After dinner, when the dusky sky is fading and the house is still, my mom and I curl up under blankets and return to the eternal autumn of Gilmore Girls. We disagree after the episode’s opening scene, however. Though we both can sing the theme song by rote, and the orange coloring of the montage has splashed over our couch a thousand times, she always requests to skip the title sequence. Why do I always want to see it through? 

I’ve always tended to underscore tradition, and TV show introductions are the result of a precedent set by cinema. In older films, sequences crediting the movie’s cast, crew and production company played along with music before the film began. While these sequences were originally barebones and utilitarian, visionaries such as Saul Bass made them more dynamic and tonally aligned with their films. 

In contrast to movies, TV shows aren’t enjoyed in one sitting but in weekly installments. This differing format required introductory sequences to catch viewers “up to speed,” especially with concepts that wouldn’t be intuitively understood by audiences. Comedies such as The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and The Brady Bunch used their title sequences to briefly contextualize the unconventional family dynamics (which made for much of the humor). Episodic sci-fi programs like Star Trek or The Twilight Zone had introductory dialogues that oriented viewers into their foreign worlds. 

The opening sequences of Star Trek and The Twilight Zone excel at creating a moody atmosphere, but none eclipse the introduction of Twin Peaks. Instead of a catchy, upbeat song, the hesitant, pensive opening notes of the instrumental theme creep into speakers. Its accompanying visuals are unorthodox: shots of a songbird, rocky waterfalls, and grinding sawmill machinery linger on screens. The synthesizer swells into a simple image: a curled, empty road at the left and a copse of leafless trees at the right; in between, a “Welcome to Twin Peaks” sign backed by two mountains hazy in a warm fog. The clips are melancholy, nostalgic and dreamy all at once. Immediately, it signals an artistic and thematic focus beyond that of other television dramas or serials. 

For a friend of mine, the sequence is hypnotic and forces him to “slow down,” so that he may fall into the strange rhythm of each episode. The introduction’s intention is to place audiences in its world, in the misty town of Twin Peaks, rather than explaining itself. For true enjoyment, the viewer must conform to the show’s demands, rather than the opposite. 

Opening sequences are as beneficial to the individual or the audience as they are to our greater society’s pop-culture language. Who, in our generation, can’t recite all the words to the theme of Spongebob Squarepants? Title Card performed an awesome, rock-ified rendition of “Scooby Doo, Where Are You?” this past Halloween. The X-Files theme is so prominent in internet culture that most who haven’t seen the show can still hum along. 

Now that many shows are made by and for streaming services, title sequences are losing importance and effort. If services like Netflix intend episodes to be watched back-to-back, why should viewers’ time and attention be diverted or wasted with an introduction or recap of previous events? The introduction of a show on a streaming service must fight for views against the “skip” button. And because of the internet and social media, audiences have access to more information about a series prior to viewing. Both streaming services and cable television have short, built-in synopsis for every episode (until 2008, audiences without cable relied on a weekly printed TV Guide just to know the time at which certain programs would air). These factors de-incentivise contemporary shows to have opening sequences more elaborate than a title card.

Some title sequences can be skipped without remorse. But plenty of intros are made with heart and exceed their basic function as an audio-visual Pavlov’s bell. The Gilmore Girls theme song, for example, belonged to Carole King’s Grammy-winning album Tapestry. For the show, King adapted her lyrics to better suit a mother-daughter relationship and sang the reworked version with her own daughter. My mother and I sing it together, too. Why skip that?