. The emphasis of the tweet is on the viewer’s reaction rather than
the plot point itself.
Discussion
From this analysis, the vast majority of tweets using the #HouseofCards hashtag
during the fourth season of the show discuss both the action of watching the
show itself, given the prevalence of terms like “binge” and “watch” in our
dataset, as well as the two main characters on the show. The first primary use
of Twitter as a second-screen application, then, is to share the act of watching
itself. Settling in for an evening of binge watching (sans spoilers please) was a
common sentiment expressed on the hashtag.
Given the prevalence of the character’s names in the dataset, as well as the
approach of tweets that avoided spoilers, a common practice of these Twitter
users was to focus on habitual action. The tweets aim to represent reactions
in a way that obscures the details themselves. These tweets prompt engage-
ment and connection with other Twitter users, but not in a way that would
be disruptive or disappointing to users still making their way through earlier
episodes. Focusing on habitual action does not only avoid spoilers, but it also
allows Twitter users to connect with other viewers at different points of the
season and even the series. A tweet like “Owh I love Claire Underwood. Cold
hearted bitch,” (Guilty Pleasure, 2016), as mentioned above, is more about the
character overall than conversation about any particular season of the show.
Most of these tweets also emphasize reaction. For these viewers, sharing
the experience of watching the television show is more important than reveal-
ing plot details. Viewing the program at the same time, even if Twitter users
are not seeing the same moments on the screen at once, is still a process of
co-viewing. Viewers can still discuss the overall personality of characters and
their habitual actions at any point in the series without analyzing plot details.
These Twitter users might be at home binging alone, but they are sharing the
experience together.
Conclusion
Using Twitter to talk about streaming television demonstrates an awareness of
Twitter as an equalizer of temporality and spatiality. Viewers understand that
while they are sharing the experience of watching House of Cards, not every-
one is experiencing the show at the same moment. Connecting with other
users while watching Netflix programs, then, requires a difficult balancing act
and sophisticated awareness of the need to obscure particular details about
the plot. This practice is a skill, though, that House of Cards viewers seem to
have mastered.
These results indicate that Netflix viewers who use Twitter have an
awareness of what we might call “spoiler etiquette” and a sophistication for
reacting to the show without revealing crucial plot information. Viewers may
have an understanding that while they are sharing the experience of watching
the show, not everyone is experiencing the show at the same moment. This
study contributes to our understanding of the evolving definition of spoilers
for streaming television that is distinct from network era definitions. This
work also furthers our understanding of the ways in which audiences engage
with asynchronous and streaming video and integrate second screen applica-
tions into their viewing practices.
References
Andrews, A. [Amyjandrews]. (2016, March 13). Doug Stamper you need to fuck off mate.
#houseofcards [Tweet]. Retrieved from http://twitter.com/AmyJAndrews/statuses/7091066
10979913728
Bragg, J. [KitCouchPotato]. (2016, March 13). Dear God after that speech to Kathy Durant
I’m going to have serious #PresidentUnderwood nightmares tonight! #HouseOfCards
#houseofcardss4 [Tweets]. Retrieved from http://twitter.com/KitCouchPotato/statuses/
709106705255309313
Bury, R., & Li, J. (2015). Is it live or is it timeshifted, streamed or downloaded? Watching tele-
vision in the era of multiple screens. New Media & Society, 17(4), 592–610.
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works and fan consumption disputes in Brazil. Intensities: Journal of Cult Media, 9, 74–86.
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rethinking textuality. Particip@tions: International Journal of Audience and Reception Studies,
4(1). Retrieved from http://www.participations.org/Volume%204/Issue%201/4_01_gray-
mittell.htm
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hearted bitch #HouseofCards [Tweet]. Retrieved from http://twitter.com/LoveDien/
statuses/709102775129530369
Harrington, S., Highfield, T., & Bruns, A. (2013). More than a backchannel: Twitter and tele-
vision. Participations: Journal of Audience & Reception Studies, 10(1). Retrieved from http://
citeseerx.ist.psu.edu/viewdoc/download?doi=10.1.1.689.4259&rep=rep1&type=pdf
Johnson, B. K., & Rosenbaum, J. E. (2015). Spoiler alert: Consequences of narrative spoilers
for dimensions of enjoyment, appreciation, and transportation. Communication Research,
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Obama, B. [BarackObama]. (2014, February 13). Tomorrow: @HouseOfCards. No spoilers,
please. [Tweet]. Retrieved from https://twitter.com/barackobama/status/4341081037897
93281?lang=en
Perks, L. G., & McElrath-Hart, N. (2016). Spoiler definitions and behaviors in the post-
network era. Convergence: The International Journal of Research into New Media Technol-
ogies, 1–16.
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Twitter activity for traditional appointment and asynchronous broadcast television mod-
els. First Monday, 20(7). Retrieved from http://journals.uic.edu/ojs/index.php/fm/article/
view/5935/4663
Rainie, L. (2017, Sept. 13). About 6 in 10 young adults in U.S. primarily use online stream-
ing to watch TV. Pew Internet Research. Retrieved from http://www.pewresearch.org/
fact-tank/2017/09/13/about-6-in-10-young-adults-in-u-s-primarily-use-online-streaming-
to-watch-tv/
Roberts, T. [Taelyreddestiny]. (2016, March 13). Yaaasssss Claire! #HouseofCards [Tweet].
Retrieved from http://twitter.com/Taelyreddestiny/statuses/709106683323269120
·14·
“ are you still watching ? ”
Audiovisual Consumption on Digital Platforms and
Practices Related to the Routines of Netflix Users
Vanessa Amália D. Valiati
Waking up earlier to watch Netflix before going to work and college is part of
M.’s routine, a 19-year old student. When he gets home, he still has time to
watch two more episodes before going to bed. He likes to watch Netflix pro-
grams on his smartphone even though he’s at home, and he considers cable
TV an “enormous waste of money.” On the weekends, he binge-watches and
could easily watch 13 hours in a row to finish a season—this process refers to
a cycle called “happiness, anxiety, and emptiness.” He thinks of the platform
as a “family member” who is always available. This profile, taken from a pilot
interview for this study,1 is indicative of current media consumption which
has made significant changes to everyday life and the consumption of audiovi-
sual products. These changes are noticeable when analyzing our routine use of
media. With on-demand access via streaming becoming more and more pop-
ular, users are now adapting to new practices or reshaping their old behaviors.
Other forms of domestic consumption with streaming content have now been
established—television sets are used to access internet sites and applications.
At the same time, computers, tablets and smartphones have become the main
devices for transmitting and consuming, which have led to questions about
home or family life because platform mobility and consumption via mobile
devices increases the space for consumption.
Terms like “binge-watching” or “Netflix cheating” are only some of the

