When I first started working in neurosurgery research in the early 1990s, I was young, slightly clever, and very naive. The residents and fellows were kind enough, but they never let me forget that their intellect was, shall we say, several cortical layers above mine. They spoke in a language I was still learning; a mix of anatomy, irony, and confidence that only comes from operating on the human brain before breakfast.

One afternoon, while I was updating one of the many research databases I was responsible for, a resident made a comment that caught me off guard. I don’t remember the words now, only the feeling. It was that momentary sting when someone reminds you, however gently, that they believe themselves to be the smartest person in the room. I must have given him a look, because he paused, smiled, and said, “You think I’m an intellectual snob, don’t you?”

I said nothing, but my expression probably confirmed it.

Lately, though, I’ve found myself revisiting that moment. I’ll be sitting on my couch, scrolling past the endless stream of new American television shows trying to settle on one for my spouse and I to watch as we enjoy our evening meal. To my dismay, all I see are fast cuts, graphic violence, and emotional bluntness. Recently, during this fairly regular occurrence, I thought of that resident. Because somewhere between Murder, She Wrote and CSI: Wherever, I seem to have developed an allergy to modern television.

I don’t mean to sound superior. Truly. But most nights, I’d rather rewatch Inspector Lewis, New Tricks, or Midsomer Murders; British mysteries that trust the viewer to think, than sit through another grim, hyper-lit, “gritty reboot” of something that probably didn’t need rebooting in the first place.

It’s not that I dislike American TV. The older shows, like Columbo, Murder, She Wrote, Perry Mason, even MASH, I find to be clever, humane, and often quietly profound. They respected the audience’s intelligence. They left space for wit, irony, and moral tension. These were stories that believed in the slow satisfaction of logic and empathy.

Now, much of what’s produced feels like noise; endless movement, endless trauma, and so little thought. It’s as though television once assumed we were thoughtful adults and now assumes we’ll only stay awake if something explodes before the next commercial break.

What’s Happened to American Television?

Maybe that makes me sound like an intellectual snob. But I don’t think I am one. I just miss being spoken to as if my mind, not my adrenaline or anxiety, was the point of contact between storyteller and audience.

Once upon a time, American television excelled at that kind of conversation. Shows like Columbo, Murder, She Wrote, Perry Mason, MASH, and even Matlock trusted viewers to follow a complex plot, to recognize irony, and to care about the characters. They were written with intelligence and moral texture, often with a dose of humor and humility. You could watch Jessica Fletcher outthink a murderer without ever seeing the crime itself; the thrill was in her reasoning, not the blood.

Those shows understood something that seems almost radical now: that restraint can heighten emotion, and that suggestion can be more powerful than spectacle. You didn’t need to watch a murder to feel its impact. The aftermath, the loss, the unraveling of motive were enough.

In contrast, so much of today’s programming feels like it’s been designed by an algorithm: fast, loud, relentlessly sensational. Every scene must shock or twist or trigger. Every character must be deeply traumatized by something, and every story must promise to “go darker” next season. Subtlety, it seems, doesn’t test well in focus groups.

And then there’s the problem of the remake. When I scroll through new releases, I often feel as though I’m visiting a museum of recycled ideas: yet another reboot of a show that was fine the first time, another sequel to a movie that had already found its ending. Personally, the remakes rarely capture the original thoughtfulness; the exception for me was the Hawaii Five-O reboot, now out of production. It’s curious how remakes dominate contemporary American media, while original, intellectually engaging stories feel increasingly rare. It’s as though the creative imagination of a culture once famed for invention has decided that the safest route forward is to walk backwards.

I don’t mean that nothing good comes out of Hollywood anymore. There are still bright spots, with flashes of originality, and moments of grace. But they’re rare enough to feel like exceptions. I can’t help wondering: when did television lose faith in the power of thought? When did it become afraid to be quiet?

The British Difference

That’s probably why I find myself turning, more and more, to British television. Not because it’s inherently superior, but because it still offers what I’ve come to crave; stories that breathe, that think, and that trust the viewer to do the same.

Take Inspector Lewis, Vera, George Gently, or Midsomer Murders. The pacing is deliberate, the writing intelligent, and the violence understated. Murders happen, of course; it’s the genre, after all. But, they rarely linger on. The camera pulls back, and the storytelling leans inward. The focus isn’t on the blood, but on the reason it was spilled.

Even the more modern series, like Sherlock with Benedict Cumberbatch, manage to honor that tradition. It’s fast and clever, and full of wit and visual flair. But beneath its flash, is a genuine respect for intellect. It doesn’t pander; it plays chess with the audience. You’re expected to keep up. And that expectation, that invitation to think along, feels like a gift.

