For the show that inspired me to apply for this column slot in the first place, it’s sure proved difficult to write about "Friday Night Lights" (2006-2011). Seriously — I put it off for months, hoping I’d eventually be able to pinpoint just what makes this show so damn great. But here I am at the end of another full rewatch, filled to the brim with adoration anew, yet still tongue-tied.
The understated brilliance of "Friday Night Lights" ("FNL") always catches me off-guard. When I watch this show, a 43-minute lump lodges resolutely in my throat from the first bars of the theme song, I swear time stands still.
Maybe it’s the reverence for this small, broken, post-oil boom town that permeates every shot — long drives on unending country roads, empty store windows and packed stadiums. Though its music is exquisite, maybe it’s the show’s fondness for contemplative, wistful silences.
Maybe it’s the uniquely indie-movie feel of it all: the three-camera setup, the shakiness, the eschewing of marks and soundstages in favor of unrestricted blocking in rented-out local houses. If I could be an actor on any show, I’d choose this one; trusting the cast to improvise and alter dialogue draws out amazing, subtle performances from leads and tertiary actors alike.
Or maybe it’s the patient, unflinching look at Middle America, at fatigue and limited horizons, at boys who grow up too soon and men who never will, at the women for whom this town never has space. Though never cruel for cruelty’s sake, neither does "FNL" shy away from the tough lessons its working-class young heroes learn about navigating expectations and wearing their hearts on their sleeves. Even when in later seasons we leave everything we’ve known of Dillon, the show keeps us oriented by continuing to ground itself in an exploration of masculinity. The best men remain those who f*ck up, who are let down, who face obstacles beyond their control — yet keep trying to live with clear eyes and full hearts.
Look, I get that this show isn’t perfect. Despite being set in Texas, we somehow never get a substantive Latinx character. There are kids like Devin (Stephanie Hunt), Tinker (LaMarcus Tinker) and Hastings (Grey Damon) who exist on the sidelines, waiting for storylines and focal episodes that never come. And there’s much to be said about the racialized implications of Coach (Kyle Chandler) as a surrogate father figure — particularly to talented young Black players from single-mother homes.
But despite this, "FNL" is a work of art. I may never understand why its ratings were so low or why Zach Gilford, Connie Britton, Gaius Charles and so many others didn't walk away with fistfuls of Emmys, but of this I am sure: I will catch myself rewatching this little show — in full, and with no justification other than an unshakeable feeling deep in my stomach — many more times over the course of my life.
Hidden Gem: Grantland's oral history of the show or maybe that compilation of every Tami Taylor (Britton) “y’all.”
Selectively Forget: Season two.
#RelationshipGoals: This time, it’s not just a tongue-in-cheek way to point out a cool pairing. Coach and Tami are my actual relationship goals, forever and ever amen.
'Let’s touch God'