more obvious phenomena. The company played a major role in creating
new consumption habits the same way it inserted new routines and behav-
iors into daily life. It is now becoming more and more common to hear or
read expressions like “Netflix has destroyed my social life,” “I’m addicted to
Netflix,” “I don’t go out at night anymore, I prefer to stay home and watch
Netflix,” “I didn’t sleep much because I was watching Netflix,” and “I can-
celled my cable TV subscription and just watch Netflix”; these are just some
of the expressions used that refer to the platform’s centrality in terms of
media consumption.
In order to understand these phenomena, I begin with the Practice The-
ory approach. Its roots are based in anthropology and sociology and even
though it is not systematically designed as a field of study (Postill, 2010; Reck-
witz, 2002), it is used as a starting point to relate to structures, systems, indi-
viduals or interactions (Postill, 2010). The practice in this study is defined as
routine behavior, with a number of interconnected elements in a continual
relationship between agents and objects (Reckwitz, 2002). This study there-
fore investigates the many layers that make up the structured practices of
consuming audiovisual products on the Internet and aims to understand how
audiovisual content consumption on Netflix is articulated into the routines
of users in Brazil.
The Netflix Platform

The current audiovisual scenario is made up of a range of interfaces, videos,
environments, and uses (Montaño, 2015). In order to address streaming plat-
forms and on-demand audiovisual content services, we need to first define
the term “platform.” Aside from a point of access to particular content, an
interface, or software, Parker, Alstyne, and Choudary (2016) describe digital
platforms as companies that provide interactions that create value between
consumers and producers. For these authors, the platform’s general objective
is to promote a relationship between users and facilitate the exchange of
goods, services, or local currency, thereby giving it value to all participants.
In terms of audiovisual consumption platforms like Netflix, if we exclude
the “pay to consume” commercial relationship, these exchanges seem to
occur simply by sharing information—once users enter their data and con-
sumer profile on the platform, it gives them access to its catalogue of shows
and a complete recommendation and notice system. Furthermore, the value
“are you still watching ?” 225
it has lies within the autonomy it creates and the ability to watch content
anywhere at any time. Also, in terms of currency and capital, Netflix has
subscription fees.
Additionally, according to Gillespie (2010), platforms have a political
bias and, despite their discourse about innovation, openness, equality and
democracy, they contain more aspects of traditional media than they admit.
Thus, taking into account the above-mentioned characteristics, this paper
understands Netflix as a digital platform whose value is in the availability
of audiovisual content and its ability to enable the on-demand consumption
on multiple screens. The platform is also based on the information about its
users’ habits, using algorithms to suggest content—a mindset that could also
be applied on a discursive and political level.
Media, Practice, and Information Routes

Practice theory provides media studies with new frameworks through which
to consider central issues in the field, such as media in everyday life, media
and the body, and media production (Postill, 2010). The first generation of
theorists, more specifically Bourdieu (2009), Giddens (2009), and Postill
(2010), state that this approach suggests that individuals use media in order
to maintain a sense of ontological safety. Media becomes a field for observ-
ing the daily cultural game of reproducing and changing where practitioners
(with varying degrees of expertise, discipline and commitment), practices,
and technologies meet and circulate. Along these lines, Couldry (2010)
proposes a new paradigm for media studies which can be thought of as the
study of “the open set of practices relating to, or oriented around, media”
(p. 36) in order to understand ties between media and the power it has in
daily life.
In that respect, the reason behind systematizing the data from this
research was inspired by the work of Shove, Pantzar, and Watson (2012) and
the perspective of Schatzki (1996, 2001) and Reckwitz (2002), which states
that practice is defined by interdependent relationships between materials
(object, technologies, physically tangible entities, and things the objects are
made from), competencies (skills, know-how and techniques) and meanings
(which include symbolic meanings, ideas and aspirations). Thus, the practices
related to media consumption include a mix of materials, competencies, and
meanings. This study is based on an empirical observation and theoretical
foundation related to the elements that make up this practice.
Methodology
In order to further develop this analysis, we interviewed 12 individuals
between the ages of 18 and 40 years old who live in the south of Brazil (Porto
Alegre and the metropolitan area). They described their use of Netflix as
either intense or average (more than 4 hours a week). The participants were
selected from questionnaires they had previously answered in social networks.
Using observation and interview techniques, we monitored these users’ rela-
tionships with the platform and the environment in which they watch it.
Taking into account the theoretical basis of this research, criteria developed
by Shove et al. (2012) and Magaudda (2011) were used to group and orga-
nize the multiplicity of observed aspects, noting that these elements were in
constant interconnection and that the practice itself would not exist with
isolated elements. Thus, users’ interactions with technology were analyzed
along the five axes of this project: material aspects, competencies, affective
dynamics, relational dynamics, and spatio-temporal dynamics. These obser-
vations examined the organization of space-time dynamics in everyday life
around Netflix.
Results: “Netflix is Every Day”

