The wave of emotion was unexpected, almost overwhelming. When Gary died on ‘thirtysomething’, the reaction was profound, personal. For Peter Horton, the actor who embodied Gary, it was a disorienting experience. He felt like an imposter, somehow intruding on genuine grief simply by being alive, by reminding everyone that Gary was, after all, just a character played by an actor. This reaction highlighted a unique connection, a shared sense of community forged in the crucible of shared entertainment experiences.
Today, the landscape of television consumption and fandom has drastically shifted, a point often emphasized by younger generations. Horton acknowledges this evolution, observing how his teenage daughters champion the modern viewing experience. Intimacy with content and fellow fans is now disseminated more broadly and instantaneously through social media platforms. Viewers tune in on demand, engage when they choose, and connect with niche communities of enthusiasts online. However, this readily available connection comes at a cost, creating a sense of detachment, a predictable distance that subtly diminishes the experience. Contrast this with the winter of ’91: the immediate, personal aftermath of a pivotal TV moment involved water cooler discussions at work, frantic phone calls exclaiming, “Oh my God. Did you see it?”, knowing glances in elevators, and chance encounters with fellow devotees on the street – even potentially running into Peter Horton himself.
Interestingly, the role of Gary Shepherd wasn’t initially embraced by Horton. He turned it down three times. His ambition was firmly set on directing. His journey had begun in repertory theatre, leading to a pivotal role in a play, an agent, and subsequent work in film and television. He actively sought knowledge, shadowing directors of photography, observing directors in editing suites, and even directing a short film and an “Afterschool Special” for ABC titled “One Too Many.” He was poised to transition into directing full-time.
Then came Ed Zwick, a co-creator of “thirtysomething” alongside Marshall Herskovitz. Zwick’s proposition was straightforward: “This show is never going to go, but if it does you can direct one of the first six episodes, and if it ‘goes goes,’ we’ll kill you off after four years.” Against expectations, “thirtysomething” not only went, but “went goes.” For four seasons, Horton found himself deeply immersed in the world of “thirtysomething.” He was captivated by the scripts, the talent of the actors, the dedication of the crew, and even the craft of acting itself. He also experienced the novel sensation of fame, the subtle shift in social dynamics, the unspoken acknowledgment and respect that came with being recognized as “that guy on that show.”
Inevitably, the time arrived to write Gary’s exit. The challenge was maintaining secrecy. Remarkably, in 1991, it was feasible to request cast and crew to keep a major plot twist confidential. The impulse to instantly disseminate information via tweet, Snapchat, Instagram, or even email simply didn’t exist. To leak such a spoiler required conscious effort: making a phone call, pausing to consider the ramifications. This starkly contrasts with the instantaneity and pervasive nature of information sharing in the digital age. Peter Horton’s journey from beloved actor to respected director is a fascinating narrative, intertwined with the evolution of television itself.
