Her View: In a money-driven world profit shouldn’t be everything

Two weeks ago my favorite television show was canceled.

This of course happens all the time and it’s not the end of the world. It is, however, the end of a world — in this case, a world of singing and dancing and vulnerable, relatable characters.

During the pandemic, starting with the panic of lockdown all the way through to the relief of vaccination, this show was a welcome escape for me. Each week I curled up on the couch with my favorite blanket and a mug of hot cocoa and immersed myself in a colorful world of peppy songs, will-they-or-won’t-they romances, and just the right combination of much needed laughter and cathartic tears.

It didn’t hurt that one of the lead characters was cute. Like, really cute. Like, my husband was getting nervous cute.

Unfortunately the super cute lead character wasn’t enough to save the show, and its network opted not to renew beyond its second season. Turns out a show with big dance numbers to choreograph and music rights to purchase is pricey and the network didn’t think the viewership justified the expense.

I understand. A television network is a for-profit business. It doesn’t have a charity component and has no obligation to keep a show on the air just because it provides emotional release to a working mom of five in northern Idaho.

Still, it feels like a punch to the gut when the network cuts something sweet and touching because it’s too expensive, then turns around and replaces it with an even more expensive, over-the-top cop drama with stunts and explosions and special effects. Sure, the new show is a lot sexier and more likely to bring in the cheddar. One is desperately needed but doesn’t make any money. The other costs way more to do, it isn’t needed, but if you can siphon enough viewers from the other cop dramas out there you might make a pretty penny.

I would have some sympathy for a network that came out and said, “We’re on the verge of going broke so we need to cut all the feel-good stuff and focus on explosions.” I might still disagree, but I would understand the need to remain solvent. But right now I feel like this network isn’t interested in retaining me as a customer. My viewership and my advertising-influenced spending dollars just aren’t as valuable as someone else’s.

I’ve felt like this before. I once worked at a place where departments were openly categorized as revenue-producing and money-sucking. (This was put more eloquently using corporate jargon, but that was the gist.) At first, employees in the revenue-producing departments felt valued and important while, naturally, those in the money-sucking departments did not. Before long resentment grew between the two groups — those who brought in money felt entitled to more compensation, more resources, and more attention from leadership while the supporting departments lost all desire to support those puffed-up departments even though they previously had been more than happy to do so.

Surprisingly, it didn’t take long before even the money-making departments grew dissatisfied. Turns out knowing you’re financially valuable to the company only tides you over for so long.

This was explored in a study conducted in 2019 by Baylor University’s Hankamer School of Business. The study (“The Influence of Supervisor Bottom-Line Mentality on Leader-Member Exchange and Subsequent Employee Performance”) found that when supervisors were driven by profits, it actually hurt the bottom line.

“Supervisors who only focus on profits to the exclusion of caring about other important outcomes, such as employee well-being or environmental or ethical concerns, turn out to be detrimental to employees,” said lead researcher Matthew Quade, PhD. As a result, employees are less productive, hurting the company’s bottom line.

The television network doesn’t owe me my feel-good musical programming; it is free to move forward with its gritty dramas. I don’t owe the network my patronage; I am free not to watch its new programming. Life will go on for both of us.

I just hope that somewhere out there there’s a streaming service that sees the value of me as a viewer and resurrects my favorite fictional world of singing and dancing and vulnerable, relatable characters.

Stellmon set sail for a three-hour tour on the Palouse in 2001. She is now happily marooned in Moscow with her spouse and five children.