This section will present some of the results obtained through the interviews
and will analyze connections between the verbalization and observation of
practices and the theoretical contributions previously brought by this research.
When observing users’ preferences for steaming media, most users report
a preference for television. Contextual variations also change the choice of
artifact—not always, according to respondents’ home routines and other con-
straints, the preferred medium is in fact often used, as Respondent 6 says:
“My favorite one actually is TV, but my father owns the TV, so […]. I end up
watching on the computer. But I prefer the TV; the screen is much bigger. And
my computer has an internet problem, there it’s falling, coming back, falling,
coming back.” Or Respondent 11, who routinely watches on his cell phone or
work computer, spending the day away from home, but prefers the television.
“I prefer the TV because it’s more practical. Like, I’m free, there’s nothing in
my hands, you do not need the phone […] on TV is much better. I prefer it
and feels easier.” Among the physical aspects mentioned by most interviewees
are the screen dimensions, comfort, and the greater attention thought to be
tied to the idea of television usage in detriment of other artifacts.
Compared to other screens, such as the smartphone, for example, the

Respondent 5 commented:
It is that the phone has to be held, and sometimes, I don’t know, some notification
comes in, or, sometimes I’m unworthy and I want to send a message to someone. It
doesn’t work, because I have to stop everything, pause it, go to the application, and
then go back to the series. For TV, I think you can get more details. Because on the
phone, you’re going to feel like doing other things. I, at least, like to see what is hap-
pening on networks. If I see it on TV, I can only focus on TV.
It is also possible to notice, in the interviewees’ responses, the relationship with

television in more traditional ways, besides broadcast transmission or cable.
Respondents say they do not watch for a long time or have canceled their
cable subscriptions, including themselves into the generation of cord-cutters
(WOLK, 2015). Among those interviewed, the resistance to paying for cable
TV is perceptible—those who were responsible for paying the subscription
have canceled it.
It is common among the interviewees to select programs but not to
watch, either for reasons of time, or because they forgot what they selected.
As Respondent 12 reports: “I choose more series to view than I watch. If I see
my list, there’s a lot I do not even remember putting there.” And it defines:
“It’s like a clothing consumer who buys and does not wear the clothes. My list
of attendees is also a series of content that is seen in half.” This way, Respon-
dent 9 defines the list as “an illusion of things I’m really going to use, I put in
a lot and watch little there.” This aspect also refers to the content mobility
in the platform—this illusion to which Respondent 9 refers is also presented
in the idea that content will always be there to be watched, when in actuality
the presence of content is not a constant and depends on licensing agree-
ments and contracts, which can lead to frustrations.
This mapping of consumer tastes and profiles does not seem to displease
Netflix users interviewed for this research. Respondent 5, for example, does
not consider it invasive. According to this participant, “because there are
some things that really invade your privacy, but they [Netflix] are ok, because
it is data that they need to understand who the consumers are, to identify
and such.” For the Respondent 2, it is also positive: “taking my consump-
tion custom and throwing it back at me is even better, I want more is them
to understand me. There are things I will not want to see.” Respondent 7
believes that it facilitates, “but obviously bothers me”—this person says that
they “sold” its data to Google, Facebook and Apple for many years, “so it’s
just another one.” They ended: “It bothers, but I would not stop using it
because of it.”
Interviewees were questioned about their perceptions regarding the use
of the platform and issues associated with the body and their relationship
with the artifacts. The individuals reported a great range in the deprivation or
alteration in sleep habits. When questioned about whether they were sleeping
more or less due to the use of the platform, Respondent 1 was strict, associat-
ing the phenomenon with the presence of the device in the room: “Much less
[sleep]. I think I’d come in from college and go straight to bed when I did not
have a television in my room.”
Regarding technical competencies, the interviewees showed adequate
know-how in using the Netflix platform. They spoke easily about the man-
agement of passwords and profiles, the limits of the chosen plan and access
screens, as well as the genres and search systems. About the proliferation
of screens (cell phone, tablet, computer) in everyday life, respondents were
asked about attention and focus while watching Netflix—interacting at the
same time with other screens. Their responses related to the focus and abil-
ity to perform other tasks while watching Netflix, as well as the platform’s
affordances in supporting assisted content. Most of the interviewees were
therefore able to watch the content and at the same time perform other activ-
ities. Respondent 8, for example, affirmed being able to watch and look at the
smartphone at the same time “and pay attention to both.” The same practice
was routine for Respondent 5: “I can usually listen and type. I’ll take a peek
or even send a voicemail. I’ll read what’s going on.” This cognitive ability
of divided attention is often referenced by the respondents—the presence of
another screen can be considered a characteristic of the link between the
program, the user, and the platform (Martin, 2014).
In addition to the multiple screens, some respondents’ attention was
divided with other daily tasks. Respondent 10 reported: “I watch here at all
times, when I’m cooking, when I’m doing the dishes and when I’m eating.”
Food is also related to Respondent 6 consumption: “Usually I watch Netflix
when I’m eating […] I have to be doing something other than having dinner
or having lunch. So, Netflix is very food related.” What can be concluded,
therefore, is that most interviewees demonstrate the development of cogni-
tive skills in relation to the attention needed to perform other activities while
watching, choosing the content according to the situation.
From these configurations you can see that streaming platforms, in this
case specifically Netflix, end up assuming a role that for a long time was the
television’s or the radio’s—that of being background company: “Like, you are

