Mourning a Fandom
The Commodification of (Pop) Culture
“What is infinite? The universe and the greed of men.”
—Leigh Bardugo,
Shadow and Bone
When the Shadow and Bone Netflix series was announced, I was in the early stages of my minimalist clean-out, selling virtually every non-useful thing I owned on eBay. I considered keeping my Grishaverse books—the original trilogy, the Six of Crows duology, and The Language of Thorns story collection—but with the series’ popularity, I figured selling was the best option. (If I ever wanted to reread them, I could always find them at the library.) For all six books, I wasn’t expecting to get more than $50, but as soon as the listings went up, bidding wars began. One week later, I’d made over $300.
There was something I wasn’t getting; fans could buy the books, brand-spanking-new, for far less, so why were they willing to spend $75 per book? My answer came from a potential buyer: Fans wanted these books—printed years before the show had been announced—because they didn’t have the little Netflix logo on the front.
The company drenched the fandom in its marketing, flaunting its ownership to the world, taking the universe we loved and turning it into a corporate campaign. Yet after only two years and two seasons, the show, like so many others, was abruptly canceled. The news, coming out right after the end of the writers’ and actors’ strikes, felt like a punishment for all the people Netflix employs—the people who make the company prosperous—as well as the fans. We all suffer because the corporation had to loosen its stranglehold on its creatives; the executives still found a way to win after the strikes by putting us all in our place (that is, beholden to their decisions).
As devastated as I am by this decision—I may have shed a few tears—I don’t place the blame on Netflix (though that doesn’t entirely absolve them, either). It is a societal problem, and in our society, creativity doesn’t have a tangible value. Its only value comes from its profitability; if a creative venture can’t make money—and, importantly, more money than other creative properties of the past and present—then it is virtually worthless.
With how expensive a fantasy show like Shadow and Bone would be to produce, it’s perfectly logical that it, and the Six of Crows spin-off in development, would get the ax. It makes fiscal sense, especially considering they could invest that money in shows that are more broadly appealing (bringing in more viewers, which means more money).
But this corporatization of creativity is creating a mono(pop)culture where large companies are increasingly risk-averse with their content (as if that hadn’t already been a problem). It’s safer for them to appease viewers, corporate investors, and advertisers by developing more crime procedurals, medical dramas, reality shows, and true crime docuseries. This pushes genre fiction to more niche markets—such as specialized networks and streaming services—and the genre fiction big companies do produce becomes overly sanitized, designed to appeal to the broadest possible audience and excluding the fanbase from the experience.
This is part of a trend that has existed for a long time, where the people who make these decisions—traditionally white, heterosexual, cisgender men—devalue anything that doesn’t appeal to or benefit them. A prime target, therefore, is creative properties with a predominantly young, female, and/or queer base.
I felt the effects of this as a teenage Twilight fan, where the fandom faced constant ridicule from the loudest voices who thought young girls finding enjoyment in a supernatural love story was not just silly but stupid. It wasn’t only boys and men making fun of us, but many other girls who—unknowingly projecting their internalized misogyny—thought it was cool to degrade their feminine peers for liking something “girly.”
After the Twilight craze burned out, Fifty Shades of Grey came along (which famously began as a Twilight fanfiction). Again, people pounced on the opportunity to mock something that appealed largely to women. While there are legitimate criticisms to make of Fifty Shades, and of Twilight, few argued them in good faith, choosing instead to poke fun at women’s sexuality.
While romance and erotica have huge fanbases, bringing them to the forefront of popular culture challenges the patriarchy. Watch virtually any episode of Game of Thrones—or any other TV-MA-rated show, but I’m using Game of Thrones as an adult fantasy counterpart to Shadow and Bone—and you’ll likely find explicit sexual content; no one bats an eye. But when that content is created by and for women, it becomes a joke.
Growing up, I loved YA fantasy stories because they transported me far away, but it felt like the world kept dragging me back, forcing me to question their legitimacy (and my own opinions). It was like I couldn’t just enjoy a story because there was always a nagging thought that it wasn’t a good story, that it wasn’t real art.
Saying goodbye to Shadow and Bone has obviously been hard for me, and while I signed the petition to keep it alive, I have no hope for success. That would mean the Netflix executives would have to admit they made a mistake and go back on their decision, and they obviously don’t care enough about their properties to do this. And selling the rights to another company would mean giving away profits they could keep on their platform, which also makes little sense.
It’s painful to know that one of my favorite recent shows will never reach a conclusion, that the characters I love so much will stay frozen just shy of their happy endings. And I feel sorry for the fans and creators of the other shows that were canceled alongside this one.
Usually, when I start writing on an upsetting topic, I find a way to feel better about it when I reach the final paragraph. But I can’t do that now; it will simply take time to mourn the loss of an incredible show and move on.