Just
because I speak doesn't mean anyone will listen.
God was aware that most people didn't hear Him. He even had
a sense of humor about it. Or at least He did on Joan of Arcadia,
the recently canceled CBS drama about a teenage girl pursued by
a God who shifted shape, cracked wise and offered guidance she
didn't always understand. Since the show debuted in September
2003, God had spoken to 16-year-old Joan in the guise of a cute
boy, a goth kid, a make-up artist, a little girl on a swing, a
pretentious filmmaker and a rich lady in a limo, among other incarnations.
I'm not appearing to you. You're seeing me.
Right. This wasn't just another show about a young woman's entanglement
with supernatural forces. Joan didn't have special powers. She
wasn't a psychic, a superhero, a witch or a saint. She wasn't
even religious. In two seasons of seeing God, she never went to
church, though her mom started RCIA in the Catholic Church and
her best friend prepared for her bat mitzvah. Joan didn't kill
vampires, and unlike her predecessors on CBS -- characters on
Touched by an Angel and Highway to Heaven --
she didn't moralize. She was a teenager; mostly she tried to ignore
God. When she couldn't, much of the show's drama depended on her
contemplation of what He could possibly want from her. Why would
God want her to work in a bookstore? Jump from the high dive?
Prevent her boyfriend from exhibiting his art? Try out for cheerleading?
It's a guidance session. I'm all about guidance.
When Joan obeyed God's pithy and often cryptic directives, good
stuff happened. Her wheelchair-bound brother got a job. Her boyfriend
decided not to drop out of high school. These were hardly lights
from heaven, but every action had a reaction, and Joan started
to notice how even her smallest decisions affected everyone else's
lives.
The show didn't have much to say about religion or prayer or
worship. In two seasons, it was more concerned with how different
the world looked when a nonbeliever started seeing God in others.
How much harder decisions became. Or how much easier, depending
on how you looked at it.
In "The Election," Joan discovered two of her male classmates
kissing passionately. She was in a position to use it against
them -- Lars, the popular jerk, was running against Joan's nerdy
friend in the school election, which she became involved in at
God's request. Joan struggled with her conscience and decided
to keep her mouth shut, even though it meant her candidate lost
the race.
God never said how he felt about homosexuality, and there were
no fingers wagging at those who wanted to throw stones. Instead,
we saw the terrified look on Lars's face when he saw that Joan
has discovered his secret. Then we saw his relief, tinged with
shame, when, on election day, Joan was mercifully quiet. It was
a smaller moment than we expected. But it was a moment of grace.
They're all just small parts of something much greater.
Something that never ends.
By the end of season two, Joan was getting the hang of it: Her
friend may have lost the election, but her boyfriend, Adam, got
an internship at a graphic design firm on the merits of the campaign
posters he made for their candidate.
But while most critics were fascinated by Joan's tussles with
free will and the mystery of faith, the audience had begun to
lose interest. The show's ratings were down nearly 30 percent,
and it was no longer winning its time slot on Friday nights. It
wasn't even coming in second.
Did viewers suddenly grow bored with the show's vague, ecumenical
monotheism? The best-selling books in Tim LaHaye's "Left Behind"
series and the phenomenon of Mel Gibson's The Passion of the
Christ demonstrated that overtly Christian material can be
wildly successful. And with NBC firing off the apocalyptic miniseries
Revelations this past April and a new dramatic series
Book of Daniel, about an Episcopal priest, in September,
the ante is being upped on prime-time television. When Joan
debuted in 2003, the mere sight of this Cute-Boy God on prime
time seemed racy. By ducking divisive issues of faith, the show
appealed to seekers. But in the post-Passion world, Joan
couldn't afford to be so coy.
There was a glimmer of hope: Despite the dramatic dip in ratings,
Joan's creator, veteran TV writer Barbara Hall (Judging Amy,
Northern Exposure), signed a three-year development deal
with Paramount in February that supposedly guaranteed the show
would stay on CBS through 2005-06. It seemed that Joan of
Arcadia would have the chance to bounce back and be the best
show on the networks. Would Hall and CBS continue to take risks
and push the boundaries of secular pop culture? Was it time for
Joan to get religion?
It's not about being religious; it's about fulfilling your
true nature.
Ah, God's favorite refrain. "I'm not talking careers here,"
says Hall of her TV God's advice to fulfill one's true nature,
"but what would the world look like if Shakespeare had decided
it was too impractical to be a playwright?"
