If you take a journey deep within Netflix’s furthest recesses — burrow past Bingeworthy TV Dramas and 1980s Action Thrillers, take a left at Because You Watched the Lego Batman Movie, keep going past Fright Night — you will eventually find your way to the platform’s core, the forgotten layers of content fossilized by the pressure from the accreted layers above. Down here, if you search hard enough, you will eventually find your way to “Richie Rich.”
You know the one, from the old comic books. In Netflix’s series, he was reimagined as a self-made boy who discovered a novel source of energy derived from all the vegetables he never ate, making him the world’s first trillionaire. And now he lives in a mansion with an amusement park and a robot maid; his dad is an oaf and a layabout; his best friend, played by the future Netflix superstar Jenna Ortega, is a mooch; a rapper named Bulldozah lives next door, with a son who is also friends with Richie. In contrast to the dark, lonely and besieged version of Richie played by Macaulay Culkin in 1994, here Richie’s life is basically good, though not without the sort of headaches that arise from being a prepubescent trillionaire.
In the fourth episode of the show, Richie struggles to write a book report on “The Wizard of Oz”: The book puts him to sleep, the movie puts him to sleep, he doesn’t know what to do. Bulldozah’s son suggests he remake the movie, and with no practical reason not to, he does. But as soon as he begins, things deteriorate. The Lion character has rewritten himself to be cool and have a motorcycle. Dorothy also wants to be cool; she thinks she should be from Paris, not Kansas, and wants to be named Véronique. His robot maid can’t accept that the Tin Woodsman would rust because he’s made of tin — she’s apparently right about this — so she decides she’s the Tungsten Carbide Woodsman. By the end, the movie is being shot in 3-D and there are time-traveling dinosaurs, an asteroid and evil space robots — a decision that offends Richie’s maid.
“For once,” she says, “it would be really cool to see a positive role model for young robots.”
“Did someone say ‘cool’?” says the Scarecrow, now dressed up as an ice cream cone. “You know what else is cool?” (He has secured a product-placement deal.)
Rather unwittingly, the episode poses a question that haunts our age: What happens to entertainment when a newcomer, armed with an effectively endless amount of money, starts making it? What happens, in other words, when you become Netflix?
