Riverdale has achieved the modern miracle of relevancy in our sleazy, attention-deficit world. It’s anyone’s guess how it managed to do that, and as someone who’s seen almost all (6 out of 7 seasons) of the show, I can tell you I am just as confused as you are. Even today, almost a year after the airing of its finale, social media is still abuzz with the brain-melting blunders of Riverdale. A handful of fresh-faced Hollywood wannabes signed a contract in 2017, essentially selling their souls to the devil, and over the next two-thirds of a decade would find themselves driven to hysteria by the most maddening TV show ever created.
Now, I should disclaim that my roommates and I only think to put on Riverdale when our decision-making neurons have been sufficiently dulled by various intoxicants (we’re all 21 and over, I promise). So it’s possible my opinion of the monster to CW’s Frankenstein won’t stand in court. But if some small part of you has ever wondered just how much a teen drama can torture its actors in the span of seven seasons, I have a few thoughts.
Riverdale is an addiction. It starts off strong – the first season’s defining success triggered a whole host of gritty remakes, the most memorable being The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina. There were always cracks in the script, humbling everyone with their name in the credits, but the plot was seductive and actually made sense at the time. Anyone who kept watching after that was either tasteful enough to give up when it started to stink, or the kind of person who can’t look away from a car crash. I am realizing, as I type these words, that I belong to the second category.
In the six seasons since, Riverdale has redefined the word “cringe” with every cut-scene. It’s so incredibly out of touch that in one episode, Pop Tate’s granddaughter travels back in time to stop MLK Jr. from being assassinated – and fails. You may have heard that the finale ends with Jughead, Betty, Archie, and Veronica in a polycule; I haven’t seen it carried out yet, but I’m too desensitized to have a normal reaction to that information. Riverdale relies on shock value to the point of robbing its viewers of any emotion but slack-jawed contempt.
I’ve seen Archie sacrificed to a cult, Jughead fake his own death, Betty become an FBI agent who sees auras, and Veronica kill a man by having sex with him. Worse, I’ve seen them all sing. There’s no excuse for enjoying such foul content, and I will not claim to have one, but here’s a clip of a musical scene (or fever dream) in season 6 that I confess to adding on Spotify.
The brilliance of Riverdale, for those burned out and delirious enough to find it, is its unintentional campiness. After season 3, the show has no perceivable audience. A parody of its own prototype, funded by some evil miracle, it exists only to answer the question “Why not?” Riverdale is an aberration of storytelling, an omen of end times, a plea to the gods to punish humanity for its hubris. The writers seem to have no idea. In the words of executive producer Sarah Schechter, in an interview with Variety, “There’s a maturity to it that I love so much.”
Maybe the whole thing was a money laundering front, who’s to say. At this point, I feel like I signed the same contract the actors did all those years ago, sentencing myself to insanity alongside them. K.J. Apa feels it too, judging by his TikTok presence; if we have anything in common, it’s our commitment to the bit. My roommates and I will finish Riverdale. We will not be better off for having done so, but someone has to do it. You’re welcome, I guess.