There’s something deeply satisfying about that kind of trust. British television, at its best, seems to assume that its viewers are intelligent adults who can appreciate subtlety, irony, and silence. The dialogue carries weight. The humor is dry. The detectives are weary but dignified. They portray people who’ve seen too much, perhaps, but who still believe that logic and compassion can coexist.

And then there’s the atmosphere. The geography itself feels like a character: fog over the fells, stone villages, the hush of an Oxford quad at twilight. These settings don’t just decorate the story; they shape it. In British mysteries, place often reveals as much as plot. The landscape mirrors the moral terrain; beautiful, layered, and just a little haunted.

It’s not nostalgia, exactly, though perhaps there’s a touch of that too. It’s the comfort of narrative order. Chaos is resolved by thought, and cruelty undone by insight. Watching an episode of Inspector Lewis or Poirot feels like stepping into a moral conversation where reason still matters.

Why the Difference Matters

Maybe that’s what I miss most. Not the old shows themselves, but the idea that entertainment and intellect once belonged in the same room. When did we decide that thinking and feeling were opposites?

Television, at its best, used to assume that the viewer wanted to engage, not just to watch. Rather, participate in a story’s reasoning. It trusted our curiosity. We weren’t just consuming; we were decoding. The pleasure came from being part of the investigation, whether the mystery unfolded in a cozy English village or a New York courtroom.

Now, so much of what we see is engineered to provoke instant reaction rather than sustained reflection. The goal is no longer understanding but impact. It’s a visceral punch every ten minutes to keep us from looking at our phones. And perhaps that’s the root of it: storytelling has adapted to a distracted audience. In trying to hold our attention, it’s lost its patience, and with it, its depth.

British television, particularly the kind I’m drawn to, seems to have resisted that panic. It moves at a human pace. It allows silence, subtext, ambiguity. A pause is not an absence. It’s an invitation. A glance between characters can reveal more than an entire American monologue delivered over a car chase. The writing assumes we can notice and interpret.

That difference in tempo and tone feels almost radical in today’s climate. In a world saturated with overstimulation, these quieter shows offer a refuge for the intellect. They are a reminder that thoughtfulness is not the enemy of feeling, but its companion.

When I watch George Gently contemplate the shifting moral landscape of the 1960s, or Vera unravel a crime with empathy and intelligence rather than bravado and choreographed fight sequences, I feel something more than just entertained, I feel restored. These stories remind me that intelligence and decency can coexist, that complexity need not be cynical, and that the human mind still hungers for connection that goes deeper than spectacle.

Am I an Intellectual Snob?

When I think back to that day in the neurosurgery library; to that young, slightly clever, and very naive version of myself, I can still see the resident’s grin when he asked, “You think I’m an intellectual snob, don’t you?” At the time, I was sure the answer was yes. But now, decades later, as I sip tea and rewatch Inspector Lewis instead of whatever new high-octane crime drama is trending on American streaming platforms, I sometimes wonder if I owe him an apology.

Have I become what I once accused him of being? Maybe a little. But I hope not. Because what I’m really longing for isn’t elitism, it’s thoughtfulness. I want to be engaged, not overwhelmed; to be trusted as a viewer capable of paying attention. I want stories that treat intellect not as arrogance but as curiosity, that believe reflection is still part of entertainment.

That’s what the old American shows gave us, and what the best British ones still do. They remind us that intelligence and empathy can live in the same sentence, that moral complexity doesn’t have to be wrapped in cynicism, and that subtlety still has power.

So no, I don’t think I’ve become an intellectual snob. I think I’ve simply grown protective of imagination.

The Enduring Power of Thoughtful Stories 

Even beyond television, I notice how the world has changed. When I was in graduate school, I spent hours in the library, surrounded by books, following threads of knowledge wherever they led. There were no instant answers, just quiet, patient discovery. Today, information is immediate, and even AI can provide solutions faster than a human mind can reason through them.

Perhaps technology changes how we apply our minds more than it changes our minds themselves. For me, British mysteries, with their deliberate pacing and intellectual nuance, feel like a rare space where thoughtfulness is still honored, where curiosity and reflection are rewarded.

Maybe that’s what I miss most: the expectation that viewers and readers will not just passively consume, but engage. That intelligence is not an ornament but a tool for understanding the world. Shows like Inspector Lewis or Vera remind me that complexity need not be cynical and that reflection and empathy can coexist. When I watch them, I feel restored.

After all, there’s a kind of mutual respect in a well-written mystery. Like a quiet pact between storyteller and viewer. “I’ll give you the clues, if you’ll bring your mind.” In a world that rewards noise and instant gratification, perhaps the real luxury is a story that asks us to think. And for now, I’m perfectly content to let someone else chase the criminals across Los Angeles. I’ll “stay” in Oxford, thank you; where the murders are tidy, the detectives are literate, and the tea is always hot.