Twenty-five years from the premiere of Friends and already the commemorative celebrations begin, of which we have a lot of bombing, because the anniversary deserves it and Friends it has never stopped being reissued. Today, for example, it's one of Netflix's successes, even though millennials more tender they perceive it as an unbearably classist and racist story.
As a very resentful and cynical neighborhood boy, I played the role of detractor: I fell fatally those little New York pijitos who spent their lives in a café cuqui. These people do not exist, I said, a few curritos can not afford to take that vidorra in Manhattan. And of course they did not exist: because they were fictional characters, pardiez! It was hard for me to fall off the horse and appreciate its air of comedy buffa, almost of puppet theater, with that fourth wall in the form of a live audience whose laughter marked the rhythm of each chapter. When I noticed that Friends never claimed the slightest likelihood and that his characters rode unchecked towards the caricature, I became his sect.
The identification that caused a majority of his audience was not realistic, but aspirational. The people did not feel that Friends he was narrating his life, but he narrated his ideal of life, but in such a grotesque way that forced the spectator to laugh at his own aspirations: yes, it would be so cool to live in a coquettish apartment in Greenwich Village, but they knew it was a ridiculous dream
However, although unlikely, it was a possible dream. A couple of generations of Westerners were educated in the idea that our life could be like theirs: frivolous, prosperous and apolitical. An adolescence extended beyond thirty. Until Lehman Brothers sank and that eternal adolescence ceased to be a dream to aspire to and became a nightmare to be resigned to. It is logical that the millennials more tender feel that the live audience of Friends He does not laugh at jokes, but at them and at his misfortune.