Whatever the overall approach, the miniseries, at its best, offers a unique televisual experience, often dealing with harrowing and difficult material structured into an often transformative narrative. The time lapse between episodes allows occasion for the audience to assimilate, discuss, and come to terms with the difficulties of the narrative. The extended narrative time offered by serialization makes possible the in-depth exploration of characters, their motivations and development, and the analysis of situations and events. However, the conclusive narrative resolution of the series also allows for evaluation and reflection.

The actual number of episodes differentiating a miniseries from a “regular” series or serial is a matter of dispute. Leslie Halliwell and Philip Purser argue in Halliwell’s Television Companion that miniseries tend to appear in four to six episodes of various lengths. In contrast, Stuart Cunningham defines the miniseries as “a limited-run program of more than two [installments] and less than the thirteen-part season or half-season block associated with serial or series programming.” From a British perspective, the majority of home-produced drama would, in the postderegulation era, now fit into Cunningham’s definition. Very few drama productions, apart from continuous serials (soap operas), extend beyond seven episodes.

The term “miniseries” covers a broad generic range of subjects and styles of narration that seem to differ from one national broadcast culture to another. Australia produces a large number of historical miniseries—for example, Bodyline (1984) and Cowra Breakout (1985)—that dramatically document aspects of Australian history. The United States has produced both historical miniseries, such as Holocaust (1978), and serializations of “blockbuster” novels, such as The Thorn Birds (1983). Britain tends toward literary classics (Pride and Prejudice [1995]) and serializations of “blockbusters” (The Dwelling Place [1994]).

Francis Wheen suggests that the form developed in the United States in response to the success of the imported The Forsyte Saga (1967), which was an expensive adaptation of John Galsworthy’s historical epic novel. The success of this serialization demonstrated that finite stories were popular and that they could provide a boost to weekly viewing figures while imparting on the network/channel a reputation for exciting programming. The potential of the miniseries was significantly promoted, Wheen suggests, by Roots, which built up an exclusive culture over its eight consecutive nights on the American Broadcasting Company (ABC) in January 1977. Americans who did not watch the program felt excluded from the dominant topic of conversation and from one of the major cultural interventions of the era.

It is significant that miniseries are generally part of late-evening, prime-time viewing, the space made available for the privileged viewing of “irregular” material, whether it be contemporary feature films, mini- series, or other forms. This scheduling is important because the high production costs of miniseries can be recovered only through exposure to the largest, most lucrative, and most attentive audiences and because the material dealt with is often either of difficult and potentially upsetting or of a sexually explicit nature not deemed suitable for children.

Miniseries are usually high capital investment ventures. It is interesting to note here that in the United States, the ABC network’s introduction of the miniseries in 1976 coincided with the arrival of programmer Fred Silverman from the Columbia Broadcasting System (CBS) and was part of his strategy to revive ailing audience figures. Similarly, in the United Kingdom, Granada’s investment in Prime Suspect coincided with the franchise bids in British commercial broadcasting.

The miniseries is almost invariably based on the work of an established writer, whether this is a classic literary source (the British Broadcasting Corporation’s [BBC’s] 1995 adaptation of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice), a popular blockbuster, (Shirley Conran’s Lace [1985]), or the work of a renowned television writer (Lynda La Plante’s Prime Suspect [1991]). Institutionally, the author’s name is seen as a valuable investment that is often sought in an attempt to guarantee a prestige audience in the “desirable social categories.” For the audience, the author’s name provides a set of expectations of potential pleasures and an indication of production quality. The writer’s name, then, is an important part of the packaging of the series. Given the condensed period of broadcasting associated with the miniseries format, it is important to attract viewers at the first opportunity, for, unlike a continuous serial or seasonal series, the miniseries cannot accrue an audience over an extended period. Authorial identity thus distinguishes the miniseries from the unattributed flow of soap operas, crime series, and situation comedies.

Charlotte Brunsdon, discussing the literary sources of television fictions, argues that “British culture having a predominantly literary bias, middlebrow literature legitimates the ‘vulgar’ medium of television (whereas high literature might offend as being too good for TV). Adaptations gain prestige for their literariness.” Although one should recognize that producers and broadcasting institutions do intentionally exploit the prestige lent by literary sources, it is difficult to support the term “middlebrow,” which is central to Brunsdon’s statement, in relation to the miniseries. The authors of miniseries range from the Whitbread Prize winner Jeanette Winterson (Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit, 1990) to Jackie Collins (Hollywood Wives, 1985), neither of which seem to fit the “middlebrow” category.

One clear link between these two adaptations, however, is their implied autobiographical character. Indeed, the representation of actual lives and experiences is central to a range of miniseries. The approach taken may be autobiographical, as in Dennis Potter’s The Singing Detective (1986). It may be biographical, as in Jane Campion’s An Angel at My Table (1991), depicting the early life experiences of Janet Frame, or in Central Television’s Kennedy (1983), focusing on the life and impact of the U.S. president on the 20th anniversary of his death. Or the approach may present dramatizations enacting significant moments in history, as in the Australian miniseries Vietnam (1987), depicting the resettlement of Vietnamese refugees from the Vietnamese and Australian perspectives, or in Alan Bleasdale’s Boys from the Blackstuff (1982), exploring the experience of working-class life in recession-hit Liverpool.

This relation to “real life” seemed to be one of the strengths and appeals of the miniseries until the 1990s, when the format became increasingly used for the crime genre. In Britain, this shift in representation is evident in Prime Suspect. The first miniseries (1991) was written by La Plante and based on the experiences of a senior woman police officer (DCI Jackie Malton of the London Metropolitan Police Force). However, the following Prime Suspect miniseries developed as generic sequels rather than dramatizations of actual events. Subsequently, miniseries have been publicized in terms of the popular actors who play the lead roles, the crimes portrayed, and the originality of the content of their stories. In Deep (BBC, 2002) features undercover police officers played by Nick Berry and Stephen Tompkinson. Outside the Rules focused on the work of a psychiatrist in a high-security hospital, played by Daniela Nardini.

Since 1976, when the U.S. television network ABC broadcast a 12-hour serialized adaptation of Irwin Shaw’s Rich Man, Poor Man, miniseries have constituted some of the most popular programs in television history. ABC’s broadcast of Alex Haley’s Roots drew an audience of 80 million Americans for the final episode. However, miniseries have also provided some of the most derided programming, as evidenced in Richard Corliss’s commentary on Princess Daisy (1983): “Not even trash can guarantee the happy ending, and, alas, it happened to Jane Doe: Princess Daisy proved a small-screen bust.” Conversely, miniseries have often been among the most critically acclaimed of television offerings. The Singing Detective “was inspiring,” according to Joost Hunniger, “because it showed us the dynamic possibilities of television drama.”