The fourth season so far has been sans so much—central characters, prestigious jobs, any real sense of innocence—that the show’s agonies are a fitting reflection not only of the show’s relationship to its network, but also to an American nation slogging through its own disappointing economic realities and a seemingly never-ending war. These are depressed and depressing times for the heartland and elsewhere, and a prevailing sentiment of resignation has permeated every plotline on offer this season. Eric’s transition to a difficult coaching position at a newly reopened East Dillon High, the ugly, underfunded stepsister of the flagship school Dillon High, has highlighted the easy overconfidence of that formerly prestigious institution–once the show’s centerpiece, Dillon High has been recast as cocky, overvalued, and corrupt, a tonal shift meant perhaps to invite comparison with the smug bravado that once characterized the American economy. Similarly difficult has been the death of Matt Saracen’s (Zach Gilford) absent soldier father, Buddy Garrity’s (Brad Leland) self-inflicted excommunication from the bloated booster club, and the capricious return of no-longer star Tim Riggins (Taylor Kitsch), who ditches a college scholarship only to find that the place he once called home ceases to be quite so hospitable. Watching the first episode of the season, which ends with Eric conceding an unwinnable game before its end for fear his battered, inexperienced players will sustain serious injury, a friend pointedly asked me, “didn’t this show used to be more fun?”

Well, no, not really, if we recall that the season one opener featured the shocking on-field paralysis of the team’s likeable star quarterback, Jason Street (Scott Porter). But the show’s current tone is more melancholy than melodramatic, an emotional resonance related to the fact that its unstable production and narrative history mirrors that of its national moment. Never allowed to be comfortable in its privilege, the show has taken class consciousness to a new level this season, with a willingness to engage seriously and painfully with the state of a bruised America. The class disparities that always informed the show now elbow into center frame—it is not so much sport, or sports, that drive the show, but rather images, such East Dillon’s barren, patchy playing field, its dilapidated buildings and its disaffected students. In response to such neglect, nihilism encroaches. Flashier narratives, including sport triumphs, puppy love, and jocular humor now read as luxuries of a previous time of youth (and previous seasons), replaced by often brutalizing grief. In this respect, the show is both recasting its history and mourning its losses, as we, its American viewership, simultaneously mourn and recast our own. If one accepts that this was once at least in part a show about adolescence, Friday Night Lights seems to be growing up fast.

Wow.  I’m just really a bit flabbergasted.  I feel like the “powers that Glee” (PTG) are really trying to combat complaints of minimal plot development.  After last week’s most excellent narrative-filled musical numbers, my hopes were high that they could maintain momentum this week.  It looked like they might be able to pull it off, but then it became Glee meets Friday Night Lights. Say it ain’t so!  Anyway, to me it seems as if they’re amid a generic struggle.  The musical—old school, at least—is not known for its riveting narrative development, but instead lets the music do its talking.  Last week worked just that way.  “Run, Joey, Run” and “Total Eclipse of the Heart” projected the show’s burgeoning love triangle through what it does best—dazzling video-esque numbers.  So, kudos PTG.

This week they almost scored with the same tactic.  They came ever so close to doing what musicals do well.  It looked as if the episode was really embracing the traditions of the genre.  “Jessie’s Girl” provided a fabulous mix of show-number and personal development soliloquy.  (And, come on, it’s “Jessie’s Girl.”  It made my day at least 5% better by its mere inclusion.)  The episode did an amazing job of using the duet (until they ruined it).  Secondary players took center and deftly blended musical integration and glee club performances.  Mercedes and Santana’s duet of “The Boy is Mine” melded a fierce narrative moment with classroom performance and then allowed the action to ultimately transcend the bounds of the song as the girls continued their catfight.  (It was a little bit Dreamgirls.)  Mercedes spontaneously joining Puck in “The Lady is a Tramp” was a touch of integrated perfection.  Kurt’s bookended solos—“Pink Houses” and “Rose’s (Kurt’s) Turn”—provided painfully poignant moments for a guy who has surely had some narrative high points, but doesn’t generally develop very far within the narrative.  I particularly liked the latter number (no offense, Mr. Mellencamp) and the lurky way his father appeared.  It felt very old school, when someone’s true feelings come through in the solo and a love interest happens upon the scene.  The following moments between father and son were heartbreaking, heartwarming, and all around fabulous.   (Equaling that extremely touching moment was Kurt asking Brittany, “what do boys’ lips taste like?”)

Then it happened.  TPG tried to kill the episode.  While they had been using musical integration beautifully to project inner turmoil and relational conflict to a level perhaps heretofore unaccomplished on the show, they went one step too far. They betrayed the old school version of the genre and went very special episode.  They tried to make the narrative go too far, too heartfelt, and well, just too weird.  Everyone knows what I mean. The plotline with the paralyzed ex-football player was just uncomfortable and exploitative, and by trying to fit him into the Glee format TPG created a giant, awkward, and offensive intrusion on an otherwise touching episode.  I’ll simply leave some questions here.  Why did we need that plotline?  Really, tonsillitis = total paralysis?  Was it supposed to be Rachel’s version of Sue’s sister?  Why did the poor guy have to be naked in the 2^nd scene?  Why is he the only guy not to have an overproduced voice (so he’s not only trapped in his damaged body, but he’s also trapped in his ill-sounding and unenhanced voice)? Why does Rachel not sound, act, or move like Rachel in that scene?  Did Lea just know how bad it was?  Why do they leave a nice group number (that almost allows you to forget how uncomfortable you just were) to return to the narrative-killing scene and the worst vocal stylings since early episodes of American Idol?  If they want us to pretend that the over-production is “real,” perhaps they shouldn’t point out that it isn’t.  Use your head, PTG!