in absolute silence at home and you are going to have dinner alone, turn on
the TV […] to make a noise in the house” (Respondent 2).
In the field of affective and relational dynamics, among this study’s
research participants Netflix acquired a space of prominence in their routines.
As Respondent 5 stated: “So it is part of my life. When there is no internet,
there is no light, I think: ‘My God, what am I going to do? What am I going to
watch now?’” (Respondent 5). Respondent 12 understood the platform as an
escape, from the time one arrived home from work until bedtime: “I think it’s
an escape from reality for me. It’s an experience I have in a fictional universe
that I can escape from everyday life.” This “escape” is in line with the survey
released by Netflix (2013), in which 76% of respondents said they watched to
escape from everyday concerns.
Reactions to the end of a season or series after binge-watching was another
notable aspect of the interviews. Most respondents used the expression “feel-
ing of emptiness.” Sleep, anguish, and duty fulfilled also figured among the
answers. Respondent 2 compared the feeling to a hangover, as does the origin
of the term binge: “I get depressed. It’s kind of crap. Do you know alcohol? You
know when you go out for a drink with people and ‘Oh, I’m going to have a
beer,’ you know? […]. The hangover the day after.” (Respondent 2).
Finally, the feelings of love, guilt, betrayal, depression, and emptiness
mentioned by the respondents denote the affective dimension of meaning
that Netflix acquires in the routine activities of users. This finding allows us
to consider that the platform acquires meanings that go beyond the usual
description of “emotional content-based streaming content producers and
distributors” capable of producing strong links with consumers, as illustrated
by Respondent 5: “Netflix is the love of my life”—and these bonds based on
emotion compose, reinforce, and maintain the performance of this streaming
practice.
Assisted content on Netflix, according to most interviewees, provides the
subject for interaction—especially for “watercooler talk” moments (Tryon,
2013), as well as what happened (and still occurs) with the traditional tele-
vision stream (such as soap operas, reality shows, and events seen on televi-
sion are commented on and generate discussion). For example, Respondent 1
explained: “So I am a person who […] watches things to have a subject with
people.” She stated that the platform has a relevant role in conversations with
her boyfriend. “So, we sometimes watch things to be able to raise a line of
discussion, criticism or, finally, what the series is about.” There are, therefore,
elements that refer to the creation of bonds and the sense of belonging enabled
by the use of the platform around shared experiences of visualization.
Practices are behaviors that appear at different locations and points in
time (Reckwitz, 2002). This way, all interviewees have stated that Netflix
viewing takes place for more than an hour—with variations for longer ses-
sions, depending on the configuration of other daily practices and obligations.
Therefore, in most cases, there is a more intense concentration of usage on
weekends. When questioned about the insertion of Netflix in the routine, the
interviewees emphasized ritual elements: “Netflix is every
day. I watch at least
one episode of any series every day. Usually I watch in the morning when I’m
waiting for my mother to finish packing for work, I watch at noon and I watch
at night” (Respondent 6).
Regarding this relationship, Respondent 11 referred to “automatic”
behavior: “I know I’m going to get home, I’m going to have dinner, and then
I’m going to watch some episode of Netflix because there’s nothing on the
TV that I want” (Respondent 11). In this way, for most of the interviewees,
due to the availability of time, binge-watching occurred primarily on week-
ends, in temporal sequences that originated with the practice itself (Shove
et al., 2012), although for most there was no specific planning. As Respon-
dent 7 explained: “The series is good, and I’ll stay up later. But I usually do
not uncheck things or decide that I will do just that. Of course, sometimes it
happens. I wake up early on a Saturday and then put on a show and when I see
it’s three o’clock in the afternoon.” In the case of Respondent 12, marathons
occurred during weekdays as well and are also, according to her, “very impul-
sively.” As she claimed to have difficulty choosing titles, she reported watch-
ing “two minutes of each” until tiring. “But then when I find a good series that
holds my attention, I watch many episodes in a row. So, the marathon is not
very planned. It goes as far as the series can take me” (Respondent 12).
Regarding to the temporal flow of marathons, Respondent 8 says that mar-
athons are “natural” in her life. “It’s marathons because there are more than
three, four episodes, one after another, but I do not consider it as a marathon
because I do not have that planning.” She reported watching Netflix until the
platform asked: “are you still watching this?” (Respondent 8), referring to the
verification that Netflix prompts after a few hours to make sure that the user is
still watching. In her perception, if she had more time, she would watch more:
“It was going to spoil my day. I love Netflix, but my day would be even more
unproductive.” Considering marathon days as “unproductive” was also one of
the considerations made by Respondent 11. He watches marathons with his
“are you still watching?” 231
mother, usually on Sundays, when he says he has nothing to do. “There we go

to Netflix […] It gives about six or seven hours in a day. That’s a lot, right? I do
not know if it’s wasted, all of a sudden, right. I could have done other things
that Sunday” (Respondent 11). That is, by functioning as a content repository
that is available according to the user’s programming, the platform allows the
autonomy of access in the space and time available.
Discussion: How Practices Are Formed and

Consumption Flows in Netflix
This study shows that Netflix is more than just a platform that produces
and distributes content across the internet; it also plays a major role in daily
audiovisual consumption. The collected interviews and data analysis bring to
light and consolidate some possible answers to how Netflix practices might be
formed in its users’ routines even though this scenario is constantly changing
due to the volatility of the digital environment and the changing nature of
digital consumption. It is of note that this study does not intend to generalize
patterns of individual behaviors and routines, but it does interpret how these
practices mix together and how this new normality (Christensen & Røpke,
2010) of consumption via streaming has been built in to daily activities.
The interviews show that consuming Netflix content is linked to and
organized through the following elements highlighted by Schatzki (1996):
a shared understanding. In other words, the interviewees are aware of the
required procedures for Netflix and generally follow its rules and instruc-
tions regarding access and releasing new content. They also know what its
power and limitations are (Castanheira, Polivanov, & Maia, 2016). Some of
its affordances2 are clearer to them than others; for example, its classification
system and ability to download content through a friendly interface that they
described as “easy to use.” We need to remember that this is what the com-
pany wants; it wants to give users several choices and direct them to the con-
tent they would be most interested in (Arnold, 2016). The third connection
is an emotional one. The platform is pleasing to the user and because of this,
the user sees the affectionate side of the platform (as one interviewee said,
“Netflix is the love of my life”).
The interviewees, even those who use other devices, agreed that televi-
sion is a medium for reproducing content. This preference indicates a con-
nection with habitus (Bourdieu, 2009); in other words, the presence of past
experiences, matrices of perceptions that are given to each organism—the

