Television: Their Major Is Alienation

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And what, after all, is popularity? Popularity--basing cliques on money and genes and je ne sais quoi--is class with training wheels. In a country that pretends it is entirely middle class, high school series serve as surrogate examinations of social barriers. (Or certain ones: while the great dramatic potential of high school comes from its throwing together kids whose parents don't work or play together, these shows are almost uniformly white.) This In crowd-obsessed setting comes as close as is Nielsen-feasible to admitting that class is still in session: that it does matter where you were born and what you own, that there are invisible psychological obstacles to moving outside your circle, that social mobility is hardly frictionless. When school brain Lindsay Weir on Freaks, for instance, mixes with a crowd of rebels, she is dallying with kids who, as one puts it, "shoplift in [her] daddy's store." Roswell, likewise, explores nature-vs.-nurture questions through its teen aliens--two were adopted by a well-off family; the other grew up poorer in unloving foster homes--though Katims is cautious not to come off as issue oriented: "If you have a message," he says, "send a telegram."

Whereas Popular--in which a gorgeous, blond teen goddess and a gorgeous (but brunet) rebel become stepsisters-to-be--appears to have Western Union on speed dial. The original pilot (which is being expanded to two hours) takes on body image, eating disorders and virginity, just for starters. Co-creators Ryan Murphy and Gina Matthews talk excitedly about future theme issues: cheating, fame, the social pecking order (Bibb's cheerleader is named Brooke McQueen--get it?). They aim to make, as Murphy calls it, "a Zeitgeist show" that nails the teen experience du jour with rapid-response precision; they repeat "reality" and "real" like mantras.

But can adults create a realistic high school show? Does anyone want them to? High school shows succeed by offering sexy fantasies (Dawson) or outlandish stories that ring psychologically true (Buffy). What may save Popular is not its pandering to hipness but its willingness to skewer social haves and have-nots and its satiric, Heathers-ish flourishes (the popular girls, e.g., hang out in a velvety school powder room called "the Novak," as in Kim). Freaks, a sweet and funny character study, is probably the "realest" of the bunch and the best fall drama aimed at any demographic. But it is two decades removed from the way teens live now, with good reason: "We couldn't recreate high school today," creator Paul Feig cheerfully concedes. "All the slang would be 10 years old."

The irony is that Freaks, the least strenuously hip of the shows, may stand the strongest chance of controversy. The "freaks" of the title are Led Zeppelin-listening Midwestern burnouts who smoke--not just tobacco, of course. "The show will never be pro pot," executive producer Judd Apatow avers. "But every time a kid smokes pot, you can't show him coughing and retching and losing his mind."