The simple announcement lands like a gentle thud on the comfortable carpet of our collective consciousness: “Matlock Isn’t Back Until December.” For some, it’s a shrug, a relic from a bygone era. For others, it’s a minor tremor of disappointment, a quiet disruption to a treasured, almost ritualistic comfort. But for the discerning observer, that single sentence is a potent prompt, an unexpected lens through which to examine the seismic shifts in the landscape of modern television. What, indeed, is airing instead? The answer is a digital buffet, a frantic symphony of content that reveals not just what we watch, but who we’ve become as viewers.
Matlock, in his tweed suits and folksy Georgia charm, represents a particular epoch of television. It was the era of the weekly ritual, of appointment viewing, of neatly resolved mysteries wrapped up with a moral bow. Andy Griffith’s Ben Matlock was a comforting purr on a Tuesday night, a predictable intellectual puzzle where justice, though sometimes delayed, was always delivered. The villains were clear, the heroes honorable, and the narrative arc a reassuring circle. Waiting for Matlock until December implies a space, a void that, in decades past, might have been filled by a similar, equally amiable procedural, a family drama, or perhaps a variety show. But the television ecosystem of today is vastly different, a dense jungle where Matlock’s gentle footsteps are all but swallowed by the cacophony.
Instead of the measured pace of Matlock’s courtroom theatrics, we are now steeped in the murky moral waters of prestige dramas. Turn on the traditional networks, and you might find a new iteration of a police procedural, but one less concerned with the quaint charm of a small-town lawyer and more with the psychological scars of its detectives. FBI agents grapple not just with terrorists, but with internal demons. Chicago Med doctors face ethical quandaries that are less about bedside manner and more about life-and-death systems. Even the sitcoms often carry an undercurrent of existential dread or societal critique, far from the innocent misunderstandings of a bygone era. The “instead” here is a world where even network TV has ratcheted up the stakes, demanded more complex emotional investment, and blurred the lines between good and evil.
But the true “instead” of the Matlock void is found beyond the traditional airwaves, in the vast, churning ocean of streaming platforms. Where Matlock offered a singular, shared experience, today we are presented with an endless scroll of individualized narratives. Instead of waiting for December for Matlock, we’re waiting for season drops of The Bear, desperate for another taste of its culinary chaos and raw human connection, or for the next chapter of Succession, where the only moral compass is power. We binge Yellowstone, drawn into its brutal, sprawling Western saga, or lose ourselves in the intricate, often dark, world-building of a new fantasy epic. These shows are serialized, demanding commitment, rewarding meticulous viewing with rich character development and sprawling plotlines that would have been anathema to Matlock’s self-contained ethos.
The absence of Matlock, then, isn’t just about the temporary disappearance of a single show; it’s a poignant illustration of the fragmentation of our viewing habits and the metamorphosis of storytelling. What’s airing instead is a testament to the audience’s newfound power of choice, but also perhaps to a subtle loss. We gain an unprecedented diversity of narratives, a global tapestry of stories, and artistic ambition that often rivals cinematic quality. But we sacrifice the shared national conversation, the collective comfort of knowing that, on a Tuesday night, Matlock was there, solving problems with a velvet gavel and a wry smile.
So, as we navigate the myriad options, from true-crime documentaries to avant-garde comedies, from gritty sci-fi epics to reality competitions, we do so with a deeper understanding of what television has become. The wait for Matlock until December is more than a scheduling note; it’s a quiet moment to reflect on the relentless march of progress, the endless stream of “instead,” and perhaps, to appreciate the simple, anachronistic comfort that a sharp lawyer in a tweed suit once offered, and will, eventually, offer again.