habit of watching television at the end of the work or study day is acquired
throughout life. It is a leisure activity, left on in the background while per-
forming other activities; we even watch it lying down in a comfortable posi-
tion, and these elements are all parts of this behavior. Furthermore, screen
size, multitasking, and second screen applications are a phenomenon which is
referred to as screenness; in other words, the power that screens have in attract-
ing the attention of individuals (Introna & Ilharco, 2006; Thrift, 2005). In
this sense, the attention to and engagement with screens also depends on the
content that is being watched, or more specifically on the complexity of the
narrative—the interviewees who described series as “more complex,” or “sil-
lier” and “routine” (less complex with familiar plots) is representative of how
they perceive the narratives and how much attention is given to each one in
a kind of content management.
We can also see the non-human mediators that “make us do things”
(Lemos, 2013, p.19) becoming an intrinsic part of our daily lives; for exam-
ple, the fact that all interviewees viewed content automatically. They are
encouraged to watch many episodes in a row, leading to binge watching, to an
increased engagement, or to the recommender system which they reported
helped them choose what content to watch. Getting notified of new content
and the buzz around some series on social networks also makes people curious
and gives them the sensation of having to see it as soon as possible.
Since this field is in constant motion, Netflix continuously changes the
system’s affordances in hopes of including new elements for users and direct-
ing this use towards maintaining structure, such as changing the classification
system, which the company says helps give them the best recommendation
system by allowing users to “skip series introductions,” by making trailers
available in some interfaces, and so on. However, this aspect is also observ-
able under the perspective of performance integration (Magaudda, 2011); in
other words, integrating new material into pre-existing practices and ongo-
ing changes. Overall, the streaming system and digital data, like the facil-
ity of sharing and distributing content (Burroughs, 2015) which used to be
held exclusively for the “world of television” (series and film narratives) has
migrated to the “world of computers” (streaming platforms), and needs other
competences to deal with the platform’s technical aspects like creating profiles,
cataloguing, watching multiple screens, consuming on mobile devices, etc. It
strengthens or creates new meanings (the feeling of pleasure and relaxation,
the love for the platform, the emptiness, and completing a binge-watching
marathon), stimulates relationships, and alters temporal and spatial dynamics

(discussions on series, binge-watching, consumption spaces, etc.).
In the field of relational dynamics, as the interviewees reported, interact-
ing with friends on social networks and messenger applications while con-
suming content depends on what is available. It happens in a more intense,
asynchronous way; in other words, even though most users interact during the
practice, they do not see any problem with continuing conversations on other
screens when the content is not as attractive, and they develop competences
for this behavior. Furthermore, users want to re-watch content to catch infor-
mation they had missed or to remember the past (Mittel, 2011).
Netflix and its content “become a talking point” and are present in the
interviewees’ conversations and relationships on all levels, confirming the
idea that even though consumption is individual, the social character of
the platform stands out and, together with material objects, makes up layers
of consumption flows and strengthens or creates new ties (as in the case of the
interviewee who binge watches “together, but separately” with friends across
messenger applications and chooses programs in order to “have something to
talk about” with the people around her, including her boyfriend). The feeling
of belonging that comes with watching content with a group or being the
first one to see a show (in order to show off or avoid spoilers) permeates these
relationships.
The subjects interviewed for this study show a reflexive ability (Giddens,
2009) to monitor consumption of digital content and its associated practices.
Most of them when asked about their routines and the time they spend watch-
ing needed some time to answer due to an “automatic behavior” in place.
From the answers they gave, one can infer that the practical time (Shove,
2009); the length, sequence, and time spent consuming audiovisual content
on Netflix, generally occurs when interviewees finished their regular activities
(work/school, or in some cases during their breaks). Even though we cannot
link any collective “convention” to this, based on the information from the
interviews, this aspect appears to be consistent. According to the interviews
in this study, the practice occurs at least two hours per day in most of the sub-
jects’ routines, normally at night.
An analysis of this information demonstrates that these routine relation-
ships between practices and users create a flow of digital audiovisual consump-
tion in the users’ routines. Streaming and the opportunities that the platform
offers allow users to create rhythms and time sequences. These moments of
consumption vary; in other words, they are reduced or increased depending
on one’s daily activities. For example, when a new series is released or when
they have more time off work, the need to wind down after a hard day at work,
among others.
According to the concept of traditional television flow (Williams, 2016),
these digital flows (McCormick, 2016) have their own characteristics which
can be observed in this research, such as autonomy in time sequencing, insa-
tiability, the influence from the recommendation system, using multiple
screens, and synchronous or asynchronous interaction while consuming. As
the interviewees expressed, these flows are already naturalized and “watching
Netflix” just becomes part of their routines; a behavior that, despite not need-
ing any specific planning in most cases, does adopt a ritualistic character.
Binge-watching represents the autonomy in this consumption flow even
though it has existed longer than on-demand content platforms. Most of the
interviewees confirmed that they watch a number of episodes in a row without
planning to do so. This is an immersive experience that also depends on the
kind of content being shown (it is also stimulated by content availability and
the automatic replay system, according to the interviewees). Even though
this flow involves autonomy and time sequencing, when binge-watching comes
into play we need to also consider the uncontrolled time the interviewees
mentioned, something that Perks (2015) says strengthens the immersion and
intensity of the binge-watching experience.
On the other hand, we can relate the “empty” feeling that most interview-
ees experienced when finishing a binge-watching marathon to the momen-
tary absence of security—the feeling of “not knowing what to do now” which
usually lasts until another series is released or until they find new content
to watch. The feeling of “mission accomplished” which some interviewees
mentioned to describe how the feel when they finished binge watching is
connected to the practice itself and content consumption. This highlights the
emotional side of the platform and the consequent exhibition of these feelings
on social network profiles and the company’s official contact channels—and it
is impossible to not compare it with television which, despite being a routinely
used media object with a strong emotional and relational appeal, appears to
not generate the same amount of intensity. Also, digital consumption flows
appear to show closer relationships between users and platforms—and for the
interviewees, Netflix mixes and sometimes balances emotion and engagement
with the content it transmits and/or produces.
Therefore, the recommendation system and algorithms become more
important aspects of the Netflix system and its discourse, including producing
content based on data collected on users’ viewing habits. The participants’

