22 October 2015 is, in some respects, a historic date for the Italian entertainment industry. On that day Netflix landed in our country: the video streaming and on demand platform, already active in the United States since 1997, by now a giant in its sector.
A worldwide success that was in some ways foretold, and that immediately won the favour of critics and audiences in Italy too, a country often not very receptive to innovation, especially in the cinematic field (without dwelling on specific cases, think of the constant and endless criticism levelled at our domestic cinema, incapable, according to many industry experts, of producing works that are competitive on the international market; this criticism, like the overwhelming majority of such judgements, is true and reasonable, but only in part, though this is not the occasion to discuss the difficulties and strengths of our cinema). And the numbers demonstrate Netflix's overwhelming success: 98.75 million total users in more than 190 countries, 42.5 billion hours of programming watched in 2015 alone (an average of 100 hours a day), for a total investment by the American company of 7 billion dollars (5 of which invested in original content, and 1 in technology and product development planned for 2017)
Beyond the more strictly technical and economic components, what matters here, and what makes the Netflix formula a winning one from the outset, is undoubtedly the quality of what it offers.
An exemplary case is that of what is perhaps the most famous series produced by the American giant, House of Cards – Gli Intrighi del Potere (House of Cards, Beau Willimon, 2013-ongoing): thanks to the presence of an actor of the calibre of two-time Academy Award winner Kevin Spacey, and above all by exploiting a premise and a screenplay capable of grafting themselves immediately onto the viewer's collective imagination and onto the paranoid postmodern frustrations typical of our times (the power games and conspiracies that drive politics), the series was an immediate worldwide success, a kind of revolution in the language of the TV series comparable, in certain respects, to the impact once had by I Segreti di Twin Peaks (Twin Peaks, 1990-1991) by David Lynch and Mark Frost.

What immediately stands out, and where the strength of the Los Gatos company lies, is probably the, for now, almost constant quality of its original series. Take, for example, what should be regarded as a genuine media phenomenon, Stranger Things (id., Duffer Brothers, 2016-ongoing): drawing inspiration from cornerstones of science fiction such as Steven Spielberg or Stephen King, the series immediately takes its place among the great modern classics of the genre, riding the emotional wave of a certain 1970s-80s sci-fi revival. What we witness is the almost sentimental, but certainly sincere and devoted, recovery of much of that whole catalogue of cult titles that are essential for any science fiction enthusiast worthy of the name: E.T. l’Extra-terrestre (E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial, Steven Spielberg, 1982), La Cosa (The Thing, John Carpenter, 1982), Nightmare – Dal Profondo della Notte (A Nightmare on Elm Street, Wes Craven, 1984), I Goonies (The Goonies, Richard Donner, 1985) and Stand by me – Ricordo di un’Estate (Stand by me, Rob Reiner, 1986). Supported by an excellent screenplay capable of engaging both the viewer most nostalgic for Spielberg's dreamlike atmospheres and the newcomer little accustomed to the typically "artisanal" science fiction of the 1980s (consider that fully 79% of the Netflix addicted audience is made up of so-called millennials, for the most part more used to the CGI and explosions of Michael Bay and his imitators than to the modern fairy tales of a Spielberg), the series succeeds in the not easy task of captivating the viewer because it manages to fuse those typical, immediately engaging values characteristic of the cinema from which it draws inspiration (one above all: friendship, a cornerstone of films such as Stand by me or IT), without lapsing into the banal or the mawkish, in a pleasant play of references and quotations that is in no way cloying or gratuitous; the whole thing in no way resembles a mere operation of reviving certain eighties stylistic features or a sentimental homage for the use and consumption of a few fans, but manages to carry into the new millennium filmic elements rooted in a cinema that one might apparently think lost or impossible to reproduce.

