An Open Letter To Netflix, Or A Series of Unfortunate Children's TV Shows

Dear Netflix and its Mighty Overlords,

How are you? I sincerely hope you are well. More than well. I hope you are elated, exuberant and positively gleeful – a curiously loquacious string of words, which here means, this writer is trying desperately to flatter you and garner your attention.

I am a recent convert to your online service of quality entertainment (and not so quality entertainment – I see you have several Danny Dyer films listed in your inventory, and I am not pleased at all as they are lower than low, but each to their own). I have watched several films on your network, including Filth, The Bicycle Thief and the wonderful Obvious Child, the latter of which I could not find at any HMV, Head or Games Exchange store for several weeks of tireless, frustrated and vain searching. Kudos to you.

Although you did not reply to my letter about saving and recommissioning Utopia, though I suppose that is still an option, I’ve just finished Orange is the New Black and am making a start on Better Call Saul. With such quality TV programmes available, I am sure you are more than chuffed that you, in November, made the excellent announcement that you are creating a 13-part TV series of the popular and important series of books written by Daniel Handler, best known under the alias of Lemony Snicket, collectively referred to as A Series of Unfortunate Events.

What a brilliant move, Netflix! I mean this sincerely – I am aware that as a Brit, any compliment I make sounds flippant and sarcastic and provoking. Again, kudos to you and your magnificent overlords. When the news broke, I jumped for absolute joy – figuratively, not literally, you understand – because I adore the Unfortunate Events series.

I am a bigger fan of the Baudelaire Orphans than I am of Harry Potter and his insanely egotistical magical friends. Snicket’s prose is divine and purposeful, and it taught me a lot about writing style, the importance of a narrative and even how to frame one’s stories, as well as the general naff parts about triumph under adversity, misfortune under adversity, and the fact that the universe is actually quite a rubbish place. My kids, Netflix, should they ever exist, will be reading these books. They have no choice in the matter.

This is why I want to lovingly check in on you and your overlords about some of the choices you are making about the series as a whole. Several months after the announcement we have heard nothing about the casting, directing, creative team, stories, or anything at all in general about where the series is headed.

I am writing this letter to you, Netflix, rather out of the blue, because I am anxious. I am sure you get lots of fanmail already about how much joy you bring to others, but I have recently had the misfortune of experiencing some Unfortunate Events (I am so so so sorry, the pun had to come out sooner or later) with regard to television adapted from my youth.

I don’t know, considering that you are an inanimate object, how acquainted you are with children’s television these days. It is rather, to be frank, shit. It contains this, for example:

And also, s I discovered the other day to my horror, this:

These two photos, Netflix, are all that is wrong with television today. The first photograph is of the new series of Thunderbirds, an ungodly messy abyss of a programme that has somehow been recommissioned. I do not know if Mr Snicket is aware of the original Thunderbirds series, but I can assure you that the puppets made of plastic and string were more lifelike than these dead eyed bastards which make you feel depressed – ironically, the CGI version would not be out of place in an Unfortunate Events novel.

The second photograph wounds me deeper, Netflix, because that is what Peter Rabbit is now. The lovely watercolour Peter Rabbit from my childhood is now a wisecracking twat. Benjamin Bunny wears a beanie hat, Peter rides an electric scooter, and there are American accents everywhere. It is deeply upsetting and confusing, and having loved the books as a little girl, it has made me feel like up is down, left is right and marmite is edible.

I will now enclose a third photo:

This, Netflix, is what is known in the UK as The Clangers. It is a stop-motion TV show featuring knitted creatures from outer space that eat green soup served by dragons. I’m aware that that must sound dismally dull and low-tech to you. But it was aired in the seventies and has a large, fond following, including myself, as I managed to see a few reruns of the show on television growing up. Recently, the BBC (sorry to refer to a rival network!) recommissioned The Clangers.

I have watched some of the new episodes, despite being a grown woman. I am overjoyed with the result. They are thoughtful and lovely. The Knitting Machine” – where Granny Clanger essentially falls prey to the industrial revolution and becomes a Luddite – is surprisingly moving and entertaining. It almost undid all of the curmudgeonly feelings that Peter Rabbit caused. Yes, the remake has brighter colours and smoother animation, but at its heart, something charming exists that was in the original, which I suspect is down to retaining the jerky stop-motion animation style and using the lovely voice of Michael Palin.

But I digress, because A Series of Unfortunate Events are books for everyone aged over roughly eight, not infants learning about musical instruments and nostalgic twenty-something women. The Unfortunate Events are enjoyed by all adults and children alike.

Yet if The Clangers got it right by not messing up the original source material with dated humour and CGI, the demon you must exorcise from your TV series is any mention, reference or resemblance to the rather Unfortunate (there I go again with the puns) 2004 film.

The Unfortunate Events film, suffered immensely from a confusing tone, disjointed, rushed pace, and too much Jim Carrey. Not even the formidable Meryl Streep could save the it. Yes, it did have it had its good moments (the Littlest Elf for example, was a macabre and excellent motif) and I dare say I rather found it funny, at the age of ten, back in the early 2000s when Jim Carrey was relevant.

But “funny” is not the phrase I think of when I think of Snicket’s work. The books have a dark humour to them which I greatly admire, but their overall tone is an exploration of grief and fear. I dearly love to laugh, but I do not want to laugh that much at this series. I want to root for the Baudelaires, I want to be afraid of Olaf, I want to be sincerely sad when life is cruel to the former and good to the latter.

Jim Carrey all but ruined Count Olaf for me. Tim Curry, for example, would have done a better job, having not only narrated the British versions of the books but also proved he can do bone-chillingly frightening as well as funny in a variety of roles. The Jim Carrey overkill, the rushed attempt to explain what VFD is, and the rather tacked on faux-happy ending all spoiled the film immensely. In short, the film tried to be something else entirely to the books, and failed with a soft fizzle and a whimper.

I point to this scene alone as proof:

 

Keep this scene in mind, Netflix overlords, when your creative team storyboards the action sequences of the show. If, at any opportunity, the series borders on this style of humour, please shut down production immediately.  

But overall, I’m begging: please, please, please, do not miss this opportunity to send these books out into the world with a new audience by selling out the darkness for the light. Children are at their best when they are filled with a combination of wonder, empathy and fear, and it is these qualities which the source material created so well. Dinosaur-impersonating Jim Carrey is not what you want your legacy to be.

Yours with fond wishes and greatest respect,

Beth Smith (a loyal fan).