Kirk McKoy
/ MCT
Pam and Jim's relationship progressed steadily into flirtation and
dating, then marriage and parenthood during eight seasons of The Office.
NEW YORK—As The Office airs its series finale after nine seasons on NBC, the time feels right to salute the show that spawned it.
I’m talking, of
course, about the BBC-produced, British version of The Office, starring a
previously unknown scamp named Ricky Gervais, who also served as its
co-creator, -writer and -director.
For viewers who stumbled on that scruffy, off-kilter little comedy way back in 2001, The Office was a sensation and its doughy leading man someone clearly worth watching.
Soon it gave rise to
the NBC version, which premiered in March 2005 and concludes Thursday at
9 p.m. EDT with a 75-minute finale that will gather the cast along with
guest stars, past regulars and maybe even Steve Carell (the network
isn’t saying for sure), who left as series lead two seasons ago.
Transplanting The Office to American soil was an exacting business.
The forlorn workplace
of Wernham Hogg Paper Co. in its grey London suburb was transformed to
the not-quite-so-dreary regional branch of Dunder Mifflin Paper Co. in
Scranton, Pa.
Steve Carell was
tapped as the crisp, chirpy doofus-in-charge. His character, Michael
Scott, a man of grating foolishness, emerged as a sleeker version of
British forbear David Brent, who, as played by Gervais, was a rapacious
joke-spinning narcissist with a cajoling grin and wild delusions of
charm.
Ever eager for approval, Michael Scott saw his supervisory role as that of “a chilled-out entertainer.”
But for Brent, entertaining his minions was a sacred charge indivisible from any practical accomplishments.
“When people say
‘Would you rather be thought of as a funny man or a great boss?’,” Brent
once explained, “my answer is the same: To me, they’re not mutually
exclusive.”
With his
cringe-inducing loutishness, Brent was often painful for the viewer to
take. So was the rest of the show, where an air of desperation gnawed at
the employees, trapped as they were by their dead-end jobs and
obligatory contact with their overwhelming boss.
The British The Office
rocked viewers with just 12 half-hours soon followed by a pair of
hour-long sequels (all available on Netflix and highly recommended for
fans and newcomers alike).
By contrast, the Yank Office has always been more soft-hearted and digestible.
Consider the mating of
Pam, who began the series’ run as the sweet, wallflowerish
receptionist, with Jim, the sensitive sales rep who secretly adored her.
These characters were
direct counterparts of Dawn and Tim from the original (played by Lucy
Davis and Martin Freeman), who were cruelly kept at arm’s length until
the series’ final moments. But the relationship between Pam and Jim
(played by Jenna Fischer and John Krasinski), progressed steadily into
flirtation and dating, then marriage and parenthood, with the occasional
tiff and re-declaration of love. A major through-line for this show has
been their romance.
At the same time, the
show stayed faithful to the fundamental precept of the original series:
Here was a documentary film crew shooting wage slaves at their
workplace.
This was the device that set The Office
apart from other comedies. The original series looked like nothing that
had come before, and dared to satirize a media-beset world most people
were only beginning to acknowledge. This was 2001, which predated the
full onslaught of reality shows. There were no iPhones. Self-generated
video was in its infancy and there was still no place to put it: There
was no YouTube yet.
However exotic, the premise of The Office
resonated with the viewers’ own latent narcissism — their appetite for
playing to any camera pointed at them. The breakthrough message of The Office: We are all David Brents by way of Michael Scott.
Of course, the premise
had great comic payoff. Introducing this “meta” component gives any
comedy a self-referential streak, a postmodern knowingness that can be
mined for laughs. Characters can step outside the action to react for
the camera (and the audience beyond) with a grin or wink or roll of the
eyes. Characters directly addressing the camera provide a forum for
bonus wisecracks. No wonder within a few years, the “mockumentary”
format was adopted by Parks and Recreation and Modern Family.
Except these days, unlike in 2001 when The Office
was born, being caught on TV is a normal state for all of us. Everyone
is liable to be on TV most any time or place, if only from surveillance
cameras planted everywhere. We are routinely exposed and exposing
ourselves.
At the end of last week’s episode, the gang from The Office
was happy (if nervous) about seeing the results of their years of
exposure by the documentary crew: Arrayed in front of TVs at a local
bar, they were about to watch The Office: An American Workplace as it finally hit the air.
But simply being on camera isn’t always enough.
It hasn’t been nearly
enough for Andy Bernard. Ignoring the advice of his Dunder Mifflin
colleagues, Andy recently resigned his job as a Scranton regional
manager to chase his fantasy of show-biz stardom.
As played by Ed Helms,
Andy is a chap of unrivaled stupidity and cluelessness even in this
crowd of oddballs. But he spoke eloquently for a fame-obsessed culture
as he prepared to leave the office in pursuit of his dreams.
“Every minute that I
spend here,” he told his co-workers, “is time NOT spent making audition
videos for reality, dating, cooking or singing shows. I am pursuing fame
of any kind. I owe it to myself and my future fans.”
Trouble is, in this
media-glutted world, Andy’s “future fans,” whoever they might be, are
probably consumed with finding fame of their own.
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