Why television is replacing film as a creative promised land. By Ken Parish Perkins

I noticed a slight change in television content when Joss Whedon came on the scene and wrote some of the most marvelous lines for his characters on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. That the guy who wrote Alien: Resurrection and the fabulous Toy Story was able to turn a silly box-office flop into a TV drama about teenage isolation, make it a hit, and then add a spin-off (Angel) seemed to suggest that the small screen wasn’t just a hobby but also a desired destination.

This is worth a mention, since film has long been considered art while TV has been regarded as, among other things, a tube for boobs. No wonder serious actors aspired to films (the really serious ones did theater) and everyone else did TV. The medium was long considered the backup plan, the last resort, the place where filmmakers and stars lumbered to, hats shielding their faces as if they were in a perp walk, when box-office receipts weren’t kind and, all of a sudden, their calls weren’t being returned.

But these days, when the likes of Peter Berg, Brian Grazer, Ron Howard, Jerry Bruckheimer, Salma Hayek, John Wells, J.J. Abrams, Paul Haggis, Alan Ball, Aaron Sorkin, Whedon, and others have been or are responsible for shows like Arrested Development, Six Feet Under, Lost, CSI, The West Wing, Ugly Betty, and Cold Case, you figure they know something we don’t.

Here’s what they know: TV isn’t a vast wasteland as much as it’s a vast playground, a place where their visions are realized without having been thinned out or altogether shredded. Under corporate pressure to meet bottom lines, movies are mass productions, ­increasingly general and sanitized, while television, due to fragmentation, is becoming less so.

If you haven’t noticed, movies worth watching often don’t emerge until December, the only true month to see a first-run movie at the multiplex, unless you’re 16, and then it’s the summer blow-up-­everything season. Even the once-reliable independent film market is producing what look more like big studio messes, partly because many formerly independent film companies are part of studio specialty divisions now and therefore must adhere to the same criteria of turning in higher profit margins, luring bigger names, and generally watering down the personalized touch that made this market unique in the first place.

There’s certainly an upside to not having one’s individual vision beaten to a pulp, or, as Aaron Sorkin (whose Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip on NBC is his third series, after Sports Night for ABC and The West Wing for NBC) puts it, not being pushed aside once the screenplay is delivered. Besides, since television moves so briskly — it’s a little like making 22 movies a year — it’s more informal and less self-conscious. And isn’t self-consciousness the enemy of creativity?

“Everyone looks at art differently if they have the freedom to create it,” says Ryan Murphy, whose Nip/Tuck, set in the world of plastic surgery, airs on FX. “You have your boundaries, but it’s a little like painting on a blank canvas.” Particularly this season, in which, hoping to duplicate the high rates of viewer loyalty of serialized dramas such as Lost and 24, network bosses seemingly have given the car keys to their kids and said, “Have fun with it.”

There is plenty of new evidence to support this claim. Heroes is about ordinary people with extraordinary powers. The Nine chronicles the anatomy of a bank robbery. Big Day centers on the craziness of one wedding day. Notes from the Underbelly is the journal of a couple’s decision to conceive. Dexter is about a forensic expert who moonlights as a serial killer. Friday Night Lights offers the same ­overlayered grit and honesty as its movie predecessor. Day Break is about a cop trying to clear himself of murder while living the same day over and over again. Then there are established series, like The Sopranos, Scrubs, Weeds, My Name Is Earl, The Office, Veronica Mars, and The Wire, which I’d stack up against anything currently at the multiplex.

“Movies seem to be scared, whereas television seems to be like a teenager feeling his or her oats,” says veteran film actor James Woods, who plays an egotistical prosecutor in the CBS legal drama Shark, produced by Grazer. “It’s more sophisticated, more dynamic, more gut-wrenching. I chose this job for no other reason than it was the best thing I’ve read in 10 years, period.”

Television programming still remains a kind of suicide mission — it’s a given that well over half the shows won’t be around next season. But that also means some will be, and there’s always hope that more will follow next season, and more the next, until the day arrives when even bad slasher films no longer command more prestige than a high-quality drama.

We can hope, at least.