responses show they are aware of these mechanisms even though they do not
understand how algorithms really work. The recommendation system has a
duality to its structure, in which the human agent and the structure constantly
reproduce and interact (Giddens, 2009). Netflix (as a structure) provides its
users with more and more content, resulting in more viewing data used to
maintain the platform’s discourse and produce and obtain more content; all of
which are being constantly restructured.
There are at least two flows that interconnect here: (a) the flow of con-
tinual content on Netflix with original productions and the inclusion/exclu-
sion of library content which stimulates user engagement while they search
for new content in the library. This content is often directed and acquired
through advertising and company notifications of new content that will be
released; and (b) user flow, which is characterized by routine, self-managed,
insatiable access. Both flows are recursive because engaging in content is what
determines the intensity of consumption and the length of time spent on
the platform as well as attributing meanings and associated practices. The
numbers of different flows are related to material aspects, important agents
in determining the process as elements that enable the practice, time, space-
time and relational dynamics spread throughout the process.
However, the consumption of audiovisual products on streaming plat-
forms is a set of routine practices that make up part of a broader structure of
media consumption (Ardevòl, Roig, San Cornelio, Pagés, & Alsina, 2010). In
this regard, the platform plays an important role in the interviewees’ routines
and consumption, and on the emotional and social dimension of its users—in
relation to both available content and the presence and daily interaction with
the platform which often ties into their emotions. This study also strengthens
the practicality of the practical approach towards understanding digital con-
sumption and how individuals use digital objects.
Notes
1. This text summarizes the results obtained from the study conducted for this author’s doc-
toral dissertation.
2. The concept, pioneered by Gibson (1977), originally consists of the relationships between
the properties of an environment and the behavior of animals. This idea was adapted to
numerous fields of knowledge for focusing on relationships between human beings and
objects, such as design, technology and communication.
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contributors
Sheri Chinen Biesen is Professor of Radio, Television, and Film Studies at

Rowan University and author of Blackout: World War II and the Origins
of Film Noir (Johns Hopkins University Press, 2005), Music in the Shad-
ows: Noir Musical Films (Johns Hopkins University Press, 2014), and Film
Censorship: Regulating America’s Screen (Wallflower/Columbia University
Press, 2018). She received her PhD at the University of Texas at Austin,
MA and BA at the University of Southern California School of Cine-
matic Arts, and has taught at USC, University of California, University
of Texas, and in England.
Amber M. Buck is an Assistant Professor in the Composition, Rhetoric, and
English Studies program at the University of Alabama. Her research con-
siders writing technologies, social media, and online audiences. She has
published in the journals Research in the Teaching of English, Computers &
Composition, and Kairos: A Journal of Rhetoric, Technology, and Pedagogy
and in edited collections Ubiquitous Learning; Stories That Speak to Us;
Literacy in Practice; and Social Writing/Social Media.
Chiara Checcaglini obtained her PhD in Sociology and Communication
Studies in 2016 at the University of Urbino Carlo Bo, with a thesis about
Italian online critical discourse and contemporary TV series. Her cur-
rent research interests include media education, transmedia storytelling,
contemporary serial narratives, their critical reception and their forms of

distribution. She wrote several essays on these topics, and she is a contrib-
uting writer for webzines dedicated to audiovisual criticism. She authored
the book Breaking Bad. La chimica del male: storia, temi, stile (Mimesis,
2014). She is an adjunct professor of Media Literacy and Transmedia Nar-
rative at the University of Udine.
Kimberly Fain is a Visiting Professor at Texas Southern University and a
licensed attorney. Fain holds a JD from Thurgood Marshall School of
Law, a MA from Texas Southern University, and a BA degree from Texas
A&M University at College Station. Currently, she’s a Technical Com-
munications and Rhetoric doctoral student at Texas Tech University.
Her research focuses on political and visual rhetoric, African American
rhetoric, and digital technologies. Lastly, Fain has published two books:
Black Hollywood: From Butlers to Superheroes, the Changing Role of African
American Men in the Movies (Praeger, 2015) and Colson Whitehead: The
Postracial Voice of Contemporary Literature (Rowman & Littlefield, 2015).
Jessica Ford, PhD, is an early career researcher at the University of New-
castle, Australia. Jessica is a co-founder of the Sydney Screen Studies
Network—a community of screen studies scholars and researchers, and
a Contributing Editor of MAI: Journal of Feminism and Visual Culture.
She has published on various women-centric US television series, includ-
ing Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Bunheads, Girls and Better Things.
Fabio Giglietto, PhD, is a tenure-track Assistant Professor at the Department
of Communication Sciences, Humanities and International Studies at the
University of Urbino Carlo Bo, where he also teaches Social Media A nalysis.
His main research interests are theory of information, communication, and
society with a specific focus on the relationship between social systems and
new technologies. On these topics, he has published extensively in journals
such as the Journal of Communication, Information, Communication and Soci-
ety, the Journal of Broadcasting and Electronic Media, Social Media + Society,
and the International Journal of Communication.
Anne Kaun is an Associate Professor in Media and Communication Studies
at Södertörn University, Sweden. Her research is concerned with media
and political activism and the role of technology for political participa-
tion in the current and past media ecologies. In 2016, she published her
book Crisis and Critique with Zed Books.
Marissa Kiss is a doctoral candidate in Public Sociology at George Mason
University and a Graduate Research Assistant at the Institute for
contributors 241
Immigration Research at George Mason University. Her primary research

