We “Other Victorians”? - Specialized Research AI at MIT

We “Other Victorians”?
Novelistic Remains, Therapeutic Devices,
Contemporary Televisual Dramas

Rey Chow & Austin Sarfan

In reference to the work of Michel Foucault and to residual Victorian novelistic
features, this essay explores the biopolitical dimension of contemporary televisu-
al dramas, focusing on the popular crime genre as seen in The Sopranos (1999–
2007), Breaking Bad (2008–2013), and The Fall (2013–2016). Emphasizing
the confessional context of criminality and policing, we demonstrate how such
shows rely on the conventions of modern psychological discourse in depicting crim-
inals, thus foregrounding what Eva Illouz in Saving the Modern Soul (2008)
has called the “therapeutic emotional style.” By updating aspects of D. A. Miller’s
conception of the policing plot in The Novel and the Police (1988), we argue that
confession in contemporary televisual dramas exemplifies a cultural transition from
power as force to power as communication. The ascendance of communicative
power pathologizes aspects of masculinity and introduces a new dramatic/narra-
tive device: the therapeutic couplet.

N ear the end of the acclaimed TV serial drama Breaking Bad, Walter White,

the chemistry-teacher-turned-methamphetamine-manufacturer, ques-
tioned by his wife as to why he has pursued such a self-destructive en-
terprise, memorably announces: “I did it for me. I liked it.”1 This defiantly joyous
response to what amounts to a demand for his confession–a demand that his wife
makes throughout the series in the form of repeated questioning of his behavior–
is significant in ways that go beyond this one popular show. The relation between
a protagonist’s enigmatically transgressive acts and the demand–personal, famil-
ial, social, metaphysical–for his accounting for them constitutes a type of dra-
matic and narrative scene that furnishes a thought-provoking intermedial con-
nection between the contemporary televisual serial drama and well-known ele-
ments of the canonized novel.

At one level, of course, such a connection between the older and newer forms
can be quite easily established. Among the connective features is, first and fore-
most, the serial format, recalling the time in centuries past when some now- classic

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novels, by authors such as Alexandre Dumas père, Charles Dickens, Wilkie Collins,
Fyodor Dostoevsky, and their contemporaries, began as periodic installments in
newspapers or magazines. With that format comes the important feature of an
episodic development of narrative plots and events. The considerable duration of
such episodic development allows for a detailed embellishment of characters and
the everyday trivia and social relations around them. (This is one reason the con-
temporary televisual dramas are not exactly formal successors to film, the brevity
of which tends to dictate the modes of narrativization and dramatization peculiar
to it.) Also noteworthy is the centrality of dialogue, indeed, of verbal exchange
itself (including the regularity of subtitles on those shows involving multiple lan-
guages, so that audiences are, literally, reading words on the screen as they watch a
story unfold). Not infrequently, in cultures with long-standing literary traditions,
some televisual dramas are based on actual novels (such as Bailuyuan, Wo de qian-
bansheng, Renmin de mingyi and numerous other series in the People’s Republic of
China and Call the Midwife in the United Kingdom) and sometimes adopt the con-
vention of a narrator in the form of a voiceover.

These obvious links to novels aside, televisual serial dramas are exemplary of
an age when an immersed engagement with a fictive or illusory world is a matter
of individual option, the times and manners of entry into and exit from that world
typically dependent on the viewer’s location, mobility, and other preferences. Just
as printed materials can be carried around and read in solitude during travel, in
public places, or at home, so can televisual dramas (once beyond their first runs)
be streamed or downloaded on laptops, tablets, and smartphones, in addition to
being watched as DVDs or through smart devices on television screens. Techno-
logical and commercial advancements, in other words, combine to turn the mere
presentation of a story into a potentially endless viewing experience, through an
endlessly generative process of choices. In this multiplicities-driven, transnation-
al engagement with fiction, it is tempting to argue that televisual serial dramas are
spectacular updates to novels. These dramas recycle and repurpose a cultural form
that, for some, has become something of a relic (one whose rise corresponded in
time with the rising hegemony of the bourgeoisie in the West, broadly defined).2
In so doing, they bring to the fore “novelistic” attributes that might have escaped
attention before and that are now noticeable in a newer, cross-medial ecology of
fiction production and consumption.

Some of these televisual dramas are absorbing endeavors to represent specific
historical periods. The first three seasons of Babylon Berlin (2017–present), for in-
stance, capture Weimar German society just a few years before 1934, the year that
marked the rise of Adolf Hitler. Xuanya/Cliff (2012) portrays a variety of actors
in the city of Harbin–including underground Chinese communist spies pretend-
ing to collaborate with the Japanese-controlled Manchukuo regime, exiles from
the Soviet Union plotting to assassinate Stalin, and fascistic representatives of

