Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the last few years, or consume media the way Richard Ayoade does (strictly Swedish psychological horror films or Noel Fielding comedy shows), you’ve probably heard about Riverdale. If you haven’t, the basic premise is pretty simple: What if Jughead from Archie Comics was sexy?
Even if you haven’t seen the show, you’ve undoubtedly seen it talked about. Riverdale is the internet’s favourite punching bag when it comes to television. Whenever Netflix cancels something, the blame immediately falls to Riverdale, even though it’s a CW production. People who like Glee or weirdly enough, The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina, a subpar part of the RCU (Riverdale Cinematic Universe, also known as the Repressed Cinematic Universe,) love to act like they’re above Riverdale, when they’re all in the same vein of television show.
Out of context clips go viral on Twitter about once a week, and if you search “Riverdale Cringe” on YouTube, you’ll be able to keep yourself entertained for hours. And I’ll admit, even within context, the lines are ridiculous, and stupid, and over the top.
But they’re meant to be.
Let me explain.
Riverdale, in season one, tried to be some kind of weird crossover of Pretty Little Liars and Gilmore Girls. There were some questionable plots and wild dialogue (Jughead’s famed I’m a weirdo speech takes place in episode ten), but for the most part, it’s a standard teen drama. There’s sexy parents, far too many school dances, teenagers caught up in love hexagons, and slang created by people who graduated back in the 1990s. Even the main storyline, the murder of golden boy Jason Blossom, is hardly unusual for this genre — everything from Gossip Girl to Veronica Mars explored the idea of one character killing another. Season one lulls you into a false sense of security, and looking back now, you can’t tell that it’s about to become one of the most insane things television has ever put out.
Riverdale is four seasons in now, and it’s covered everything from class president elections to a version of Dungeons & Dragons that makes you suicidal. Their parents are serial killers, gang leaders that cover up murders, insane suburban moms, mobsters, and drug dealers who cut out people’s eyes. They’ve done musical episodes of Carrie, Heathers, and Hedwig & The Angry Inch that feature murdered teenagers, creepy cults, and hours long videotapes of various resident’s houses. Jughead’s been buried alive, locked out of town, cut off a woman’s tattoo, and been the victim of two botched murder attempts. Archie was wrongfully sent to prison, escaped after his first gay kiss and first stabbing, spent weeks in the Canadian wilderness where he almost died, and got back home only to be told he failed his SAT practice test. Veronica opened an underground speakeasy to piss off her father which temporarily became an illegal casino, and was also the final resting place of a man she burned alive. Betty was institutionalised by gargoyle worshipping nuns, diagnosed with the serial killer genes by organ harvesting cult leader Chad Michael Murray, found out that this was a lie started by her sister (who gave birth to her cousin’s babies and tried to rip a woman’s face off), only to discover that yes, she really does have them, which makes her so good at her FBI training course. Cheryl set her house on fire, came out as a lesbian, doused herself in pig blood while threatening to set her other house on fire, joined two gangs and a cult, and kept her brother’s mummified corpse in the basement for six months. And Gay Kevin had his kidney stolen.
I know what you’re thinking: how does this disprove the idea that Riverdale is stupid and poorly written? How can you type all that out with a straight face, and then go on to preach about how you unironically think it’s a good show? How can you even make sense of any of this?
Because, dear reader, that’s the point. Riverdale never pretends to be anything other than what it is, which is a campy teen drama. It’s ridiculous, it’s over the top, it’s dramatic — but it’s meant to be. It knows what it is and has fun with it, and no matter what happens, there’s always something to get out of every 45 minute episode. Whether it’s Archie fighting a bear and killing his double in the same night, or Cheryl waterboarding her mother with maple syrup, or Betty being framed for murder by two characters named Donna Sweett and Bret Weston Wallis — it never fails to be an entertaining viewing experience.