So what is it that makes Netflix the protagonist of such an immediate and highly predictable success?
Beyond its undeniable foresight and its capacity to invest in sometimes neglected sectors, what is striking is the almost absolute freedom of writing that the company grants its screenwriters, allowing them to take paths that are usually rarely trodden.
In this regard, consider another great Netflix success, Orange is the new Black (id., Jenji Kohan, 2013-ongoing). The insight behind its success lies in the idea, as simple as it is unprecedented, of serialising a genre very much in vogue in 1970s exploitation cinema, itself updated and given a glossy finish to meet today's rules of television consumption: the women in prison genre, once considered extreme or at least uncomfortable, with titles such as Sesso in Gabbia (The Big Doll House, Jack Hill, 1971), Femmine in Gabbia (Caged Heat, Jonathan Demme, 1974) or our own Violenza in un Carcere Femminile (1982) by Bruno Mattei.
Two other recent successes produced by Netflix fit into this kind of project: The OA (id., Brit Marling and Zal Batmanglij, 2016-ongoing) and Tredici (13 Reason Why, Brian Yorkey, 2017-ongoing): albeit with differing degrees of acclaim, these two products too stand out for their originality and above all for their freedom of writing and willingness to take risks, without any kind of limitation whatsoever. In the case of The OA we find ourselves in the territory of teen fantasy that in certain respects tries to echo the atmospheres that made Stranger Things a success (friendship again, but perhaps, owing also to a fairly predictable plot twist and a rather creaky screenplay, the comparison with the Duffer Brothers' series is lost from the start), while Tredici succeeds in the arduous task of not trivialising the delicate subject of bullying in American schools, exploiting a narrative structure that is simple yet at the same time captivating, represented by the first-person account of the protagonist who, through a set of audio cassettes, explains the 13 reasons that led her to take her own life, in a very effective rising climax, to which must be added the credibility of the characters portrayed, in no way stereotyped, but contradictory in their being adolescents.
But in this discussion there is one series above all, within Netflix's multiform offering, that best represents the freedom of action granted by the American company, and that is Sense8 (id., 2015-ongoing). Written and directed by two absolute stars such as the Wachowski sisters, Sense8 is a unicum in its genre, a product as peculiar as it is fascinating. Free (at last) from the production and screenplay constraints so often imposed by Hollywood, the authors of the celebrated Matrix (The Matrix, 1999) were able to give free rein to their creativity, giving life to a complex and varied universe which, thanks also to the medium of the television series, allowed them to explore in a single stroke the most diverse and even antithetical cinematic genres, in a kind of kaleidoscopic layering of meanings. The series, on the whole assignable to the macro-category of urban fantasy, ranges with ease from the typically South American telenovela to wuxia (Chinese martial arts literature), from German crime drama to the musical, allowing the two authors to stage in an almost anarchic manner an incredible array of cinematic registers as had never been seen before, there where they had failed, unsuccessfully, with an ambitious project such as Cloud Atlas (id., 2012).

But, beyond the novelty of the subjects presented in its catalogue, the freedom of writing, or better still of rewriting, guaranteed by Netflix is also realised in terms of the renewal of the genres themselves, revolutionising categories that today's viewer knows very well.
Two exemplary cases are worth examining, distant from one another because they belong to two diametrically opposed genres, but significant of what has just been said: Making a Murderer (id., Laura Ricciardi and Moira Demos, 2015) and BoJack Horseman (id., Raphael-Bob Waksberg, 2014-ongoing).
In the first case we are in the realm of the crime-themed documentary, the docu-crime: unfolding over 10 episodes (and thus securing the audience's loyalty through a murky crescendo), the series examines the shocking case of Steven Avery and his family, imprisoned for fully 18 years for a crime he seems not to have committed. Although it relies on a viewpoint that in certain respects might be accused of bias, Making a Murder nonetheless lays bare a theme very dear to contemporary public opinion, namely the distortions and the illegality of American justice and the abuses that are its corollary. It is no coincidence that, thanks also to the enormous success the series enjoyed and the emotional involvement of the public that resulted from it, it appears the case may be reopened (and therefore that there may be a second season).
BoJack Horseman, on the other hand, belongs to the "adult cartoons", a genre that includes series now indispensable to the collective imagination such as I Simpson or South Park. If, precisely thanks to these last two titles and their strong irreverent and satirical component, this particular kind of modern animation seemed to have nothing left to say, with BoJack Horseman a further evolution and renewal is achieved, a genuine revolution for the genre, as well as a new starting point for interesting future developments. Indeed, if to the less attentive eye this animated series might seem the umpteenth reworking of by now overused conventions (comic situations, even gratuitous ones, and all the baggage typical of the genre), there are instead substantial differences that elevate it and make it a unique case of admirable craftsmanship. BoJack Horseman, in fact, despite its rather fanciful formal premises, in which anthropomorphic animals live freely alongside human beings against the backdrop of the Hollywood jet set, relies on a realism unusual for this kind of animation, recounting the vices and idiosyncrasies of a horse-actor, the star of a 1980s sitcom in the style of La Famiglia Brady (The Brady Bunch, Sherwood Schwartz, 1969-1974), who has fallen from grace, in the throes of an artistic and existential crisis, and incapable of returning to the spotlight in a world, that of the entertainment industry, now too far removed from the one he was used to. Inevitably one laughs, but what emerges is a bitter laughter: there is a kind of melancholy and sadness that permeate the 3 seasons produced so far, and the viewer is irretrievably captured by the mediocritas to which BoJack is condemned, owing to modern times and a few wrong life choices. Another strength of the series, which to this day makes Bokjack Horseman a unicum in its genre, is the type of serialisation chosen: for the first time we do not watch self-contained episodes, but the series deals with a precise and unified plot that develops across the episodes making up each season, thus taking up the serial form typical of the modern productions that feature flesh-and-blood actors. This too could be described, in its own way, as a further trait of that characteristic realism mentioned above, one that seems to deliberately set BoJack Horseman apart from the rest of comparable products: it is no coincidence that another highly successful series such as South Park has recently structured its own latest seasons in this way, acknowledging the undeniable impact of the Netflix production.