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150 (1) Winter 2021Rey Chow & Austin Sarfan

the Chinese Republican police state–during the politically tense period of 1939–
1945. Or we watch portrayals of clandestine communist activities and emotion-
ally charged social relations in Villeneuve, a village near Paris, under the collabo-
rationist Vichy French government, during the years 1941–1945 and decades be-
yond in A French Village (2009–2017). Alternatively, the sociopolitical events in
England are presented by way of its imperial figureheads of governance as they
travel around the British Commonwealth (The Crown, 2016–present), by way of
religious and medical caretakers of lower-class English families (Call the Mid-
wife, 2012–present), or by way of the blood-stained saga of an ethnically marked
(gypsy) mafia family as it establishes its fortune and standing in Birmingham
(Peaky Blinders, 2013–present). There are also the depictions of a charismat-
ic woman prime minister and her coalition government in contemporary Den-
mark (Borgen, 2010–2013), and a charismatic woman secretary of state and her
diplomatic maneuvers in the fraught relations between the contemporary Unit-
ed States and different countries around the world (Madam Secretary, 2014–2019).
The historic success of these shows requires a full-fledged study documenting
the impact of their viewer ratings as well as the cultural nuances of their national
and international receptions. (For instance, what do we make of the fact that many
of the Chinese shows are freely available on YouTube and other platforms, while
other shows are available only through paid portals such as Netflix and Amazon
Prime?) While such a study is obviously beyond the scope of this essay, what we
would like to undertake instead is a sketch of the thematic connections between
televisual serial dramas and novels by way of a set of pronounced characteristics.
Owing to the necessity for captivating and prolonging audience attention
across episodes, narratives of serial television find support through the indefinite
development of characters, inscribing the form within a horizon of biopolitics.3
While there is an elective affinity between the relative brevity of film and narrative
plots organized around the intensity of shocks typical of action and horror genres,
the serial form in contemporary television has, in contrast, been notably success-
ful through plots organized around the slower pacing of character development.
As a means to keep alive interest in characters’ struggles for self-realization, therapy
has emerged as a recurring motif. In fact, a surprising number of contemporary
televisual dramas associated with the “Golden Age” of TV feature therapy as a
key component, including The Sopranos (1999–2007), Mad Men (2007–2015), and
Breaking Bad (2008–2013). This recurrence of the therapeutic also suggests an in-
creasing deployment of the unconscious as a narrative agent, as in the many ep-
isodes depicting Tony Soprano’s dreams in The Sopranos, or the lengthy specula-
tions on Paul Spector’s coma in The Fall (2013–2016).

This psychic approach to character leads to a paradox in contemporary televi-
sion’s narrative form: specifically, a kind of double-bind regarding narrative clo-
sure. For how can a narrative form that consists in prolonging character develop-

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Dædalus, the Journal of the American Academy of Arts & SciencesWe “Other Victorians”?

ment also provide a satisfying dramatic resolution? On the one hand, a concrete
resolution obviously violates the potential for further episodic development, and
yet, on the other hand, a conclusion that gestures toward further development is
abandoning the traditional function of an ending. This double-bind regarding
narrative closure informs the dissatisfaction that contemporary audiences have
been known to express when faced with the endings of many series. As Slavoj
Žižek notes in an editorial about viewers’ dissatisfaction with the conclusion to
the HBO series Game of Thrones (2011–2019), contemporary audiences desire from
their serial plots endless continuity.4 Žižek writes, “In our epoch of series which in
principle could go on indefinitely, the idea of narrative closure becomes intolera-
ble.”5 At the very least, this raises an interesting question about the biopoliticality
of form: in the era of online debate and fan fiction, could one not measure a series’
success in terms of its ability to polarize and inflame sentiments, thus deepening,
multiplying, and extending the life of narrative elements?

Often already banking on reboots or sequels, conclusions to televisual dramas
can seem overburdened with the biopolitical conventions of televisual seriality.
This is recognizable in endings that simply suggest the series’ potential contin-
uation. As Brett Martin writes in his history of the “television revolution”: “In
the new world of television . . . there may be nothing more unnatural than an end-
ing. In a perfect TV world, no door shuts forever, no show ever dies.”6 The famous
last episode of The Sopranos confronts this formal requirement for continuity over
ending directly: the series concludes by suspending any sense of resolution, as
the final shot–an ordinary family evening at a diner–abruptly cuts to black, pro-
viding no information as to how or whether the lethal plot on Tony’s life, in the
works for seasons, might come to an end. Legend has it that many viewers wrong-
ly interpreted this conclusion as a disruption of their cable service, misrecogniz-
ing the more immediate narrative possibility that Tony Soprano’s struggles just
might carry on without us.7 In this sense, the ending to The Sopranos also recalls
The Wire’s handling of the double-bind of contemporary narrative closure, by
dissolving each season’s characters into a greater, subsequently networked sto-
ry about Baltimore. Should we be surprised that, incidentally, The Sopranos itself
is soon to become sequentialized postmortem in Many Saints of Newark (forth-
coming 2021), or that Breaking Bad has found yet another sequence in the recent El
Camino: A Breaking Bad Movie (2019)?

If these narratives specialize in the biopolitical extension of character devel-
opment, tension can result when character development–aimed at keeping audi-
ence attention–intersects with the sensationalizing of violence that may be iden-
tified as another common feature of televisual dramas. According to Martin, in
the Golden Age of American television (inaugurated, in his view, by The Sopra-
nos), “It would no longer be safe to assume that everything on your favorite tele-
vision show would turn out alright–or even that the worst wouldn’t happen.”8

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150 (1) Winter 2021Rey Chow & Austin Sarfan

The sensationalized violence now common to plots of Golden Age television can
be traced to the acclaimed “College” episode of The Sopranos, in which Tony gar-
rotes a stalking hitman as his daughter Meadow, in classic fulfillment of the im-
migrant family’s class aspirations, interviews at a nearby college.9 Reportedly, the
producers of the show originally resisted fully depicting the shocking murder on
the grounds that doing so would be distasteful for viewers; but ultimately, they in-
cluded it. In retrospect, the graphic scene of Tony’s killing of the hitman was not
only acclaimed as a watershed in The Sopranos’ signature sensationalism, it also
announced a shift in the televisual aesthetics of violence.10 Henceforth, even the
worst of human behavior is subject to narration in complex serial plots that engage
viewers by plausibly developing the lives of infamously transgressive characters.

