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America, someone once said, is a nation where first-rate minds spend their time discussing second-rate movies. That person should’ve seen Netflix.
Ever since the video-on-demand service, and others like it, rearranged the rhythms of our viewing habits, television has ascended to a perch previously reserved exclusively for the furrow-browed and the ink-stained, the Tolstoys and the Henry Jameses and the Prousts. The writers. But walk among the young and cultured these days—the same types who, four or five decades ago, would’ve spent their Saturdays trading literary allusions, informed or otherwise—and all you’re likely to hear is talk of Don Draper and Walter White and that gentleman who killed the king and slept with his sister and was taken captive and whose name, like the names of all the mirthless whisperers who occupy HBO’s Game of Thrones, I’ve no intention of learning.
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