She explains: "I learned this in catechism: We're made in God's
image in that we too can create, not just procreate. That's why
I'm so moved by art." The works of such artists as the novelist
Gustave Flaubert, Delta bluesman Robert Johnson and the band Wilco,
she says, "are proof of the existence of God."
God never asked Joan to pray, or worship Him or read scriptures.
His assignments were never about Him and seldom about her. God
was always telling Joan to seek -- whether in the universe or
in human relations -- patterns, connections, meaning, design.
"That's why I love physics," says Hall. "If one force is off by
a fraction, none of this would be possible." As a result, sometimes
God sounded more like the physicist Richard Feynman than the Almighty
we know from the Bible.
God's penchant for science was a reflection of the show's creator.
Feynman's Rainbow is on her bookshelf in Los Angeles.
God at the Speed of Light, Modern Physics, Ancient
Faith and The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown
of the Bicameral Mind were required reading for the show's
writers. She believes that God exists within the physical laws
of the universe -- it's one of her personal obsessions -- and
she was committed to showing how on Joan. Which explains
why the characters, especially Joan's science-geek brother, Luke,
and his nerdy Jewish friend, Friedman, talked more about science
than they did about religion.
The show often reflected Hall's own spiritual autobiography.
She studied Eastern religion before converting to Catholicism
in 2001 and says physics brought her to the Mass, which is all
about "the manipulation of energy." So in addition to being a
physicist, God sometimes sounded like a Zen Buddhist or a Bikram
Yoga instructor. Sometimes He gets a little matrix-y,
as Joan put it, alluding to the popular sci-fi trilogy. It frustrated
her, the way He knew all but wouldn't tell, the way He tantalized
her with the faintest scraps of illumination before flipping off
the lights. So Joan yelled at Him. She tried to avoid Him. She
couldn't. He was always there. On the bus. In the bookstore. Swinging
in the park.
Viewers watched as Joan and God moved from the first blush of
romance (in the pilot, Joan asks Cute-Boy God if it was weird
that she kind of had a crush on Him) to the cold shoulder. Hall
doesn't see any problem with comparing a relationship with God
to a romantic relationship between humans, because they are both
about building up intimacy; she has said that in her own life,
God has been like an old boyfriend who won't go away. Since she
became a Catholic, it's only gotten more complicated. Like any
relationship. "Struggling with God is a relationship
with God," she says.
In the best episode of the series, Joan got sick, and God stopped
talking. He stopped showing up altogether. He left her all alone
in a hospital bed, writhing in the unbearable "Silence" that gave
the episode its title. Why would God let Joan suffer? Had she
imagined it all? The diagnosis, after all, was Lyme disease, an
illness that can cause hallucinations. Was she crazy? And why
wasn't she glad He was gone?
People manage to believe in me, even though they have no
idea what I am. They trust me even in the silence.
Hall was raped and nearly killed in New Orleans in May of 1997.
Rather than rejecting God, this trauma led her to seek God more
determinedly. She says the kinds of spiritual questions she had
long been asking -- why does God let us suffer? Why do the bad
guys sometimes win? -- seemed to resonate even more loudly post
9/11. The horror of terrorism led to a new openness to spirituality
among Americans, an urgent need for goodness and meaning in a
scary world that ultimately helped make a show about a teenage
girl in conversation with God a possibility for network TV.
By the end of season one, Hall seemed to have performed a miracle:
She had created a moving work about the ambiguities of faith for
TV. She'd produced a hit show about God that was clever without
being cynical, moral without being pat. Hallelujah! Critical and
popular praise abounded. Joan of Arcadia's young star,
Amber Tamblyn, was nominated for a Golden Globe for Best Actress.
The show won a People's Choice Award for Best New Drama and was
nominated for three Emmys, including Outstanding Drama Series.
But in the second season, the show lost viewers to the ubiquitous
newsmagazine Dateline and a couple of mediocre sitcoms.
In an episode that was uncharacteristically flimsy, with all the
depth of an after-school special, Hilary Duff guest-starred as
a popular girl with no mind of her own and, no surprise here,
trouble at home. Even God sounded bland, repetitious and predictable
from his spot on the park bench -- blah blah blah what if God
was one of us, blah blah fulfill your true nature, blah blah blah
I'm a paradox you'll never comprehend.
Repeating myself is part of the job.