G enerally speaking, the serial format is conducive to representing–indeed,

it virtually requires–narrative plots in which a dialogic relationship be-
tween the known and unknown obtains a pivotal role, as in the example
of detective fiction. The suspense resulting from this relationship between known
and unknown elements, which facilitates readers’ and viewers’ engagement
across episodes, underwrites the indispensability of what could be called, after
D. A. Miller’s The Novel and the Police, a “policing plot,” whether in the case of the
novel or in the case of televisual serial drama.11 In the latter, such a plot combines
themes from detective and romance fiction: both crime and desire can become
objects of episodic investigation, but such an investigation is typically integrated
in a complicated story of personal development, often fleshed out in a therapeu-
tic process, as in Tony Soprano’s visits to his psychiatrist, Dr. Melfi, or in Walter
White’s treatment for lung cancer in Breaking Bad. Therapy, insofar as it is a social-
ly legitimate site for the verbalization of thinking, recurs frequently in televisual
plots of self-development. As a milieu of talk, therapy in these shows effectively
functions as a form of novelistic self-narration that would otherwise be difficult to
capture on screen.

The policing plot centers on a protagonist’s practical and social control of his
self-development by clinical means. The conceptual question that follows is whether
such policing leads to increased transparency or increased opacity–and for whom. In the
major examples mentioned thus far, a male protagonist’s need to monitor the pro-
cess of his self-development leads the story line to revolve around his increasingly
secretive relationship with stages in a clinical process that is supposed to help him
feel better. In The Sopranos, Tony’s visits to Dr. Melfi’s office, where he is tasked
with baring his all under the promise of therapist-client privilege (when for the
most part this confession is encouraged by his wife, Carmela), are nonetheless
considered by his associates to be damaging evidence of his emasculation, making
him unsuitable for running a criminal mafia organization. In the end, it is Tony’s
own interest in policing his self-development that makes him try to preserve the

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Dædalus, the Journal of the American Academy of Arts & SciencesWe “Other Victorians”?

secrecy of his visits to Dr. Melfi. In a comparable fashion, in Breaking Bad, Walt’s
secretiveness, manifesting in a disavowal of his cancer and an aversion to clinical
treatment, takes the palpable form of a self-designed policing plot: motivated by
his own sense of alchemical mastery, he succeeds in keeping his terminal illness
secret from the criminal enterprise that employs him, thereby obscuring his own
inability to maintain his monopoly and defend against competitors.

As evident in these examples, the policing plot renders crime as an allegorical
test of masculinity; as this plot unravels, the therapeutic process becomes, in turn,
symbolic of androgenization, if not effeminization, and hence a counterpoint to
the macho criminal enterprise. For these reasons, the domestic space of the fam-
ily often emerges as a charged, antagonistic arena in which masculine aggression
(crime) and feminine risk management (care) are showcased and rationalized,
yet rarely reconciled.12 This said, the wives (Carmela in The Sopranos and Skyler
in Breaking Bad) are actually integral to the activity of the policing circle: name-
ly, those accomplices, witting or unwitting, for whom the crimes are, in Miller’s
words, an “open secret.”13 As The Sopranos progresses, Carmela establishes herself
as a role model of mafia-wife secrecy for Tony’s young daughter, Meadow, and in
Breaking Bad, Skyler mobilizes her accounting expertise to orchestrate Walt’s mon-
umental money laundering operation. In the British televisual series The Fall, set in
Belfast, these relatively clear-cut positions of masculinity and femininity, of crime
and care, are clouded by an alternative kind of pairing: Paul Spector, the Irish serial
killer of attractive young professional women, is himself a bereavement counsel-
or (and thus a care provider), while his nemesis, the authority figure charged with
the responsibility of catching him, is Stella Gibson, a charismatic English female
police superintendent. In this case, because the officially therapeutic–that is, fem-
inized–position has been preempted by the male predator himself, Stella, while
performing her task as the police, structurally doubles up as the unofficial psycho-
therapist, determined as she is to get to the bottom of Paul’s repeated killings by
tracking the mental designs behind them. The series is staged in such a way as to lit-
erally merge the policing plot and the therapeutic process: Stella “gets” what each
of Paul’s moves means both through her policing expertise with criminal behavior
and her empathetic understanding of his psychic maneuvers. By contrast, Paul’s
wife, a neonatal nurse, is for a long time kept in the dark about his deeds. As she
busies herself with her job and her young children, the wife may be regarded as an
unwitting keeper of Paul’s secret within the bounds of their domestic partnership.
In charting feminine care’s struggle to reform the masculine criminal, the po-
licing plots in these televisual dramas stage the rise of what Eva Illouz in her book
Saving the Modern Soul: Therapy, the Emotions and the Culture of Self-Help calls the
“therapeutic emotional style” of late modernity.14 Formalized and reproduced
in psychological discourse, usually with an emphasis on ideas such as empathy
and communication, the therapeutic emotional style has been instrumental to

