JUST LIKE IN A SERIES

In recent years, television series have evolved from a rare form of entertainment into one of the primary cultural products of our time. Every day, millions of people spend hours in front of their screens, following the fates of fictional characters. Plotlines are discussed on social media, quotes go viral across the internet, and characters become role models. However, alongside the rising popularity of these series, a question increasingly arises: what values are they conveying? For an adult, a series might remain mere entertainment, but teenagers and young viewers find themselves in a different position. It is at this age that perceptions of love, dignity, strength, and success are formed. Young people look for models of behaviour—and they often find them on the screen. When screen heroes commit destructive acts without facing serious consequences, it sends a dangerous cultural signal: this is an acceptable way to live.

When evil ceases to be evil

There was a time when artistic works—books, films, and theatrical productions—could depict tragedy, crime, or human weakness, yet ultimately maintain a moral perspective. The viewer understood exactly where the line between good and evil was drawn. Today, this boundary is increasingly blurred. Looking back, it becomes particularly evident how much the very nature of mass screen art has changed. Only a few decades ago, audiences delighted in the witty comedies of Leonid Gaidai and Eldar Ryazanov. Their films were funny, yet behind the humour always lay an observation of human nature, an irony regarding weaknesses, and a subtle sense of proportion. French and Italian comedies—light, elegant, and built on the interplay of characters and situations—were also on the screens. Laughter there did not stem from rudeness or scandal, but from intelligence and a precise understanding of human relationships, where the plot's climax ultimately led to mercy and nobility.

This was long ago, yet television offered serious works. For instance, the series The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson forced the viewer to reflect alongside the hero, seek logical connections, and observe details, while the multi-episode film Seventeen Moments of Spring became a benchmark for intellectual television drama. It was not built on scandals or sensations—tension was created through thought, psychology, and the internal struggle of the characters. The audience was invited not just to feel, but to think.

Today, the situation on our screens has changed significantly. Most mainstream series are built on a different principle: a maximum number of conflicts, scandals, betrayals, and dramatic twists in the minimum amount of time. If previously the viewer's attention was held by wit, character depth, and dialogue, today it is shock, sensation, and emotional intensity. This does not mean that the modern industry has completely lost talent and depth; good films and series still emerge. However, the general cultural background has shifted noticeably: intellectual play increasingly gives way to emotional provocation.

In modern series, a hero might beat a relative, set fire to a house, or ruin someone else's life—and yet remain the central character with whom the viewer is encouraged to sympathise. Furthermore, the surrounding characters continue to love and forgive them. A person may commit grave transgressions, but within the family, they remain the "beloved son-in-law" or the "dear daughter-in-law". Thus, the idea is subtly instilled in the viewer: serious misdeeds do not necessarily result in serious consequences.

Another equally noticeable trend is the aestheticisation of the criminal world. The image of a crime boss, a mafia head, or an influential criminal is increasingly presented as charismatic and attractive. He may be cruel, yet noble; a dangerous killer, yet romantic; stern, yet involved in charity and deeply loving. Such a character turns into a hero who evokes sympathy, and sometimes even admiration. As a result, strength and power begin to be perceived as sufficient justification for any behaviour.

Limitless love

Modern serialised stories increasingly present destructive relationships as a natural expression of feelings. One can calmly take someone else's husband or wife—after all, "the heart wants what it wants". Personal pride, a sense of responsibility toward others, and respect for someone else's family—all this is gradually disappearing from the drama. Emotion alone takes centre stage. Love becomes a justification for any action.

This is often explained by a new trend: childhood trauma. Explaining away any of a person's destructive actions has become a distinct cultural trend. Is the hero cruel? He had a difficult childhood. Does the heroine destroy someone else's family? She was unloved in the past. Is a character aggressive? They were once offended. Undoubtedly, psychological traumas do affect a person. However, in modern drama, this explanation is increasingly turning into an excuse. Instead of a conversation about responsibility, the viewer is simply invited to pity the hero. Tragedy is transformed into an indulgence.

The attention economy

To understand the reasons for this trend, it is necessary to look at how the entertainment industry itself has changed. We live in an era of continuous content production. Television channels and digital platforms release a vast number of series, striving to hold the viewer's attention for as long as possible. In this system, what matters most is not the author's moral position, but the story's ability to make the viewer watch the next episode. Attention is most easily captured by extreme emotions: scandal, betrayal, aggression, crime, and forbidden love. Consequently, the drama becomes increasingly sharp and provocative.

There is also another important factor—television economics. Modern series are closely linked to the advertising market. The higher a series' rating, the more expensive the advertising time around it. For television channels, a successful series becomes a true source of income. Each episode means new commercial breaks, new contracts with brands, and new millions. As a result, projects often continue to be filmed even when the plot has long been exhausted. The story is stretched over dozens or hundreds of episodes because each one brings in advertising revenue, even if the content has worn thin and there is practically nothing left to film.

Advertising is increasingly integrated directly into the action. Heroes use specific brands, eat certain foods, and drive particular cars. A series becomes not just a story, but a platform for promoting goods and a lifestyle.

Thus, an artistic work gradually turns into a component of a large advertising machine.

How to counter the trend

Today, when viewers watch almost nothing on television except series—as the smartphone has replaced all other sources of information—the serialised screen has become one of society's primary educators. It has so happened that, in the absence of a reading culture, it is the serial phenomenon that now shapes perceptions of love and betrayal, strength and weakness, and what is or is not permissible.

It is important for the viewer to remember: the modern series is increasingly created not as a moral guide, but as a product of the attention industry—an industry where the main goal is not truth or education, but keeping the audience between commercial breaks. This is why it is so important today to restore the viewer's habit of comparison. We must remember that the screen can do more than just entertain; it can also develop—forcing one to reflect, doubt, and seek meaning.

After all, culture becomes profound not when it simply evokes emotions, but when it compels a person to think. It is impossible, and probably unnecessary, to ban series. However, society must regain a culture of meaningful viewing. Parents are simply duty-bound to watch serious intellectual films with their children during family cinema sessions. It is vital to discuss what has been seen with teenagers, explain the characters' motives, and talk about the consequences of actions. It is important to return books, classic cinema, and works where moral conflict does not disappear behind a flashy image to the cultural space. And most importantly—to restore the viewer's habit of thinking.

It is time to understand that a strong culture does not begin with prohibitions. It begins with a person's internal filter—the ability to distinguish drama from manipulation, depth from cheap shock, and artistic truth from a commercial construct.

Perhaps the greatest challenge of our time lies exactly in this: learning to watch again without losing one's own moral vision. For a society that ceases to distinguish the boundary between good and evil on the screen risks, sooner or later, losing that boundary in real life.