When a Showrunner Exits, Who Really Steers the Ship? The Case of Slow Horses and the Illusion of Control
Let’s be honest: when someone like Will Smith—the lead writer and de facto captain of Slow Horses—walks away from a show, the immediate reaction is panic. How will the tone survive? Will the characters stay true to themselves? Is this the beginning of the end? But what if the real story here isn’t about Smith’s departure at all? What if it’s about dismantling the myth of the ‘lone genius’ showrunner and realizing that TV, at its best, is a team sport?
The Problem With ‘Showrunners’ (And Why We Need Fewer of Them)
Here’s a dirty secret about television: the obsession with ‘showrunners’ is a relatively recent phenomenon. For decades, series thrived under writers’ rooms, rotating directors, and producers who prioritized consistency over cults of personality. Enter the modern era, where networks and streaming platforms market shows as the vision of a single ‘auteur.’ Slow Horses never bought into this hype. Its structure—a collaborative effort without a traditional showrunner—is less a flaw and more a feature. Smith’s exit didn’t derail the train because the tracks were never his to begin with. They belong to Mick Herron’s novels, the actors’ chemistry, and a production team that understands tone better than any individual ego.
Personally, I think the panic over showrunner exits says more about our need for simple narratives than about the health of a series. When Smith left, the headlines screamed ‘crisis,’ but the real question should’ve been: Why did we ever assume one person was the backbone of this show? The answer lies in how streaming platforms sell their content—‘visionary creators’ make for better marketing than ‘seasoned teams.’
What Slow Horses Reveals About Adaptation as Alchemy
Let’s talk about Mick Herron. The man’s books aren’t just source material; they’re the show’s DNA. Combining two novels for Season 6 isn’t a desperate move—it’s a masterclass in adaptation. Most adaptations treat books like instruction manuals. Slow Horses treats them like blueprints, improvising where needed but respecting the foundation. This isn’t just smart—it’s rare. Too often, shows either slavishly recreate text or discard it entirely. Here, the writers are like chefs using Herron’s ingredients to cook something new but unmistakably rooted in his recipe.
A detail that fascinates me is how the show preserves Herron’s dialogue. In an age where screenwriters overwrite to ‘punch up’ scenes, trusting the source material’s wit feels revolutionary. When Gary Oldman delivers one of Lamb’s grotesque one-liners, you’re not hearing a TV writer trying to be clever—you’re hearing the collision of page and screen done right.
The Emmy Paradox: How Recognition Becomes a Double-Edged Sword
Nine Emmy nominations—impressive, right? But here’s the catch: awards don’t just reward art; they distort it. As executive producer Doug Urbanski admits, the team avoids thinking about accolades. Why? Because once you start chasing validation, you risk losing the messy, idiosyncratic spark that made people love the show. Slow Horses‘ cult status thrives on its refusal to be ‘prestige TV.’ Lamb’s flatulence jokes, Taverner’s icy stares, and Cartwright’s moral fumbling aren’t awards bait—they’re anti-bait. The Emmys might crown it, but the show’s soul lies in its willingness to be irreverent, not polished.
What many people don’t realize is that critical success often forces a choice: double down on what works or ‘evolve’ into something safer. Slow Horses Season 6—reportedly the best yet—suggests the team has found a third path: evolving without compromising, like a snake shedding skin but keeping its venom.
The Bigger Picture: Why This Matters for the Future of TV
Let’s zoom out. Slow Horses isn’t just surviving without Smith—it’s thriving. What does that say about the future of television? First, the ‘showrunner as superstar’ model is crumbling. Second, adaptations are entering a new era where fidelity doesn’t mean stagnation. Third, long-form storytelling doesn’t require a single puppeteer. The show’s structure—a writers’ room anchored by books but unafraid to merge plots—could be a blueprint for sustainable series in the streaming age.
If you take a step back and think about it, the real story here isn’t about a departing writer. It’s about a quiet revolution: TV learning that its strength lies not in individual ‘geniuses’ but in ecosystems. Smith’s exit wasn’t a crisis—it was a stress test. And the show passed with the dry wit and resilience of Jackson Lamb himself.
Final Thought: The Uncomfortable Truth Audiences Need to Accept
Here’s the kicker: most of us want our favorite shows to feel ‘personal.’ We romanticize the auteur because it’s easier than acknowledging that great TV is often a miracle of collaboration. Slow Horses challenges that. Its success post-Smith isn’t just good news for fans—it’s a reminder that art survives when teams prioritize shared vision over individual credit. Maybe the real question isn’t ‘Who’s steering the ship?’ but ‘Why did we ever think a single person could steer it alone?’