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150 (1) Winter 2021Rey Chow & Austin Sarfan

the consolidation of the middle class in postindustrial Western society. As such,
emotions are rationalized in terms of their value as capital, which is informed by
the demand for efficient interpersonal labor in a service economy. According to
Illouz, the therapeutic emotional style is organized principally around the con-
cept of emotional control. As conceived by the psychology of management, emo-
tional control simultaneously involves restraint and facilitates communication,
with both motivated by an interest in efficiency. That is to say, emotional control
requires tempering intense emotions (such as anger) that threaten to decompose
interpersonal relationships. Such control also produces the very conditions for
empathy, since restraint supposedly makes it possible to interact with others. The
rise of this therapeutic emotional style means that criminal secrecy within the po-
licing plot is now subject to new pressures: the confessing person at once risks
incrimination and benefits, as it were, by displaying adaptation to the virtues of
communication.

In its successful popularization of control, the therapeutic emotional style has,
arguably, brought about a transformation of “the cultural definition of power.”15
Departing from the traditionally masculine conception of power as force–or, in
Michel Foucault’s words, as the sovereign power to take life (represented by the
sword)–the therapeutic emotional style correlates power instead with the abili-
ty to restrain oneself, to talk things through, and, most important, to empathize
with others. This new cultural definition of power not only remakes “models of
sociability” (as in the case of the emotionally controlled workplace) but also “re-
draw[s] the cognitive and practical emotional boundaries regulating gender dif-
ferences.”16 Specifically, the therapeutic model, in advocating control, redefines
social interaction through the “feminization of emotional culture.”17 In Illouz’s
words, “the ideal of self-control mark[s] a clear departure from traditional defi-
nitions of hegemonic masculinity, understood as a model prescribing men to be
self-reliant, aggressive, competitive, oriented to mastery and dominance, emo-
tionless, and, when necessary, ruthless.”18 By pathologizing the ideals of hegemon-
ic masculinity against a new emotional style of cooperative communication, ther-
apeutic discourse thus encourages the coming of a “new form of masculinity more
compatible with ‘feminine’ models of selfhood . . . viewed by the reigning thera-
peutic ethos as the only healthy form of masculinity.”19 In the televisual dramas
considered here, the conflict between pathological (hegemonic) masculinity, on
the one hand, and healthy (feminized) masculinity, on the other, structures the
male criminal’s eventual reconciliation with the family, whose interests are rep-
resented by the joint agencies of the wife, children, close relatives, police, and
therapist.

To this extent, contemporary televisual dramas have incorporated the policing
plot, and in particular the trope of secrecy, in what we propose as a cultural form’s
staging of the new therapeutic style. In this staging, criminal secrecy signifies not

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Dædalus, the Journal of the American Academy of Arts & SciencesWe “Other Victorians”?

the integrity of a criminal enterprise but rather its failure. Hence, what marks
the masculine criminal in these televisual dramas is his increasing obligation to
negotiate with what Illouz calls the “only healthy form of masculinity,” as cit-
ed above. In The Sopranos, Tony must learn the reflexive art of self-control in his
sessions with Dr. Melfi, and her lessons in the therapeutic style resonate in the
background of the show’s final season, as escalating violence forces Tony to a
“sit-down” during which he negotiates the terms of a truce between warring fam-
ilies. In Breaking Bad, Walt’s effeminate and even hyper-controlled manner pro-
vides the perfect, healthy cover for his enterprise, in sharp contrast to emotional-
ly explosive criminals like Tuco Salamanca. It also signals his adaptability to the
more powerful international corporation, Madrigal, whose criminal operations
are spearheaded by the similarly poised mastermind Gus Fring. (In fact, the actor
Giancarlo Esposito credits his regular yoga practice for generating Gus’s signature
emotionally controlled style.)20 In these examples, through the reiterated trope
of the criminal-molded-by-the-therapeutic-style, televisual serial dramas capture
in a fascinating manner the cultural transition from one model of social power to
another.

E ven as they use the television screen as their platform, these examples of

contemporary televisual dramas also bear intimate linkage to classic in-
stances of the modern novel. We think in particular of Fyodor Dosto-
yevsky, Joseph Conrad, Ford Madox Ford, Vladimir Nabokov, Albert Camus, and
John Fowles, among others, in whose works the ostensible manifestation of un-
speakable crimes often goes hand in hand with another manifestation: namely,
an endeavor to talk, to tell stories, to fabricate a collective or socially acceptable
rationale to make sense of what happened. These twin manifestations are not a
universal feature of televisual dramas about criminality: shows such as The Prac-
tice (1997–2004), L.A. Law (1986–1994), NYPD Blue (1993–2005), Law and Order
(1990–2010), and Oz (1997–2003), while partaking of a similar orientation to-
ward crime and punishment, do not narrate consciousness in a psychological
fashion (as is the hallmark of the next wave of television serials beginning with
The Sopranos) and rather come across as attempts to spotlight the penal investi-
gative infrastructure of contemporary society. Because of their more straightfor-
ward emphasis on the policing actions of capture, investigation, and punishment,
these shows tend to proceed through the repetition of a certain formula episode
after episode, so that the audience knows more or less what to expect in terms
of the structuring of events even while the contents of events vary. With shows
such as The Sopranos, Breaking Bad, and The Fall, on the other hand, the presence
of at least one figure, typically female, designed with the function of empathetic
reception, signals a different kind of narrative and dramatic loop, the playing-out

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of which requires not only the solving of crime but also, more important, an inter-
locutor, respondent, and psychic accomplice to the criminal.

