The grim reaper, it seems, has finally landed a directing gig. James Burrows, the television colossus whose lens gave us the mahogany-stained bonhomie of Cheers and the soufflé-light absurdity of Friends, has shuffled off this mortal coil at the age of 85. The British television industry, a collective of glum-faced producers and talent whose idea of a sitcom is a man in a cardigan grumbling about his allotment, has been forced to set down its tea and issue a statement. They are, they assure us, 'deeply saddened'. Which, in the vernacular, means they're furious he wasn't British.
Let us not mourn, dear reader, for Burrows was a man who knew his craft better than a sommelier knows his cork. He understood that the secret to a laugh is not a joke, it's a pause. A look. The agonising silence before a pratfall. His Cheers was a cathedral of wisecracks, a place where everybody knew your name, even if you were a pretentious psychiatrist or a mailman with an existential crisis. And Friends, that confection of Central Perk coffee and contrived dating mishaps, became the wallpaper of a generation. It was formulaic, yes. It was saccharine, unquestionably. But it worked. Like a Swiss watch made of sugar.
Where was the British equivalent? Let us tally the roll call. We had a sub-aquatic puppet, a Japanese chef who assaulted lobsters, and a man who fell asleep in a cupboard. Oh, the poverty of ambition. Our sitcoms were proud of their griminess, their flat caps and their hand-wringing. Burrows offered an alternative universe where people were witty without being cruel, and where friendships survived the finale. The tribute from our industry is therefore a complicated thing. It is envy masquerading as respect. It is a man in a bow tie acknowledging a better flamenco dancer.
And yet, the man is dead. He leaves behind a legacy of 11 Emmys, 75 television shows, and an army of actors who credit him with their careers. Ted Danson wept. Lisa Kudrow wept. The cast of Will & Grace, that other Burrows bastion, wept. And in London, a director for EastEnders took a long drag of a cigarette and muttered, 'Right, where's Arthur Fowler's funeral?'
In tribute, I propose we raise a glass of the finest airport gin. Not to the man, but to the laughter. For Burrows understood what we, in our cynical fog, often forget: that a joke is just a joke until it makes you feel less alone. And for that, we ought to be grateful. Even if we had to import it from across the pond.
Goodbye, Jimmy B. May your final destination have a well-stocked bar and a punchline you can hear from the balcony.
