James Burrows, the man who directed more than 1,000 episodes of television and practically invented the modern American sitcom, has died at the age of 85. His passing marks the end of an era not merely for US television but for the very concept of mass entertainment. Burrows, a son of the playwright Abe Burrows, was a rare creature: a director who functioned as a silent auteur, shaping the rhythms and sensibilities of shows that defined two decades of popular culture. From Cheers to Friends, his hand guided the ensemble comedies that made America laugh and, more importantly, feel good about itself. Now, British television, which owed him a considerable debt, pays its respects, albeit with a tinge of envy.
Burrows’s genius lay in the ordinary. He understood that the sitcom is a modern form of commedia dell'arte, a ritualised dance of stock characters and familiar crises. On Cheers, the bar became a stage for the glorious failure of the American dream, where every witty put-down was a cry for connection. On Friends, he perfected the formula of six attractive people who never seemed to work but who embodied a post-ideological fantasy of urban conviviality. His camera work was invisible, his timing impeccable. He gave actors like Ted Danson and Jennifer Aniston the space to become icons without ever drawing attention to himself. That humility, perhaps, is what British viewers admired most.
But let us not be sentimental. Burrows’s legacy is also a testament to a cultural imbalance. American television, with its industrial scale and relentless optimism, has long colonised the global imagination. British sitcoms, from Fawlty Towers to The Office, are celebrated for their irony and emotional restraint, but they rarely achieve the same market saturation. Burrows’s shows were not just funny; they were comforting. They offered a vision of community that was both aspirational and attainable. In an age of fractured attention spans and streaming chaos, that comfort seems almost quaint.
Now, as we mourn Burrows, we must ask: who will fill his shoes? The sitcom as we knew it is in decline. The monoculture he helped build has fragmented. His death is not just a loss but a symbol of a broader intellectual decadence. We have replaced shared laughter with personalised algorithms. We have traded the warmth of the ensemble for the glare of the anti-hero. Burrows represented a faith in the power of simple jokes and sincere emotions. That faith, I fear, is going out of fashion.
In paying tribute, British television acknowledges its own mortality. Burrows reminds us that the best comedy is a mirror, not a costume. His work will endure, but the world that made it possible is already fading. Rest in peace, Mr. Burrows. You made us laugh, and for that, we are forever in your debt.
