Like millions of movie lovers, I've found Netflix to be a God(ard)send over the years. My appreciation for their library, user-friendliness, and low subscription fee led me to start a semi-regular series on my blog called “Better Living Through Netflix,” wherein I'd discuss the contents of various little red envelopes sent my way. I didn't much mind giving them the free advertising, since—aside from it being a clever title I liked—I was a satisfied customer.

I don't know much about marketing and branding, outside of a cursory understanding of semiotics and the fact that I follow William Gibson on Twitter, but I knew Netflix was really good at it. The powerful simplicity of the little red envelope had, in a relatively short period of time, become iconic. If asked to venture a guess, I'd have supposed their executives were smart people who were making shitloads of money. I mean . . . they had to be, right?

Turns out things weren't that simple. Due to a convenient bit of law called first-sale doctrine, Netflix basically had a license to print money when it came to the physical DVDs with which they began, but this extremely advantageous situation changed completely when it came to streaming. Here, Hollywood studios saw a chance to exert the leverage they couldn't with the physical DVDs, and suddenly Netflix's operating expenses got uncomfortably high, and they were presented with the necessity to raise their subscription fees.

Sounds pretty normal, right? No one ever wants to pay more for stuff, but sometimes you do, because hey, such is life. And if Netflix had just come out with a press release that took the tone of someone signaling the bartender to pour you a glass of whiskey, on him, and toasted with the phrase “Fuckin' Hollywood, am I right?” everyone would have, in a manner of speaking, downed their whiskey, nodded, and went, “Bastards.” Because while lefties go “Fuckin' banks” and righties go “Fuckin' IRS,” absolutely EVERYONE goes “Fuckin' Hollywood.”

Alas, this was not how Netflix decided to play it. The whole process was a goddamn mess, the rough equivalent of dating someone really hot who, after some trouble at work, goes off his/her meds and starts walking around in an aluminum foil thong, bellowing about the Trilateral Commission and throwing flaming hamsters at your parents. “Umm . . . why are you doing this?” you ask. The answer is shrieked, semi-verbally, in no immediately recognizable language.

I mean, how the hell else do you describe pissing all over their brand—the red-enveloped DVDs—by splitting the company into separate DVD and streaming services, and calling the STREAMING service Netflix and the original, flagship business that made them who they are Qwikster? (Note: all possible jokes about the name have already been made.) Even if that makes sense for some bizarre reason—maybe you're used to dating crazies, I'm not here to judge, I like 'em a little loopy myself—who the fuck does that and doesn't check to see if @Qwikster is available on Twitter? (The fact that the kid who had that account turned out to be a weed-smoking gamer who couldn't spell is beside the point; I tweet about way weirder shit than that in the right/wrong mood.) The middle of the night e-mails from CEO Reed Hastings with phrases like “I screwed up” that read like a crazy girl/boyfriend's LiveJournal where they're getting all emo about the fact that no one gets that the flaming hamsters are an artistic statement and the aluminum foil thong was a reference to the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz and Sean Connery in Zardoz, because come on ANYONE should be expected to intuit that link, right?

After all that, Hastings apparently got a fresh lithium prescription, because Monday it was announced that there would be no split, no name change to Qwikster, no change in the price increase. All back to normal! That psychotic break NEVER HAPPENED. Sure, I'm not like them. I can pretend. As long as they don't act the fool again, I'll stick with Netflix and even stop making (too much) fun of them once I'm done writing this column. As inexplicable as their decision-making has been throughout this affair, my lone bit of worry was that they'd go tits up before an adequate replacement was ready to assume Netflix's place in the market. Because really, they can act as crazy as they like, raise their prices, and write all the angsty unprofessional e-mails they want. JUST DON'T LEAVE ME!!! (Seriously, though, I really do hope they're actually done with the bullshit this time.)

Danny Bowes' is a prolific writer and critic who lives in New York City. You can look for his column every Wednesday, and read him online at moviesbybowes.blogspot.com.

TrackBack URI for this entry

Comments (0)

Subscribe to this comment's feed