interests include immigration, media studies, sports, qualitative and quan-
titative research methods, and statistical analysis.
Luis F. Alvarez León is an Assistant Professor of Geography at Dartmouth
College. He is a political economic geographer with research interests
in the spatial, political, regulatory, and economic dimensions of the digi-
tal information economy. In particular, he is interested in examining the
evolution and implications of geospatial data, media, and technologies—
ranging from Google Street View to self-driving car navigation, content
geotargeting, and remotely sensed satellite data. His work contributes to
a geographical understanding of how information economies are spatially
constituted through the geolocation, commodification and marketization
of data. He received his PhD in Geography from UCLA in 2016.
Daniela Varela Martínez is a Brooklyn-based communicator and researcher.
Her passion for content creation and production took her to Vietnam,
Sweden, Spain and Singapore, where she developed her work as a cre-
ative storyteller and writer. Her Netflix binge-watching pleasure lead her
to research about viewers’ behavior with on-demand platforms, sharing
her findings as a special lecturer in local universities and radio programs
in Uruguay. She earned her Master of Communications, Media and Cul-
tural Analysis degree from Södertörn University and her Bachelor of Arts
from Universidad Catolica del Uruguay. She currently works as a Cre-
ative Director in Orchid Creation, and she enjoys her daily cappuccino
while blogging for Bites&Kms and Medium.
Ana Cabral Martins is a research assistant on the project “Portuguese Women
Directors” at ICS/ University of Lisbon and has a PhD in Digital Media.
Some of her recent work includes a chapter on comics and movies in the
volume Visions of the Future in Comics: International Perspectives (2017)
and “A Bridge and a Reminder: The Force Awakens, Between Repetition
and Expansion,” published by Kinephanos—Journal of Media Studies and
Popular Culture (June 2018).
Annette Markham is a communication scholar who researches how people
interpret and use digital technologies, how the sociotechnical systems
surrounding us influence how we make sense of our selves and our social
world, and how we might create better ethical futures through specula-
tive thinking. She has conducted ground-breaking sociological studies of
how people make sense of digital tech, well represented in her first book,
Life Online: Researching Real Experience in Virtual Space (AltaMira, 1998).
She writes frequently about the intersection of methods and ethics and
is well known for her innovation in both areas. Annette is Professor of
Information Studies and Digital Design at Aarhus University and Affili-
ate Professor of Digital Ethics at Loyola University, Chicago. She earned
a PhD in communication studies from Purdue University in 1997. More
information at www.annettemarkham.com.
Giada Marino is a PhD candidate in Sociology of Communication at the Uni-
versity of Urbino Carlo Bo. She is mainly interested in audience studies and
social media platforms usage, with specific reference to social networks sites
affordances and user behaviors. She has contributed in a junior research
assistant position to several academic research projects, such as News-Italia
Observatory and Mapping Italian News Media Political Coverage in the
Lead-up of 2018 General Election, and in a teaching assistant position to
the Social Media Analysis class at the University of Urbino Carlo Bo.
Lella Mazzoli is a Full Professor of Sociology of Communication in the
Department of Communication at the University of Urbino Carlo Bo
where she was Dean of Faculty of Sociology and Head of the Commu-
nication Department. Currently, she is the director of the Journalism
Institute, founder and director of LaRiCA (Laboratory for the Research
on Advanced Communication), and Director of National Observatory
News-Italia. She deals with research and analysis of communication
within different contexts: technological communication, new media, dif-
ferent forms of cultural consumption. Recent publications: Cross-news.
L’informazione dai talk show ai social media (Codice Edizioni, 2013); Patch-
work mediale. Comunicazione e informazione fra media tradizionali e media
digitali (FrancoAngeli, 2017).
Theo Plothe is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Journalism and
Mass Communication at Savannah State University. His work considers
the materiality of digital media, especially social media, digital gaming,
and remix culture. He has published in the journals G|A|M|E, Kinepha-
nos, and the edited collections Video Game Policy, Digital Football Cultures,
and Contemporary Research on Intertextuality in Video Games.
Briana L. Pocratsky is a doctoral candidate in Public Sociology at George
Mason University. Her research focuses on popular culture, youth, and
sociology of everyday life. She is the managing editor of The Sociologist, an
open access magazine of public sociology.
Gabriele Prosperi is a PhD candidate in Human Sciences at the University
of Ferrara, Italy. His research interests include the diffusion of cinema
contributors 243
and television products on the web, the relationships between formal and
informal distribution, and the new forms of audiovisual communications.
His career also includes collaborations as a TA for the Department of
Visual, performance and media arts of the University of Bologna, as a TV
analyst for the Italian broadcaster Mediaset—RTI, in collaboration with
the University Sacro Cuore of Milan, and as a TV analyst for the French
agency of television audience measurement Médiamètrie—Eurodata TV.
Oranit Klein Shagrir is a senior lecturer at Hadassah Academic College, Jeru-
salem and a course coordinator at the Open University of Israel. Prior to
her academic career, she worked for the Israeli public television in various
production roles. Her book Para-Interactivity and The Appeal of TV in the
Digital Age (2017) was published by Rowman & Littlefield Publishers.
Max Schlüter is a Research Assistant and Master Student of Information Stud-
ies, Digital Living at Aarhus University, Denmark. His research interests
revolve around critically investigating everyday digital practices in order
to unveil power relations and bring attention to precarious human condi-
tions. Maximilian currently holds a BA in Digital Media and E-Business
from the Leuphana University, Lüneburg, Germany.
Jason A. Smith is a recent doctoral graduate in Public Sociology at George
Mason University whose research centers on the areas of race, institutions,
and media studies. His dissertation examines the Federal Communica-
tions Commission and policy decisions regarding diversity for commu-
nities of color and women in the media landscape. Previous research has
appeared in the Journal of Black Studies, the International Journal of Media
& Cultural Politics, Studies in Media & Communication, and Ethnic & Racial
Studies. He is a co-editor of the volume Race and Contention in Twenty-first
Century US Media (Routledge, 2016). Additionally, he has coedited spe-
cial sections and issues in journals such as the International Journal of Com-
munication (2015) and Information, Communication & Society (2018). He
is on Twitter occasionally (@jasonsm55).
Simona Stavrova is a researcher of information studies and digital culture. Her
research focuses on how identity practices are constrained and enabled by
digital platforms, algorithms and other structural aspects of the internet.
Simona is currently working in global digital marketing in the corporate
sector. She received an MSc in Information Studies and an MA in inter-
national business communication from Aarhus University, Denmark.
Christian Rafael Suero is a doctoral student in Public Sociology and a Resi-
dent Director at George Mason University. His primary research interests
include sociology of education, inequality, first-generation college stu-

