The news hit like a poorly timed laugh track: James Burrows, the man who taught America how to laugh at itself via the sacred institution of the sitcom, has shuffled off this mortal coil at the ripe age of 85. And what does the British television industry do? It pays tribute, of course, with all the pomp and ceremony of a eulogy delivered by a man who's just discovered his gin and tonic has been watered down. The BBC issued a statement, ITV released a clip show, and somewhere, a focus group is still laughing at a joke that died in 1994.
Let's be clear: Burrows was a titan. He gave us 'Cheers', where everybody knew your name, and 'Friends', where everybody knew your neuroses. He directed 75 episodes of 'Friends' and, in doing so, ensured that a generation of British viewers would forever associate the word 'break' with both a sofa and a complete emotional collapse. We watched, we laughed, we bought the mugs. It was a cultural annexation that made the American Revolution look like a minor property dispute.
But now he's gone, and the British TV establishment has put on its best black tie and monocle, constructing a memorial so respectful it almost feels obscene. They've wheeled out the usual suspects: actors tearfully recalling his gentle direction; producers recounting his eye for a punchline; critics writing obituaries that sound suspiciously like letters to Santa. The Guardian ran a piece titled 'The Laughter Never Dies', which is ironic because, for the past decade, the British sitcom has been a cadaver kept alive by a group of reality TV producers and a man named James Corden.
The irony is exquisite. We, the British, have built our entire comedic identity on a foundation of class-based bitterness and underdog melancholy. We gave the world 'Monty Python', 'Fawlty Towers', and 'The Office' (the original, not the American one, thank you very much). And yet we can't help but genuflect before the altar of Burrows, because he made us laugh in a way that felt effortless and warm. He did it without the cynicism that has become our national beverage. He did it with a smile and a three-camera setup, and we hate him for it, just a little, because we know we could never do the same.
Still, the tributes roll in like a wave of nostalgia that threatens to drown the BBC's schedules in repeats. They'll run a marathon of 'Cheers' over Christmas, and by the end of it, everyone will be drinking whiskey at noon and wondering where their friends went. They'll dust off episodes of 'Friends' and we'll laugh at the haircuts and the jokes about VCRs, and for a moment we'll forget that the world is on fire and that our prime minister is a man with the charisma of a damp napkin.
So here's to you, James Burrows. You made us laugh, and that's a feat more impressive than any peace treaty or fiscal policy. You united a room of disparate strangers and made them feel like friends. And now, in your memory, we'll drink a glass of something expensive and pretend the state of our sitcom industry doesn't bring a tear to our eye. Cheers indeed.