Lately I've been thinking - what's the appeal, exactly, of Murder, She Wrote? I mean, if you were part of its target audience in 1984 (presumably women of the same age as Angela Lansbury), why did you watch?
I have two theories. The most obvious is also the simplest - it was a safe, "lite" version of the popular detective mysteries and procedurals that were ruling the networks: Partners in Crime, Riptide, Hunter, 21 Jump Street, Cagney and Lacey, Hardcastle and McCormick, Hart to Hart, Jake and the Fatman, and - of course - the juggernaut that is Magnum P. I. Unlike any of them, Murder, She Wrote had a sweet old lady at the center, and a distinct Agatha Christie-esque vibe going on. It presented familiar scenarios spiced up with murder and sex and rivalries and secrets.
My second theory is more psychological and a little deeper. Imagine for a moment you are the target audience for Murder, She Wrote - a woman aged 55+. Now imagine you live in a normal American town in Indiana, or Oregon, or Texas, or New Hampshire, and you live a normal life with a normal husband and normal kids. You've never murdered anyone, you've never witnessed a murder, you've probably ever known anyone who was murdered.
Now, you turn on the TV on Sunday night and as the glow begins to cast images onto the glass, you see a lady like yourself - your best, ideal self. A lady who also lives in a normal town, living a normal life, but whose fascination with violence and murder has sprouted into an unexpectedly successful career as a novelist, and who is courageous and smart and curious and makes friends everywhere she goes and is well-mannered and can get along at almost every level of society effortlessly.
So far, so good. But beneath that ideal surface is something even racier - because in every episode, Jessica Fletcher confronts sex and violence and deeply troubled people and secret relationships and affairs and, of course, murder. Sometimes multiple murders. I was surprised, rewatching this show, how adult it could be - there are broad sexual overtones, attractive bodies exposed in exercise outfits or bathing suits or vulnerable and nude beneath a towel and nothing more. And moreover, the murders are surprisingly grim and gritty: bloated drowned men float in otherwise innocuous suburban pools; old ladies are strangled brutally by young men in the dark; seedy nightclub owners are shot in the chest, the stiff and lifeless body frozen in its seat.
These things might be par for the course in 2016, when an average episode of Game of Thrones has rape, murder, cruelty emotional and physical, and still worse. But in the 1980s, this wasn't as common, and these situations are surprising, if not shocking. They are made even more salacious because of Lansbury, who plays Fletcher in stark relief to the colorful backdrops she inhabits: she is prim, proper, drinks only in moderation, jogs every morning, dresses conservatively, has a harmless demeanor, and impeccable manners.
This older woman - an outline or silhouette that countless viewers could insert themselves into - travels from one dangerous situation to another, confronted by simmering sexual tension, jealousy, hatred, rivalries, greed... and of course, these things are symbollically fulfilled in murder, the violent violation at the heart of every episode. Fletcher stays calm and collected - even when she is a suspect herself! - and ultimately applies her wit and experience to the situation until the guilty party is revealed.
In short, I think Murder, She Wrote exists as a perfect fantasy for viewers to live in for an hour at a time - they can feel the thrill of the lust and the wrath, while simultaneously feeling safe both in their homes, and also in Jessica Fletcher as their proxy. No wonder it was so popular for over a decade! As I watch these episodes again, years later, I find a lot more going on under a surface I always assumed was campy, a little goofy, but eminently safe. Instead, it takes some risks and deals with seamy, unattractive things in a fairly frank, adult way.
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