Insofar as the therapeutic process in these televisual dramas concerns the emo-
tional reformation of subjects, especially the production of new masculinities, it
is possible to align such shows’ use of confession with the novelistic convention
of spirituality, in Foucault’s sense of “the search, practice, and experience through
which the subject carries out the necessary transformations on himself in order to
have access to the truth.”21 The practice of spirituality, thus broadly defined, in-
volves a process of transformative retrospection that accounts for the formal resem-
blance between televisual and novelistic narrative. In their emphasis on the change
of subjects through therapeutic regimes of truth, televisual dramas refashion con-
ventions from the “long tradition of self-analytic retrospection in the novel” in lit-
erary theorist Dorrit Cohn’s phrase.22 For Cohn, this tradition consists in attempts
to narrate originally obscure forms of experience, such as the “lost time” of Marcel
Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu, or the “heart of darkness” of Conrad’s titu-
lar novel. As examples of self-analytic reflections, these narratives are organized
around “the retrospective cognition of an inner life that cannot know itself at the
instant of experience.”23 In both modern novels and television serials, what is ep-
isodically dramatized is, we might say, the relationship between an “experiencing
self” and a “narrating self,” as defined by their modes of cognition (or access to
truth). Yet between the novel form and televisual serial form, the characterization
of these two selves differs in fundamental ways. While the dynamic of retrospec-
tion in many novels tends to resemble autobiography in its focus on self-analysis
(as in Jane’s account of her life in Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre or Marcel’s remem-
brance of his past in Proust’s Recherche), in contemporary televisual dramas, retro-
spection tends to pass through the external authority of “narrating” experts (as in To-
ny’s dependence on his therapist for self-knowledge). In televisual dramas, more-
over, the power of narration is often embodied by feminine experts of therapeutic
care, who provide a diagnostic and explanatory language for masculine experience.
We suggest that this splitting of narration and experience between two different
individuals, masculine and feminine, may be seen as a reification–and a retrofit-
ting–of Victorian conventions of gendering domesticity.

Frederick Karl’s description of spirituality in the modern novel provides some
suggestive guidance at this juncture. Basing his discussion on an overview of spir-
ituality in writings from different historical periods, Karl comments that modern
spiritual novels deploy “the intensity of spiritual crises within the framework of
realistic characters, real places, more or less sequential narratives.” This, he says,
is in contrast to earlier versions of spiritual autobiography, which “tended to con-
tain imaginary characters in imaginary locales: middle states of consciousness
and behavior.” According to Karl, the presence of a realistic frame of reference in
modern spiritual novels means that “the protagonists’ problems, whatever their

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kind, do not exist solely as intense episodes or brief periods. They must now be
integrated into his life as a whole.”24 A consequence of the emergence of this par-
adigm of a modernized, supposedly integrated spirituality is that spiritual crises now
tend to manifest through the middle-class domestic sphere, which becomes the
predominant site for recurrent emotional breakdowns. This is perhaps one reason
the protagonists in question tend to be family men: husbands and fathers. In fact,
both the first episodes of The Sopranos and Breaking Bad begin with a married guy
fainting in the presence of family symbols (ducklings for Tony, an RV for Walt).
As a catalyst for seeking therapy, such fainting directs attention to how the fam-
ily is integrated within the horizon of spiritual development. As it occurs in con-
temporary televisual dramas, this process of spiritual development indeed differs,
as Karl suggests, from chronologically earlier versions, such as are depicted by
Athanasius in The Life of St. Anthony. In that work, spirituality for Anthony (unlike
the cases of Tony and Walt) rests on a distancing from, rather than intimate en-
tanglement with, the family. Thus, the first signs of the Devil’s attempt to derail
Anthony from his progress toward self-knowledge include the lingering of loving
thoughts for his former wealth (derived from his father) and for familial belong-
ing: “First he [the Devil] attempted to lead him [Anthony] away from the disci-
pline, suggesting memories of his possessions, the guardianship of his sister, the
bonds of kinship.”25 By contrast, in televisual dramas of the new therapeutic style,
Victorian forms of gendered domestic partnership figure as a significant aspect
of the characteristically modern intimacy between spiritual development and the
family.

This point about the inextricability of the family in the modern spiritual par-
adigm illuminates Foucault’s description of the so-called psy disciplines (such as
clinical psychiatry, psychoanalysis, and talk therapy) as they operate in modern
family sexual politics.26 In their vulgarization of aspects of these disciplines, po-
licing plots in therapeutic televisual serials involve the family as a unit organized
and mobilized by criminal secrecy. The therapeutic process demonstrates how
the confession of a secret motivates the alliance of a family, through the Victorian
trope of a gendered distribution of emotional abilities.

