The value of art can't be listed, measured, graded, or ranked... and we need to stop pretending it can be

This might or might not be the greatest movie of all time. That's up to you to decide.

The New York Times recently released its list of the 100 greatest television shows of the 21st century. In case you haven't read it yet, here's a spoiler: it's pointless, meaningless horse manure. Judging by my social media feed the last couple of days, people seem to have forgotten that. There is a widespread delusion that The New York Times is somehow "in charge" of which shows are important or worth watching. 

Reality check: It isn't. You are. You, the person reading this article now, get to decide which are the greatest TV shows of this century. The ones you watch, the ones you like, the ones that mean something to you—those are the greatest. Never ever lose sight of that. The New York Times doesn't know diddly. They can't. It's unknowable. You can only know which shows you think are the greatest; you don't get to decide for anyone else.

There's a British film magazine called Sight and Sound published by the BFI since 1952. Every ten years, they release a list of the greatest films of all time. In the most recent one from 2022, the winner was Chantal Akerman's deliberately slow and methodical art film Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles (1975). Many disagreed with this choice, and they expressed their anger in various articles and videos. Bizarrely, their wrath was largely aimed at Akerman's film, as if the movie had arrogantly elected itself the greatest of all time. Instead, the haters should have been angry with a stupid system that dupes us into thinking that the Sight and Sound poll is somehow meaningful. It's not. It's just the fancy version of an internet listicle. 

Podcast Tuesday: "It's an Honor Not to be Nominated"

Ted McGinley and Henry Winkler on Happy Days.

I can't say that I've won a lot of awards in my time. If I owned a trophy case -- and I don't because I still have a shred of sanity left -- it would largely be empty. I remember being a kid and feeling unreasonably jealous of those classmates who received perfect attendance medals at the end of the school year. That seemed so unfair to me. Why should I be punished simply for getting sick a couple of times? It's not like I chose to be contagious! 

My grades were generally fine, if not spectacular, and I was a total washout at sports. So I didn't win awards as a kid, and I continue not to win them as an adult. I'm a little bitter about that, sure, but I think I keep my bitterness to a reasonable level. It occupies maybe one-eighth of one percent of my brain, about as much as my irritation with hangnails.

Didn't Sally Field speak for all of us?

I think this matter of awards is significantly more important to those in show business. After all, if you're an entertainer, your job depends on receiving support, praise, and encouragement from the public and the press. Even Lady Gaga admitted to all of us that she lives for the applause. When people stop applauding for you, that can be devastating. People go mad from it. (See Sunset Blvd.) Entertainers' self-image is dependent upon what others think of them. So, yeah, they're going to want every Oscar, Emmy, Grammy, and Tony they can get their hands on. We all snickered at Sally Field for her infamous "you like me!" speech at the Academy Awards, but isn't it true? 

Receiving one of those industry awards may be even better than applause. It means that you're not only liked but respected. And if you're in an industry where a great deal is subjective -- since no one can ever definitively prove what's "good" or "bad" in art -- awards are as crucial as TV ratings or box office receipts. They're as close as you can get to objective, verifiable evidence of your success. Awards may be unfair or political or arbitrary, but they're also permanent. If you win one of those major industry awards, it becomes part of your story. It'll be mentioned when you die. It becomes part of the historical record, etched in stone.

Happy Days did quite well in the ratings for about seven of its eleven seasons. In addition, it had a long and prosperous second life in reruns and generated a fair share of merchandising revenue. So it was liked, but it was not respected. The reviews ranged from middling to hostile (I found one article from the '70s that called the modest sitcom "everything that's wrong with television"), and the show won one measly Emmy in eleven seasons. And that was for editing!

The eighth season episode "And the Winner Is..." deals directly with the matter of awards. The plot has a desperate Fonzie (Henry Winkler) campaigning vigorously but fruitlessly for the Teacher of the Year (or TOTY) award at Jefferson High. Not only does he not win the award, he's not even nominated. It's easy to read this episode as Happy Days' response to the Emmys. Family Guy and It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia also did episodes about their failure to win these coveted awards. Happy Days ultimately comes to the conclusion that awards, while nice, don't really matter. What matters is knowing that you're doing good work.

Is it a convincing argument? Find out when we review "And the Winner is..." on the latest installment of These Days Are Ours: A Happy Days Podcast. And if there are any TV podcast awards we could possibly win, please nominate us.