dents, as well as research methods and design.
Vanessa Amália D. Valiati has a doctorate in Communication and Informa-
tion (UFRGS), with a master’s degree in Social Communication (PUCRS)
and specialization in Culture Economy (UFRGS). She works as a Pro-
fessor in Journalism, Advertising and Audiovisual Production at Feevale
University (Novo Hamburgo/RS/Brazil), where she is also the academic
coordinator of the lato-sensu postgraduate course in Digital Content Pro-
duction and Management and collaborates with the Laboratory of Creativ-
ity. She is a member of the Laboratory of Computer-Mediated Interaction
(LIMC/UFRGS) and participates in the Observatory of Creative Economy
(OBEC-RS). Her research areas include digital consumption, creative con-
tent, creative industries, and audiences.
Jana Zündel earned her BA from Bauhaus University in Weimar, and MA
in Media Studies at the University of Bonn. She currently works as a
research fellow at Bonn University. Her dissertation deals with side phe-
nomena of television series as symptoms of diversified television. Recent
publications: Der Wandel des Fernsehens im Spiegel des Serienintros
[The transformation of television as reflected in serial intros]. Montage
AV 27(2), 2018 (forthcoming); Netflix und die Remediatisierung des
Fernsehens auf Streaming-Plattformen [Netflix and the remediation of
television on streaming platforms]. Montage AV 26(1), 2017 pp. 29−43.
NETFLIX AT THE NEXUS
Netflix’s meteoric rise as an online content provider has been well docu-
mented and much debated in the popular press and in academic circles
as an industry disrupter, while also blamed for ending TV’s “Golden Age.”
For academic researchers, Netflix exists at the nexus of multiple fields:
internet research, information studies, media studies, and television and
has an impact on the creation of culture and how individuals relate to
the media they consume. Netflix at the Nexus examines Netflix’s broad
impact on technology and television from multiple perspectives, includ-
ing the interface, the content, and user experiences. Chapters by leading
Content, Practice, and Production in

international scholars in television and internet studies provide a trans-
national perspective on Netflix’s changing role in the media landscape.
the Age of Streaming Television

As a whole, this collection provides a comprehensive consideration of
the impact of streaming television.
Theo Plothe is Assistant Professor of Journalism and Mass

Communication at Savannah State University. He received a PhD in com-
munication from American University, and his work has been published
Edited by Plothe & Buck

in G|A|M|E and Kinephanos Journal.
Amber M. Buck is Assistant Professor of English at the University

of Alabama. She received a PhD in English and writing studies from
the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign, and her work has been
published in Research in the Teaching of English and Computers and
Composition. PETER LANG

Cover design by Ming Lee
www.peterlang.com

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NETFLIX AT THE NEXUS

Content, Practice, and Production in

the Age of Streaming Television

Theo Plothe is Assistant Professor of Journalism and Mass

Edited by Plothe & Buck

Amber M. Buck is Assistant Professor of English at the University

Edited by Theo Plothe & Amber M. Buck

Content, Practice, and Production

Edited by Theo Plothe & Amber M. Buck

Bibliographic information published by Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek.

© 2019 Peter Lang Publishing, Inc., New York

All rights reserved.

List of Illustrations and Tables ix

Introduction: Netflix at the Nexus1

Section II. Content79

Section III. Viewer Practices161

Amber M. Buck and Theo Plothe

(Barrett, 2017). The company aggressively blocks VPN traffic in order to

Netflix as a Liminal Space

Contributions in the first section considers Netflix as a technology and a

audiences to more international content. These new technological systems

In the second section, we turn to an examination Netflix content, both in

Introduction: In Praise of Binge-Watching

programs which used to be broadcast periodically and interrupted by adver-

Netflix’s Business Model as a Global

requiring additional payment, Netflix’s content is universally available.

numbers inherent to network programming. Whether Netflix’s steady stream

Outlining “TV IV”: Serial Television Individualized

a competitive environment characterized by ubiquitous availability, Netflix

audiences, and the offerings of subscription channels inclined to nurture a

Bingers Preferred or: Netflix’s Model Spectator

Additionally, following the rise of so-called “quality TV” and complex

television seek to enhance “bingeing” among viewers, as in the continuous

2016, 118ff.). Further enhancing the concept of bingeing, every once in a

Conclusion: Netflix, TV IV, and the

The purpose of this chapter is to explore the infrastructure and affor-

Problematizing the Concept of Control

a desired outcome or prevent an undesired one. Our sense of control is then

quite sure if they have control or not. This incomprehensibility functions as

Control as Choice: The Netflix Narrative of

Control as a Mechanism: The On/Off

content production, which has grown significantly in recent years. Netflix’s

retain its role as a neutral intermediary, placing responsibility on the shoul-

Control as Persuasion: Netflix and “Soft Conditioning”

discipline (Foucault, 1977). There is a gentle conditioning that occurs by the

Control as a State of Being: Incomprehensibility of the

The algorithm itself is a powerful agent, but in addition, the obscurity

The Impact of the Netflix Interface

critique: As custodians of the internet (Gillespie, 2018), these platforms func-

closing, we believe that exploring Netflix through the lens of control is a

are but a few prominent examples of the spatial concentration of cultural

others. However, firms such as Amazon, Facebook, YouTube (Google), and

I begin this analysis by establishing the geographical configuration of the

advent of Netflix and other online distribution platforms is the product of

Industrial Restructuring in Two Acts

remnants of its regional influence in the Northeast. Separated by a continent,

characterized by the interplay between the industry’s oligopolistic tendencies,

New Economic Geographies of Digital Distribution

the creation of a proprietary library (“Netflix Originals”) with exclusive deals

the internet as a communications network. Online video streaming has been

legalize file-sharing in the user’s perception—who, on the contrary, is aware of

(MegaUpload, Mega, RapidShare, NowDownload, RapidGator), services

This emotional engagement is typical for informal platforms and is reshaping

List of Illustrations and Tables ix

Introduction: Netflix at the Nexus1

Section II. Content79

Section III. Viewer Practices161

There have been African A merican superheroes on our screens before—such as