It’s easy to to mock the show without experiencing it in its full glory. I used to do it before I became an avid watcher. If you’re not used to Archie’s well-meaning stupidity, then of course you won’t understand that he genuinely believes a game of football will fix the corrupt prison system. If you haven’t spent four seasons watching Betty become gradually more unhinged due to fucked up genetics, a serial killer father, and an adderall addiction instead of a therapist, then her talking about how she’s the ultimate wild card is going to seem dumb. If you haven’t seen Cheryl openly acknowledge her status as a rich bitch, a gothic heroine, a traumatised teenager, and the product of an incestuous criminal family, then she’s going to come across as a failed Queen Bee. The show doesn’t work when you take it at face value, which is why people who don’t watch don’t realise that yeah, Jughead is meant to be pretentious and annoying. And he is a weirdo that always wears his stupid hat.
I’ve been meaning to write this article for months, and I expected that when I finally did get around to it, I’d have people accuse me of reaching, saying that there’s “no way Riverdale is self aware” before retreating to their blogs dedicated to the Marvel Cinematic Universe or Stranger Things or whatever it is the kids are into these days.
But then, almost like an angel, Riverdale delivered one of my favourite episodes yet, and with it came solid proof of my beliefs: season four’s finale, Killing Mr Honey.
For context: one of the many, many plots of season four has been about the Riverteens and their hatred of their new principal, Mr Honey. Mr Honey, unlike his predecessor (who got caught up in the cult and had his fingers cut off), does not let the kids get away with everything. He’s opposed to school dances because three students were brutally murdered at prom the year before. He disapproves of seventeen year olds getting drunk on campus. He is not impressed by a group of teenage girls singing about wanting a sugar daddy while dancing on tables and wearing tight jeans. He expects students to get to class on time and adhere to deadlines. And, for a group of characters raised by murderers, drug dealers, and cops, he’s the most evil man in existence.
Watching this season, I was a little perplexed by the strong hatred the kids had for Mr Honey. Sure, I had teachers I disliked in high school, but these are kids who were still dealing with cultists and killers and rival gangs and their friend’s dad, the mobster who has tried to take them all out at least once. And yet it was Mr Honey that got the most vitriol from them.
So much, vitriol in fact, that Jughead went to the effort of writing an entire story where they all team up to torture and murder him, getting away with their crime after threatening and/or killing anyone who threatened to spill. It was seen as an accomplishment of Jughead’s writing, a fantasy that they could live vicariously through after Mr Honey was fired for cancelling prom. They’re proud of themselves. They feel accomplished. They did something good, they took out the bad guy, their parents treat them to drinks and celebratory cheers. They won.
But then they’re told, point blank, that all they succeeded in doing was getting a dedicated and kind educator fired. The school secretary informs them of all Mr Honey accomplished during his short stint as principal, with included getting numerous low-income students full college scholarships, raising the average GPA, and managing to make it a full year without any students dying (keeping in mind that four of them wound up dead the year before.) The school secretary then hands Jughead a letter of recommendation that Mr Honey wrote, praising his talents and saying that he’d be a great fit for his desired college.
The same college that Jughead was writing his murderous revenge fantasy for.
He races home and changes the ending, having the fictional versions of him and his friends save Mr Honey’s life even if it means they’ll go to jail, but the damage is done. The residents of the town are in too deep by this point, too caught up in the world that Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa and his team have deliberately built.
Or, in the words of the show’s most victimised man himself:
The characters in Riverdale are blood stained, theatrical, over the top, self obsessed messes. They’re ridiculous, and they’re evil, and they’re insane, and they know this about themselves.
But just because they’re self aware doesn’t mean they want to change.
After all, if they did, then what fun would the show be?
At a time where serious dramas like Game of Thrones or Dexter spend years leading up to an unsatisfying ending, or franchises reuse the same plot for every single movie, we need a show like Riverdale. A show that embraces every ridiculous idea, that leans into silly dialogue, that solves plots by the characters simply shrugging and accepting their town for what it is. A show that exists solely for entertainment. A show that you can never stay mad at for too long, because nothing makes sense anyway, and really, how can you discourse about something like “the serial killer genes”? A show that makes all these choices deliberately, because it knows we’re not here for anything other than a good time (and to see which parent will be the next to commit a murder.)
So for those of you out there, who think that they’re above the insanity of Cheryl Blossom, and think that every word out of Betty Cooper’s mouth is serious: sit back, drop the superiority complex, and learn to experience the epic highs and lows of high school football.
