Two of the most iconic living rooms in television history lost their architect yesterday. James Burrows, the director who gave us the mahogany bar of Cheers and the orange sofa of Friends, has died at 85. His passing marks not just a career end, but the closing of a golden age in American sitcoms.
Burrows was the quiet master of the laugh track. Born in Los Angeles in 1940, the son of Broadway director Abe Burrows, he cut his teeth on The Mary Tyler Moore Show and Taxi before creating the show that would define him. Cheers, which ran from 1982 to 1993, was a sitcom about a bar where everybody knew your name. Under Burrows’s direction, it became a study in class dynamics: the intellectual pretensions of Frasier Crane clashing with the blue-collar cynicism of Norm Peterson. It was a show that understood how people actually talk across the barstool divide.
Then came Friends, which premiered in 1994 and became a global phenomenon. Burrows directed the pilot and returned for the finale, framing six actors who would become household names. The show was often dismissed as lightweight, but Burrows’s direction gave it a rhythm that made its implausible Manhattan apartments feel like home. He knew exactly when to hold on a reaction shot of Jennifer Aniston or Matthew Perry, allowing the audience to feel the subtext beneath the punchlines.
The tributes from British television leaders speak to a respectful distance. Across the Atlantic, we have long admired the efficiency of America’s sitcom machine. Burrows was its most consistent operator. He directed over 70 pilots, a record that speaks to his ability to capture a tone that could sustain a series. The BBC’s director of comedy said, “James showed us the power of the three-camera setup to create intimacy. His shows were a masterclass in how to make audiences feel they were part of the joke.”
And yet, there is a human cost buried in those credits. Burrows worked through a changing industry from the age of three networks to the streaming wars. He adapted, directing episodes of The Big Bang Theory and Two and a Half Men well into his 70s. But the new generation of binge-watching audiences may not know his name. His death reminds us that the schism between television’s past and present is widening.
The cultural shift is palpable. The sitcoms Burrows directed were appointment viewing, water-cooler conversations, communal experiences. Today’s shows are consumed alone, on your phone during a commute. The living rooms he designed are now empty, replaced by algorithmically recommended universes. We should mourn not just the man, but the world he helped create.
In the end, what remains are the episodes. The one where Sam finally tells Diane he loves her. The one where Ross says Rachel’s name at the altar. These moments, framed by Burrows’s steady hand, will outlast the obituaries. The applause has faded, but the laughter lives on.