In Foucault’s words, “The confession is a ritual discourse in which the speak-
ing subject is also the subject of the statement; it is also a ritual that unfolds with-
in a power relationship, for one does not confess without the presence (or virtual
presence) of a partner who is not simply the interlocutor but the authority.”27 Re-
formulating the confessional schema, the authoritative women in the therapeutic
serials in question who deal with criminal men–the guys who resist confession
and who are virtually incapable of speaking about their past experience–usually
proceed with a type of interpretative reasoning that highlights the family’s rele-
vance for these men. In The Sopranos, Dr. Melfi imputes to Tony childhood injury
by psychologically abusive parents; in Breaking Bad, Skyler imputes to Walt mari-

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150 (1) Winter 2021Rey Chow & Austin Sarfan

tal infidelity and indifference to their children’s welfare; and in The Fall, Stella im-
putes to the orphaned Paul the failure of foster care. By drawing on the significance
of family relations for various kinds of psychic deficiency and deformity, the psy
disciplines make their presence felt in these shows like a popular refrain, demon-
strating what Foucault has observed about psychoanalysis: that it functions as “a
mechanism for attaching sexuality to the system of alliance.”28 Ultimately, this
strategy of using authoritative women to impute confessions (and with them, se-
crets and truths) to men amounts to a remodeling of the narrative form of retrospec-
tion: departing from the reflexive terms of self-analysis in the novel, the narrative
of the therapeutic process in televisual serials devolves into what can henceforth
be viewed as a noticeably gendered analytic: the therapeutic couplet.

In these shows, then, analytic retrospection operates through a gendered pair
that synchronically splits, between two subjects, the functions of narration (that
is, rationalization) and experience. A female subject, who functions as the narrat-
ing or explaining self, supplies meaning to a male subject, who functions as the ex-
periencing but inarticulate self. In concrete terms, the therapeutic scene consists
in the female “narrating self” eliciting and interpreting information from a male
“experiencing self,” with the intention of not only giving him the truth about his
life but also reforming his conduct. This typical scene foregrounds a procedure by
which feminine care, in the guise of psychiatric hermeneutics, seeks to ferret out
meaning from compulsive violence, supposedly originating in hegemonic mascu-
linity. Not surprisingly, the masculine position in this couplet often involves var-
ious lacunae in memory, literalizing the notion of meaningless experience and
designating a zone of meaningful interaction, indeed of clarification, that must
be supplied externally from the feminine position. One thinks, for example, of
Walt’s fugue states, used as an alibi for his criminal enterprising in Breaking Bad;
Paul’s brain injury, which causes him to forget his crimes in The Fall; and the re-
pressed memories of Tony’s childhood in The Sopranos that preclude him from ad-
equate self-knowledge.

Because the therapeutic couplet credits femininity with the cognitive privilege
of the narrating or explaining self, hegemonic masculinity is, by default, present-
ed in the therapeutic process in terms of a burden, a toxic experience that resists
narrativity. The drama then takes the form of an impossible reconciliation effort,
orbiting around a dialogue determined by the feminine imputation and masculine
evasion of meaning. Consider, for example, the culmination of Tony’s complaints
against therapy in his revolt against Dr. Melfi in the episode “Calling All Cars,” as
he realizes that her psychiatric emphasis on emotional control is in conflict with
his basic duty as the boss of a criminal “business”: to use violent force, sometimes
without hesitation.29 Tony’s skepticism regarding therapy in this case illustrates
the gender differences that structure the failed reconciliation characteristic of the
therapeutic couplet. Even as femininity is assigned the project of reforming he-

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Dædalus, the Journal of the American Academy of Arts & SciencesWe “Other Victorians”?

gemonic masculinity, the terms of the therapeutic couplet seem locked worlds
apart in advance, following the effectively divorced functions of narration and
experience distributed between gendered subjects. Breaking Bad provides anoth-
er version of this impossible scenario. Beginning in season one, with increasing
pressure, Skyler attempts to elicit confessions from Walter regarding his secre-
tive behavior as he disappears in order to manufacture methamphetamine. Faced
with his resistance to communication and his obvious lies, Skyler ultimately, with
great success, designs Walt’s confessions for him. In the season four episode “Bul-
let Points,” for instance, after studying the language of gambling addicts in group
therapy, Skyler makes Walt rehearse a lengthy confession that she has scripted
in order to provide a cover-story for his illegal acquisition of wealth.30 As Walt
performs this confession at a family dinner with his in-laws, his hitherto baffling
behavior becomes not only meaningful but also credible within the disciplinary
frames of reference of Skyler’s sister, Marie, and her husband, Hank, respectively
a nurse and a DEA agent.

T he pronounced gendering in contemporary television of the narrative

structure of the therapeutic couplet points to an unanswered question
regarding Foucault’s arguments about confession: to what extent might
confession be understood as serving the function of maintaining alliances for
families, rather than producing sexualities for individuals?31

Obviously, of course, confession recalls what Foucault terms the “normaliz-
ing society” of biopolitics that emerges in the nineteenth century; accordingly, it
is possible to consider feminine narration in the case of contemporary television
as (performing) a kind of biopolitical interpellation of criminally perverted men
(as a class of people). At the same time, though, the gendered therapeutic couplet
does not so much require the normalization of masculine experience in the con-
text of a population (as Foucault suggests) as it proposes the obedient subjection of
masculine experience to feminine narration within the context of a family. This
family-centered proposal inscribes the therapeutic couplet within a domestic
project of discipline, with the intent of transforming hegemonic males into docile
bodies. Furthermore, the specific pairing structure of the couplet, noticeably rely-
ing on essentialist (that is, heterosexual) notions of gender, recalls the basic terms
of Foucault’s model of pastoral power, which involves a relationship of obedience
between a master and a disciple.32 This relationship is borne out in this case by
a feminine or feminized master narrative of the therapeutic style that, nonethe-
less, continues to meet with resistance from the disciple who is supposedly guid-
ed toward spiritual rejuvenation through his reformed masculinity. In sum, as it
is played out in contemporary television, the therapeutic couplet has moved away
from the familiar scientific terms of biopolitics as described by Foucault in The His-
tory of Sexuality (terms that include normalization and population). Instead, the ther-

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150 (1) Winter 2021Rey Chow & Austin Sarfan

apeutic couplet reveals the narrative importance of pastoral power for the ethical
formation of alliance. The form of this alliance is organized by the “cognitive and
practical emotional boundaries regulating gender differences” in the therapeutic
style, as discussed above in reference to Illouz’s work.

