The One In Which We Lose A Friend

... And contemplate the impact of THE 90s hit sitcom.

In the year 1994, audiences were introduced to six friends. Six, twenty something New Yorkers with messy love lives, massive apartments, unfathomable leisure hours, sarcastic quips, cooky opinions, and so much heart, walked onto television screens and then dominated them for 10 seasons. The same 10 seasons, since their move to online streaming platforms, have meant background work companions, Sunday night comforts, and cozy laughs, for millions of people globally. Even for some who weren’t even born when the show first made its debut with an unimpressive pilot episode and a shaky first season. There obviously is some magic in the tumultuous story of these six gorgeous people, with impeccable comedic timing, that their appeal seems to span over decades. We just cannot get over the nostalgic charm of the 90s sitcom: Friends!

On Sunday I woke up to the news that at the age of 54, Matthew Perry had passed away. Chandler Bing, possibly the most relatable, funny, sarcastic, comforting, spot-on, character to grace our television screens, was no more. This news came almost exactly a year after the publication of Perry’s candid and open memoir about his battle with addiction through the years. In the familiar cadence of the character with the impish grin himself, “Could this be any sadder?” For many, it felt like losing a personal friend. Since for many the fictional Friends of the show have been their constant companions for longer than many real friends.

I started out disgruntled at the idea that the death of a celebrity could overshadow much more pressing news about a genocide in war-torn regions. But soon something struck me, to many people Friends has been the antidote to the loneliness and doom-scrolling filled lives we currently live. It is escapism at its finest, a fantasy that is grounded enough to feel real but still untouched by the political implications of current affairs to provide a refuge. Perry’s death, and even the end to any optimism about sobriety resulting in better things for him, felt like that escape was rudely snatched away from people. It made it a little easier to see posts about Chandler Bing’s awkward, yet endearing, comments overwhelmingly populate my Instagram stories.

In an article from the Slant magazine, Greg Cwik says, “The great appeal of long running sitcoms is a sense of not being quite so alone, watching characters share moments which, by proxy, make a viewer feel like they, too, are sharing these inimitable moments.” The week-after-week affairs of the friends became a way for viewers to find vicarious companionship. Even conflicts, arguments, and even horribly dysfunctional relationships, between the friends in groups of twos and threes, didn’t stop the six friends from snapping back together like a rubber band. The success of this hopeful representation of a friendship between people, not ready to be complete adults and struggling to deal with capital L Life, was largely due to its power to mitigate the loneliness that permeated the life of its viewers.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to make all of us (I am a loyalist when it comes to what show I have playing in the background while I cook, vacuum, and go about the twenty mundane adult tasks that the characters on Friends make look so aesthetic.) sound like a sad, mopey lot. When I say that the show is a cure to the loneliness of the world, I mean it has the same appeal as a well-written dystopia. Friends, in a similar utopian/dystopian sense, has the power to pluck its viewers out of the real world and drop them on the orange sofa at Central Perk. Things go wrong in this world, but only for a few episode arch. People break up only to find their way back to each other. Friends fight each other, only to fall into each others arms, crying, at the end of the 20-minute episode. It is not a bad life to retreat into!

Friends’ lasting charm is a sign that the show has done something right. The sitcom from the late 90s and early 2000s had a formula, not entirely original because its inspirations were obvious even then, that garnered unpredicted amounts of success. For almost two decades now, shows have tried, and failed, to capture the same charm and capitalise on the popularity of Friends. But no New Girl or Happy Endings has made us return to beloved episodes (My personal list includes Monica and Chandler’s engagement, Rachel’s baby shower, every episode with Janice, to name a few.) like the witty dialogues of Rachel, Monica, Phoebe, Chandler, Joey, and Ross. I don’t think it is a magic that can ever be recreated, it is time that shows stop trying to.

But this is not to say that Friends doesn’t have its fair share of problems. In recent times, holding the sitcom to the current standards of inclusivity and sensitivity, and criticising it for not meeting them, has become the fad. However, what most of these think pieces fail to acknowledge is that the show, even though its lasting popularity may feel contradictory, is still a product of its time. It is rooted inextricably in its era. It is a piece of wish fulfilment for a particular urban, white, privileged population. Viewers have become aware of the problems in the show only after becoming more aware of the world around them. Only after the audience became more aware of the identities that existed around them, did they start noticing the ways in which the show mocked, or even ignored, those identities.

Fat Monica, the absolute disgrace of putting Courtney Cox in a fat suit and expecting the audience to laugh at the jokes directed at her, (“Someone ate Monica!”, “The camera puts on 10 pounds. - How many cameras are on you?” “Did you eat my Kitkats?”) still has the power to rub me the wrong way after being bullied for my weight as a teenager. The pop culture of the 90s was rife with similar body shaming. It is really not a surprise that we, who have grown up exposed to media from the 90s and 2000s, do not have a good relationship with our bodies. (“Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.”, Britney Spears being called fat, Kareena Kapoor’s size zero phase.) Having a positive representation and role model in a popular character like Monica on a hit show like Friends would have been life-changing. Unfortunately, we did not get that. But Monica’s character in the show is one that makes the most sense. Her controlling, and frankly compulsive, behaviours seem like a direct reaction to her former fat identity. (Her relationship with her mother does not help, either!) The character of Monica is an example of good writing, if not a very sensitive and nuanced one.