Beyond the quality of its original productions, another point in the American giant's favour is undoubtedly its ability to identify and continue the seasons of a whole range of products that are hard to place on the more strictly mainstream market but that enjoy a devoted following, and are for this reason much sought after by the enthusiast audience, especially in the underground world of more or less legal streaming et similia. Black Mirror (id., Charlie Brooker, 2011-ongoing) certainly falls into this second category. The skilful combination of a dystopia not too far removed from our own reality and a merciless analysis of today's systems of communication and socialisation has made the English sci-fi series a genuine cult object among fans of more mature science fiction and beyond: a product that is indeed peculiar in being almost "niche", but by now too appealing, given its large following (see the almost endless forums, blogs and articles ready to debate any cue offered by any episode of the series), to be snubbed.
Finally, beyond the investments made in individual authors or productions, Netflix's foresight must also be considered in terms of its collaborations with other parties, such as production companies. Recent, in fact, is the news that the American company has signed the Japanese studio Production I.G, which specialises in anime of excellent quality and success: worth recalling, among the many productions that made it famous, is a masterpiece such as Ghost in the Shell (攻殻機動隊 Kōkaku Kidōtai, Mamoru Oshii, 1995), the collaboration with Quentin Tarantino for the animated sequences of Kill Bill Vol.1 (id., 2003), the co-productions with the famous Gainax and Ghibli studios, up to the production of some of the most successful animated TV series such as Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex (攻殻機動隊 STAND ALONE COMPLEX Kōkaku Kidōtai Stand Alone Complex, 2002-2003), Psycho-Pass (サイコパス Saikopasu, 2012) or L’Attacco dei Giganti (進撃の巨人 Shingeki no kyojin, 2013-ongoing). Similarly, the collaboration with another Japanese animation studio, Polygon Productions, must be viewed through the same lens, along with all the animated series in the pipeline that already look like foregone successes: Devilman Crybaby (from 2018), the first faithful adaptation of the manga by the master Go Nagai, the animated film of Blame! (ブラム！ Buramu!, scheduled for 2017), the opus magnum of Tsutomu Nihei, and the distribution of Death Note (id., Adam Wingard, 2017), a live action version of the celebrated comic that was a publishing sensation in 2006. By thus intercepting a highly profitable slice of the market such as that of Japanese animation, and by betting on productions that are never banal, Netflix has once again shown itself capable and skilful at entering, well ahead of the curve, a strategic sector such as that of mature, quality Japanese animation; what has been said about the television series therefore also applies to animation and to all the other forms of entertainment offered by the American company, namely the making of products that are of high quality, never banal, at times unusual, but that manage to meet the constantly evolving tastes of an increasingly demanding audience in search of new creative ideas.

It is therefore no coincidence, as recent analyses reveal, that fully 76% of users believe Netflix will soon replace traditional TV: a figure that certainly needs to be put in context, but that nonetheless clearly explains how the times are changing, both in terms of reception and audience and in terms of the productions, now far removed from the glorious "light" entertainment of the 1980s TV series.
And indeed Netflix's various competitors are not standing idly by, adapting and offering ever more modern and interesting products themselves. Setting aside the intricate world of US cable television (which would deserve a discussion of its own), consider the return of Twin Peaks (id., David Lynch and Mark Frost, 2017), probably the most important event in the sector for the 2017 season, or the ambitious projects distributed by the Amazon Prime platform, the on demand service of the giant Amazon: American Gods (id., Bryan Fuller and Michael Green, 2017), based on the novel of the same name by Neal Gaiman, and The Man on High Castle (id., Frank Spotnitz, 2015-ongoing), inspired by La Svastica sul Sole (The Man in the High Castle, 1962) by Philip K. Dick and produced entirely by Amazon itself.
It is therefore beyond doubt that today Netflix's success no longer represents an isolated case, but a model to draw on and, above all, one capable of guaranteeing quality, in stark contrast to certain now outdated production processes of the film industry, represented by shoddy productions aimed at a consumption that is approximate at best.

Marco Ramacci. A graduate in Modern Literature, he works on contemporary culture (cinema, art, literature, music and comics), in particular the so-called underground cultures, and on communication and Social Media Marketing. Since July 2016 he has been editor-in-chief of Studi Umbri.