Importing a heterosexual arrangement of gender into the structure of hierar-
chical obedience that is integral to pastoral power, the therapeutic couplet seems
to us a telltale reemergence of prevalent Victorian gender conventions in contem-
porary television. Comparison of the series Breaking Bad with its novelistic source
material, James Hilton’s Goodbye, Mr. Chips, for example, reveals the effective, if
surprising survival of Victorian ideals within modern family narratives.33 Indeed,
Vince Gilligan, the creator of Breaking Bad, alludes to Hilton’s aforementioned
novel in describing the series to television executives as “a story about a man who
transforms himself from Mr. Chips into Scarface.”34 This reference to the school-
teacher protagonist of Hilton’s novel sheds light on the residual Victorian nov-
elistic elements that continue to inform views of gender and intimacy through
the widely deployed trope of the therapeutic couplet. Both Goodbye, Mr. Chips and
Breaking Bad depict the feminine as an emotional power supposed to succeed in
the project of directing, reforming, and optimizing men’s development in a do-
mestic context. In this originally Victorian framing, to recall Walter E. Hough-
ton’s analysis in The Victorian Frame of Mind, 1830–1870, the emotions are distrib-
uted to men by women, whose superhuman emotional capacity enables them–as
the so-called Angel in the House–to exercise control over the emotional progress
of others.35

Despite echoing these lingering Victorian features, however, the gender tropes
in Breaking Bad are subject to the impossibility of reconciliation that characterizes
the contemporary therapeutic couplet. The difficulties that attend the therapeutic
process for families in shows such as Breaking Bad, which after all ends in Walt and
Skyler’s separation, suggest that our contemporary fascination with the therapeu-
tic style takes the form of what Lauren Berlant has called “cruel optimism.”36 By
staging–and thus soliciting–cultural attachment to a failed therapeutic process,
Breaking Bad radicalizes an anxiety regarding the persistence of a transgressive
masculinity that haunts contemporary narratives of crime. To that extent, Break-
ing Bad confronts the therapeutic style as an instance, to borrow Berlant’s words,
of the neoliberal “retraction” of fantasies regarding the “good life” as promised
by progressive social institutions such as therapy. (After all, it is the absence of af-
fordable health care that forces Walt to manufacture methamphetamine.) As de-
scribed by Gilligan’s formula of a transformation from “Mr. Chips to Scarface,”
Walt’s criminal behavior and aggression triumph over and against the good life
of the communicative family as envisioned by the therapeutic style. Meanwhile,
Walt’s own adoption of the persona “Heisenberg” (drawing on Heisenberg’s un-
certainty principle) subjects the purportedly clear distinction between Mr. Chips

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and Scarface to an ultimate ambiguity. (Does Walt ever really become Scarface?
And when exactly does Scarface replace Mr. Chips?) Such a moniker points to
the arrested process of the therapeutic style in its attempts to negotiate, indeed to
reset, cultural definitions of power and the profound irony that results when the
therapeutic style becomes itself the face of criminality.

authors’ note

We are grateful to Chris Cullens for her responsive feedback on the first draft of
this essay, and to Phyllis Bendell, Peter Walton, and Michael Wood for their studi-
ous editorial readings and helpful suggestions.

about the authors

Rey Chow, a Fellow of the American Academy since 2016, is Andrew W. Mellon
Distinguished Professor of the Humanities at Duke University and Distinguished
Visiting Professor in the School of Modern Languages and Cultures at the Universi-
ty of Hong Kong. She is the author, most recently, of A Face Drawn in Sand: Humanis-
tic Inquiry and Foucault in the Present (forthcoming 2021).

Austin Sarfan is a Ph.D. candidate in the Program in Literature at the Trinity Col-
lege of Arts and Sciences at Duke University. He is completing a dissertation on the
postcolonial reception of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, with broad research
interests in literary modernism, poststructuralism, and the cultural study of the
emotions.

endnotes

1 Breaking Bad, “Felina,” dir. Vince Gilligan, wri. Vince Gilligan, aired September 29, 2013,

AMC.

2 For a helpful study, see Franco Moretti, The Bourgeois: Between History and Literature (New

York and London: Verso, 2014).

3 For an interesting historical account of the marketing of attention in North America, see
Tim Wu, The Attention Merchants: The Epic Scramble to Get Inside Our Heads (New York: Knopf,
2016); “Life’s once inviolable precincts–the home, even the school and the rest room–
were now fair game. The cumulative result was our present state of unprecedented dis-
traction, a way of life in which the precious resource of our attention is under assault
from commercial solicitation in virtually every waking moment, a mostly unremarked
transaction woven seamlessly into the fabric of our existence” (from the dust jacket).
4 See Slavoj Žižek, “Game of Thrones Tapped into Fears of Revolution and Political
Women–and Left Us No Better Off than Before,” The Independent, May 21, 2019, https://

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150 (1) Winter 2021Rey Chow & Austin Sarfan

www.independent.co.uk/voices/game-thrones-season-8-finale-bran-daenerys-cersei
-jon-snow-zizek-revolution-a8923371.html.