In a similar vein, Friends has received, some very well-deserved criticism for its representation of the LGBTQIA+ community. The show is homophobic and transphobic. No chance is wasted to use any gayness, or signs of femininity in men, as the punchline of a joke. The character of Chandler’s father is the worst. Ross feeling uncomfortable when his infant son, Ben, plays with a doll instead of G.I. Joe figurines, Ross feeling uncomfortable when Joey asks to kiss him to practice for a role, Ross feeling uncomfortable when they decide to hire an overqualified and frankly angelic manny for his newborn… Actually, Ross Geller himself. (But I’m going to get into that in a minute.) Every joke made on the fact that Ross’s ex-wife, Carol, is a lesbian and left him for her lesbian life partner, Susan (who I absolutely adore, by the way) makes you cringe while watching the show in 2023. Now, I am a strong supporter of the ‘Ross is the Worst’ argument. But can we blame him for being salty towards Carol? Are we forgetting that she cheated on him before springing the news that she was a lesbian and that she was pregnant almost at the same time? She paraded her partner and tried to keep Ross completely out of any decision about his child. Carol and Susan try to relegate him only to the role of a sperm-donor. And yet, the three of them form quite a good co-parenting team (even though Ben does disappear in the later seasons), and he even walks Carol down the aisle at her commitment ceremony when her parents refuse to attend the event. It’s in these moments that we have to acknowledge that despite its myriad of problems, Friends was ahead of its time.

Yes, the show is overwhelmingly white. (The only time I remember hearing the word Indian on the show is when Rachel, disgusted while changing Emma’s diaper, exclaims, “What are we feeding this child? Indian food?”) Joey and Ross both date nonwhite women but it is done without any discussions of the implications of such a pairing. Criticism regarding this move on the part of the directors is justified. But the show was on cable TV in a time when talking about it would not have been possible without it becoming a Special Episode or commentary! Today a show with all 6 main characters played by white actors would not be accepted, but how much of the decision to cast people of colour in main roles is just virtue signalling and how much of it is actual progress? (No, I am not talking about Piers Morgan’s stand on the issue.)

Now coming to the character who I, like many people out there, love to hate: Ross. (I genuinely apologise if this paragraph becomes an excuse for me to bring up all the things I find wrong with this character. At least, it’s better than me writing an entire blog just to do that!) The characters on the show are all meant to be stereotypes: Rachel is spoiled, Joey is a womaniser, Chandler is awkward and sarcastic, Phoebe is quirky, Monica is Type-A, and Ross is the ‘Nice Guy’. Even though the last one is supposed to be the only ‘positive’ trait, that’s the one that riles me up the most. Ross Geller is a representation of toxic masculinity before the term existed in popular discourse.

He is a man-child that refuses to grow up, choosing instead to stay in the comfort of his parent’s approval and coddling, hide behind his nerdiness that he blames for all of his problems even though it is responsible for his success and never seems to come in the way of him getting women, and the disguise of the ‘Nice Guy’. However, his relationship with Rachel, and frankly all the women he’s been with on the show (following Elizabeth on Spring Break, hitting on Charlie while she’s with Joey, hitting on his cousin!! Need I go on?), shatters this image pretty quickly. His jealousy when he’s with Rachel, after pining over her for decades, seems to have less to do with her relationship with Mark and more to do with the fact that she finally is succeeding in the career of her choice. (He accuses her of being a workaholic even though he took her to the museum on literally their first date!) He needs to be the saviour, the all-knowing, advice-spewing, know-it-all, older guy in his relationship. (Therefore, it is not a surprise when he decides to date Elizabeth even though he knows its objectively wrong.) He seems to judge Rachel’s decision-making even before they are together. (Ross’s disapproval of Rachel’s relationship with Paolo even before the incident with Phoebe.)

I can go on and on about my problems with Ross. (I haven’t even started on the fact that Rachel gives up her dream job to be with him, after he literally does everything to thwart her plans instead of supporting her career. You know what? Maybe I should just dedicate an entire blog to Ross Geller.) But the most annoying fact is that Ross is most static character on the show, he shows no growth even after 10 seasons. He believes his actions are right and the writers do nothing to rid him of this delusion. If Monica is an example of logically sensible writing, Ross is the exact opposite.

But despite my mini rant, the fact remains that it is unfair to hold a show that was meant for audiences of the late 90s and early 2000s to the standards of the 2020s.

The show is not meant to be an inclusive, sensitive, REAL exploration of what it means to be a twenty something in New York. It is meant to give viewers an opportunity to sink into a world where none of these concerns exist. The privileged lives of these characters is an escape because of how detached from reality they are. The lasting charm of the show is in that detachment. The characters’ reluctance to grow up, accept the consequences of their adult decisions (Ross dating a 20 year old student, Rachel dating her 25 year old assistant, Joey losing his insurance, etc.) is a relief for Millennials and Gen Zers alike. So I’ll take Chandler Bing posts taking up space and time that could have been given to conversations about Palestine because I know sooner or later people will have to return to the bleak realities of our world. In the same way that our beloved Friends had to grow up. It took them 10 seasons, a privilege none of us have. But they got there in the end and that’s what matters! (Except for Ross.) In the meanwhile, I’ll watch another episode of the show in the background, but this time pay a little more attention when Chandler’s boyish persona graces the screen.

As bonus here’s a really nice tribute to Matthew Perry’s portrayal of Chandler Bing! And it’s about one of my favourite episodes of the show.