The West Wing has been off the air for almost a decade, but like any truly beloved show, it has led to some unexpected and far-reaching repercussions. In 2012, VanityFair explored how the NBC political drama inspired droves of idealistic young people — who had originally watched the series as teenagers — to move to Washington, D.C., and seek out jobs in national politics.
This year, NBC's second great political series is coming to an end. Parks & Recreation has never achieved the mass cultural penetration of The West Wing, but I suspect we'll see a similar effect to the West Wing on local governments within the next six years, as younger fans of Parks & Recreation launch their own careers. At a time when TV's other politically oriented series approach the subject with skepticism and cynicism, Parks & Recreation stands as the rare show that argues government can actually make a positive difference in people's lives.
Parks & Recreation is everything a great sitcom should be: hilarious, heartwarming, and endlessly rewatchable. But the real brilliance of Parks & Recreation is its ability to take the best qualities of the workplace sitcom — well-drawn characters, evolving relationships, an endless supply of situations to tackle — and move them into a political landscape. Leslie Knope and her colleagues aren't hanging out at an apartment, or a coffee shop, or a bar, or even a conventional white-collar office; they're at City Hall, dealing with everything from citywide health initiatives, to historical landmarks, to a full-scale government shutdown.
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When it premiered in 2009, Parks & Recreation was essentially promoted as an Amy Poehler–fronted riff on The Office (complete with Office alum Rashida Jones to ease the transition). But even during its growing pains, Parks & Recreation embedded a surprising amount of political insight into its core narrative. In an interview with The Huffington Post, showrunner Michael Schur says that was the plan from the beginning:
"It was like, we're going to create people with completely polar opposite viewpoints and show that they can disagree strenuously on every single aspect of the way the world should function and still like each other, speak to each other in a respectful manner, collaborate on certain issues, teach each other certain things about the other's point of view that are actually real and logical and make sense and are practical and function. Really, that was it. It was, can we function as a country when we're heading toward these opposite ends of the spectrum?" [The Huffington Post]
Schur's description of Parks & Recreation is almost saccharine, and the show's central relationship — between the doggedly progressive Leslie Knope and her diehard libertarian boss, Ron Swanson — certainly fits that bill. But that's only half of the show's take on politics. If the love and respect between the colleagues in the Parks Department is the show's gooey center, the political landscape of Pawnee is the hard shell surrounding it.
Parks & Recreation's surprisingly canny take on modern politics can be seen in season two's "Sweetums." When local candy company Sweetums makes a bid to take over the snack bars at the public parks, Leslie objects, citing a concern for public health; Sweetums' allegedly "nutritious" snacks contain the same ingredients used to fatten cattle for human consumption. In a public forum, Leslie presents the information to the town's residents — who, having sampled the new snacks, overwhelmingly vote in favor of letting Sweetums control the snack bars anyway. Leslie's friend Ann, a nurse, is enraged — but having done her best to make a change, Leslie is ready to let the issue go. "You know what? We did our job," says Leslie. "We informed the public. That's all we can do."
This is a remarkably nuanced argument to make about the role of local government in a single 22-minute episode — and that's not even allowing for how "Sweetums" packs in several subplots and a slew of hilarious gags. Parks & Recreation has routinely juggled all these elements, finding a kind of middle ground between the hyper-idealism of The West Wing, the caustic satire of Veep, and the ludicrous cynicism of House of Cards.
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Parks & Recreation finds the nobility in the mundane work of serving a community that generally ignores or opposes the things you believe will make their lives better. The moments when Leslie does receive recognition for her tireless work — the revival of a beloved town festival, or a hard-fought election to city council — are all the richer for the endless gridlock she suffers through. It's a fable, but a clear-eyed one; for all Leslie's passion and accomplishments over the show's six seasons so far, there have always been at least as many setbacks (including a painful recall from the city council seat she spent an entire season winning).
By flashing ahead to 2017 for its final season, Parks & Recreation is incoporating one last political message into its narrative. Leslie Knope is now the regional director for the National Park Service in the Midwest — a huge step up from the deputy director for the parks service in a single Indiana town. But success hasn't led to the completion of her professional goals; it's just made her professional goals that much bigger. In last night's premiere episode, Leslie calls her latest aspiration — the establishment of a brand-new national park in Pawnee — the kind of legacy-making project she could retire on. But Leslie Knope is far too driven for retirement to be a reality. After all, Parks & Recreation has spent six seasons arguing that a public servant's job is never done.
Scott Meslow is the entertainment editor for TheWeek.com. He has written about film and television at publications including The Atlantic, POLITICO Magazine, and Vulture.
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