But it shouldn't have been a part of Barbara Hall's -- not if
she wanted viewers to remain engaged in Joan's spiritual struggle.
A God whose divine plan can be reduced to an infinite string
of karmic dominoes. A God who sounds like Buddha, or Einstein.
Hall encountered them both on her path to the Catholic Church.
So it made sense that in its early days the show reflected the
traditions and ideas that drew its creator to what she calls "a
more authentic religious practice." When would Joan's faith begin
to mature?
"There are nerves about getting too deeply into theological
discussion," Hall said when the show debuted. She was referring
to the CBS execs who approve her scripts. But she acknowledged
that "We can't do the show halfway . . . [it] won't have the courage
of its convictions."
It's tempting to blame the show's vagaries, and demise, on a
nervous network. It's not difficult to believe that a passionate
kiss between high school boys made it onto prime-time drama faster
than an intellectual discussion of Christ. Or we could blame the
media. Hall was hesitant to mention her conversion in early interviews,
which turned out to be wise. When she came out as a Catholic,
even those who couldn't deny the show's quality attacked her personally.
Some said she wasn't Catholic enough. That included a reviewer
for the popular website Catholic Exchange, who titled his critique
of the show "A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing," which provoked Hall
sister, Karen Hall, also a writer and a Catholic convert, to post
an angry rebuttal. Others implied she was too Catholic
or at least too religious. A May 2004 Esquire
article gave us Barbara the California cornflake, talking about
her personal relationship with a Jesus who asks her who she needs
him to be each day and likes to drink wine and talk about bass
players.
But Hall remains a powerful, respected Hollywood player -- the
kind whose name makes lights turn green. "I think she is truly
one of the most brilliant writers working today," Paramount president
David Stapf told the Hollywood Reporter. "The opportunity
to continue working with her was just a no-brainer for us." In
a February 2005 article reporting on Hall's signing of a seven-figure
development deal with Paramount, she mentioned her special attachment
to Joan and that she needed to see "what kind of life it has in
it and where it can go."
It was clear the show was losing steam, but fans of Joan
of Arcadia remained hopeful. The show was slick; it was well
produced, well acted and incredibly nuanced for a teen drama.
The writing was clever and the plots often surprising. Unlike
South Park and The Simpsons, it portrayed lives
of faith without flippancy or cynicism. And unlike the award-winning
dramas on HBO -- Six Feet Under, The Sopranos, Deadwood --
you could watch this with your teenager or your mom without wanting
to crawl under a rock.
Hall and her staff of writers seemed to have the confidence
of the network, and the wit and talent to dramatize religion without
succumbing to the pratfalls of pat religiosity. With a new contract
in place, it seemed Friday-night audiences might finally get to
hear what the god of physics had to say about the Son of Man.
But on May 18, CBS canceled Joan.
What happened?
It was prudent for Joan of Arcadia to sidestep those
important questions while securing its audience, and it did so
masterfully. But as the show's focus gradually shifted from Joan's
supernatural struggle with God -- expertly dramatized in episodes
like Silence -- to her more mundane problems with her
family and friends, the key demographic of viewers 18-49 lost
interest.
Though disappointed, I sympathize. I had hoped a show as good
as Joan would tell the story of a passionate, sincere
conversion to a prime-time audience. But as a member of the key
demographic, I, too, had grown restless. God was starting to feel
like little more than a gimmick; His cryptic refrains and recurring
theme of karmic connection were becoming predictable and trite.
While Joan reminded me to remain vigilant of His presence
in the lowliest and most common of places, like the high school
cafeteria -- pretty good message, especially if you're a fan of
the Gospel -- I yearned for a heroine with the conviction of her
namesake, Hall's patron saint, the visionary warrior Saint Jeanne
d'Arc. I wanted Joan to take the leap. I wanted her to believe.
Martyrs did things the hard way. They were willing to accept
the consequences, just like I'm asking you to do.
This fall, if you tune to CBS on Fridays, you won't hear from
God but from the Ghost Whisperer, a medium (played by
Jennifer Love Hewitt) who receives messages from the dead.
"I think talking to ghosts may skew younger than talking to
God," CBS president Les Moonves said.
Just because I speak doesn't mean anyone will listen.
It all depends on what you say.
Jessica Mesman has written for Elle, Crisis, Godspy,
Creative Nonfiction and other publications.
(July 2005)
