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No network has felt the teen fallout more than the youth-heavy WB, home of both Felicity and Roswell; it has fallen to sixth place, behind UPN this season. CEO Jamie Kellner defends the network's focus: "You have to be able to define yourself, like any good brand, so when you see the logo, you can taste it." But clearly the network has felt pressure; the teen-alien drama Roswell has upped its focus on science fiction to stand out. "One thing the WB wanted us to do less of," says creator Jason Katims, "was scenes in the school, because there are so many shows on the air where you see high school or college hallways."
"The youth-zeitgeist factor didn't work for any of these shows," says J.J. Abrams, creator of Felicity (Wednesday, 9 p.m. E.T.). "There was definitely a glut." The college comedy-drama, much praised in its debut year, has struggled as a sophomore, prompting the risible and vaguely sexist criticism that the ratings dived because star Keri Russell cut her flowing, curly hair. (Would that Billy's dye job had done the same for Ally McBeal.) "It's something that a girl of that age, having gone through serious changes, would realistically do," says Abrams, who blames the drop-off on the cutting of a narrative strand instead: the co-ed protagonist left a long-term relationship at the start of the season. Whatever the problem, it hasn't been the dry-witted scripts--including a pitch-perfect Twilight Zone imitation--or the cast, which, with beautiful comic timing and depth of character, is now one of the most charming crack ensembles this side of Friends.
Though the show's ratings have perked since a time-slot change, it's still uncertain for renewal, as is Roswell (Monday, 9 p.m. E.T.), which just last fall was riding high on a 22-episode commitment. The triumph of Roswell is that it takes what sounds like an SNL skit--teen UFO-crash survivors in New Mexico--and plays it straight, with an eerie, noir beauty and stately pacing rare on today's chatty dramas. (Few series do pauses better than Roswell, thanks largely to Jason Behr, who plays alien Max like a junior Duchovny.)
If any of the trio see the fall, they can thank a young fan base with little better to do than badger TV execs, abetted by websites, the fanatic's best friend. Roswellians sent the WB thousands of bottles of Tabasco sauce, a favorite condiment of the aliens. (WB flacks reshipped bottles to TV critics nationwide.) Felicityphiles have sent in cassettes like the ones Felicity mails to her friend Sally--and, creepily, locks of their own hair--and crashed WB servers with e-mail. Meanwhile, Freaks freaks are sending peanuts to networks that may buy the show (a favorite character on the show is allergic) and are taking out a full-page ad in Variety, as have Roswell fans.
Of course, TV execs have other numbers to worry about besides the Tabasco-bottle count, and one can imagine the arguments--Freaks is too oddball, Felicity has had two years to prove itself, Roswell boasts one set too many of pretty teen faces. But consider the series premises they're choosing from for next fall: a boy millionaire helps people by means of a website; a rock band contacts the dead with a magic amulet; Bette Midler plays a woman who's a lot like Bette Midler. Those nuts firing off e-mail could be the best friends TV bosses, and the rest of us, have.