5 Ibid.

6 Brett Martin, Difficult Men: Behind the Scenes of a Creative Revolution–From The Sopranos and

The Wire to Mad Men and Breaking Bad (New York: Penguin Books, 2014), 279.

7 Although critics continue to speculate that this conclusion signifies Tony’s death, David
Chase has insisted on its more open-ended dimension. In a New York Times interview,
for example, responding to the question, “Is there a correct answer to the question of
whether Tony is alive or dead?” Chase says concisely, “I don’t think so.” Jeremy Eg-
ner, “David Chase on ‘The Sopranos,’ Trump and, Yes, That Ending,” The New York
Times, January 7, 2019, https://www.nytimes.com/2019/01/07/arts/television/david
-chase-sopranos-interview.html.

8 Martin, Difficult Men, 6.
9 The Sopranos, “College,” dir. Allen Coulter, wri. James Manos Jr. and David Chase, aired

February 7, 1999, HBO.

10 On this point, see Sean O’Sullivan, “Epic, Serial, Episode: The Sopranos and the Return

Voyage of Television,” Narrative Culture 4 (1) (2017): 62.

11 D. A. Miller, The Novel and the Police (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988).
12 For an illuminating series of studies on these topics of gender and the emotions, see Eva
Illouz, Saving the Modern Soul: Therapy, the Emotions, and the Culture of Self-Help (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 2008); and Eva Illouz, Cold Intimacies: The Making of Emo-
tional Capitalism (Cambridge: Polity, 2007), among other works.

13 Miller, The Novel and the Police, 205–207.
14 Illouz, Saving the Modern Soul, 15.
15 Ibid., 84. See also Earl Gammon, “The Psycho- and Sociogenesis of Neoliberalism,” Crit-

ical Sociology 39 (4) (2013): 521–523.

16 Illouz, Saving the Modern Soul, 82.
17 Ibid., 124.
18 Ibid., 80.
19 Ibid., 231.
20 “In this particular case the possibility that Gus could be so . . . very placid, very relaxed,
very polite, very thoughtful was interesting to me. And that’s something I had not cul-
tivated to this extent before now. So it was a real challenge and exciting to sort of
develop that and that came through my idea that he should be a very good listener.
It came to me through my yoga class.” James Poniewozik, “Interview: Talking Gus
Fring with Giancarlo Esposito,” Time, October 10, 2011, http://entertainment.time
.com/2011/10/10/interview-talking-gus-fring-with-giancarlo-esposito/.

21 Michel Foucault, The Hermeneutics of the Subject: Lectures at the Collège de France 1981–1982,
ed. Frédéric Gros, trans. Graham Burchell (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), 15.
22 Dorrit Cohn, Transparent Minds: Narrative Modes for Presenting Consciousness in Fiction (Prince-

ton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1978), 152.

23 Ibid, 146.

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24 Frederick Karl, Modern and Modernism: The Sovereignty of the Artist (New York: Atheneum,

1988), 175.

25 Athanasius, The Life of St. Anthony, trans. Robert C. Gregg (Mahwah, N.J.: Paulist Press,

1980), 33.

26 We borrow the term psy from Nikolas Rose, Inventing Our Selves: Psychology, Power and Per-

sonhood (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998).

27 Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality, Vol. I: An Introduction, trans. Robert Hurley (New

York: Vintage Books, 1990), 61.

28 Ibid., 130.
29 The Sopranos, “Calling All Cars,” dir. Tim Van Patten, wri. David Chase, Robin Green,

Mitchell Burgess, and David Flebotte, aired November 24, 2002, HBO.

30 Breaking Bad, “Bullet Points,” dir. Colin Buckse, wri. Moira Walley-Beckett, aired August

7, 2011, AMC.

31 On the distinction between the deployment of alliance and sexuality, see Foucault, The

History of Sexuality, Vol. I, 105–114.

32 See Michel Foucault, “‘Omnes et Singulatim’: A Critique of Political Reason,” in Power:
Essential Works of Michel Foucault 1954–1984, ed. James D. Faubion (London: Penguin,
2012).

33 James Hilton, Goodbye, Mr. Chips (New York: Open Road, 1935). As Eva Illouz writes, “De-
spite their many contrasts, the modern family entertains more affinities with its prede-
cessor, the Victorian family, than meets the eye”; Illouz, Saving the Modern Soul, 107. On
the importance of Victorian ideals for modern American marriage, see Carol Zisowitz
Stearns and Peter N. Stearns, Anger: The Struggle for Emotional Control in America’s History
(Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1986), 68, 82.

34 Paul MacInnes, “Breaking Bad Creator Vince Gilligan: The Man Who Turned Walter

White from Mr. Chips into Scarface,” The Guardian, May 18, 2012.

35 Walter E. Houghton, The Victorian Frame of Mind, 1830–1870 (New Haven, Conn.: Yale

University Press, 1979), 341–353.

36 Lauren Berlant, Cruel Optimism (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2012), 3.

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150 (1) Winter 2021Rey Chow & Austin Sarfan
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