Unfortunately, instead of developing memorable characters, the writers of today's TV dramas create one fun, snarky character and a bunch of bland stereotypes, then slowly but surely, all of the bland ones start to revolve around -- and talk just like -- the snarky one. Witness Seth Cohen, snarky teen of the year from "The OC," bantering with his once-spoiled, once-dim bulb, formerly out-of-reach girlfriend, Summer, about the reconciliation of Marissa and Ryan:

Seth: What is it with those two? The Pacman and the getting along and the happy times?

Summer: They're playing video games. It's not a Mandy Moore movie.

Of course, the referential small talk is also used as filler in scenes where something heavier is happening.

Seth: If you drink it too fast, you'll get a brain freeze.

Summer: So sip it slowly.

Ryan: That's good advice.

Marissa: OK, guys, I can drink a cold beverage. I'm telling you, I'm really ... (spots Mom with ex-boyfriend) so not OK! (runs away)

Seth: I guess we'll skip the Razzmatazz.

Light, filler dialogue can be found in any number of plays since the dawn of time -- the difference is, there was usually another layer of meaning encoded in such digressions. When the alcoholic and his neglected wife are arguing about how long to cook the spaghetti in a Raymond Carver story, the quavering noodles represent their expiring love for one another. Now, comparing teen dramas to Carver stories may be about as useful as comparing Beethoven's 5th to Nelly, but the empty references often serve to turn a scene into a cartoon frame, filled with familiar objects, but leaving it flat and weightless. The more we relate to the shared references in a scene, the less we experience its inhabitants as existing in their own, separate world. Instead of being a sentimental outcast who likes to control his surroundings and uses his sense of humor to mask his feelings, Seth is merely a fan of comic books and Jamba Juice, Death Cab for Cutie and Bright Eyes.

But then, if you browse the online personals, you'll find the same sorts of self-descriptions: Consumables are acceptable substitutes for everything from personality traits to our deepest hopes and dreams. Nerve.com doesn't ask you how you feel about honesty or fidelity or commitment, it asks you what five items you can't live without and which celebrity you most resemble. Such commercial shorthand is decades old by now, but the speed with which it has moved into the mainstream and come to seem a reasonable substitute for substantive exchanges of ideas and emotions is remarkable.

When Ryan teases Seth for knowing about Care Bears and their "Care Bear Stare," he's basically calling him a fruitcake; when Seth says, "My gramma wears Uggs!" he means his grandfather's new wife is a hot little number. Is this clever, snappy dialogue, really, or just a lazy little shortcut?

Then again, maybe it would all be fine if the heavier exchanges took us further. After years of simmering attraction, Luke and Lorelai of "Gilmore Girls" find themselves in a relationship with nothing more to discuss than Red Twists, Pippi Longstockings, and what time Luke likes to get to bed at night. On this week's premiere of "The OC," Ryan is supposed to convince Seth of something, but instead of a conversation, we get a lot of "Ums" and "OK, mans," with the soaring alt-rock soundtrack doing all the work in trying to capture the scene's emotions.

It's tough not to suspect that, as fun as these shows actually are to watch, they're a lot more fun for the viewers in their 30s, whose cult references match those of the writers, than they are for actual teenagers. The Über Teen universe depicted therein is an echo of a certain generation, with all of its irony-masked self-consciousness and identity issues -- struggles that aren't likely to be quite so real for today's kids, who appear to struggle far less with earnest, honest, straightforward communication than those who are charged with re-creating them for the small screen. Read a few pages of "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" or some short stories by Matthew Klam or a few essays by David Foster Wallace before watching one of these shows, and you'll see the earliest tones of this deeply conflicted voice, this flinchy self with its desperate need to stand for something, but its utter inability to take on any of the risk or the naive taint or the vulnerability that naturally comes with standing for something.

TV teens are a reflection of an older generation's chosen pose: snide, endlessly referential, self-conscious, and über-cool. Let's just hope, for their own sakes, real teenagers are far cooler.

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