Umberto Eco, an Italian writer, was right when he said the language of Europe is transla
tion. Netflix and other deep-pocketed global firms speak it well. Just as the EU employs
a small army of translators and interpreters to turn intricate laws or impassioned speeches
of Romanian MEPs into the EU’s 24 official languages, so do the likes of Netflix. It now
offers dubbing in 34 languages and subtitling in a few more. The economics of European
productions are more appealing, too. American audiences are more willing than before
to give dubbed or subtitled viewing a chance. This means shows such as ”Lupin”, a
French crime caper on Netflix, can become global hits. In 2015, about 75percent of Net
flix’s original content was American; now the figure is half, according to Ampere, a media
analysis company. Netflix has about 100 productions under way in Europe, which is more
than big public broadcasters in France or Germany. Not everything works across borders.
Comedy sometimes struggles. Whodunits and bloodthirsty maelstroms between arch Ro
mans and uppity tribesmen have a more universal appeal. Some do it better than others.
Barbarians aside, German television is not always built for export, says one executive,
being polite. A bigger problem is that national broadcasters still dominate. Streaming
services, such as Netflix or Disney+, account for about a third of all viewing hours, even in
markets where they are well-established. Europe is an ageing continent. The generation
of teens staring at phones is outnumbered by their elders who prefer to gawp at the box.
In Brussels and national capitals, the prospect of Netflix as a cultural hegemon is seen as
a threat. ”Cultural sovereignty” is the watchword of European executives worried that the Americans will eat their lunch. To be fair, Netflix content sometimes seems stuck in
an uncanny valley somewhere in the mid-Atlantic, with local quirks stripped out. Netflix
originals tend to have fewer specific cultural references than shows produced by domestic
rivals, according to Enders, a market analyst. The company used to have an imperial
model of commissioning, with executives in Los Angeles cooking up ideas French people
might like. Now Netflix has offices across Europe. But ultimately the big decisions rest
with American executives. This makes European politicians nervous. They should not
be. An irony of European integration is that it is often American companies that facilitate
it. Google Translate makes European newspapers comprehensible, even if a little clunky,
for the continent’s non-polyglots. American social-media companies make it easier for
Europeans to talk politics across borders. (That they do not always like to hear what
they say about each other is another matter.) Now Netflix and friends pump the same
content into homes across a continent, making culture a cross-border endeavour, too. If
Europeans are to share a currency, bail each other out in times of financial need and
share vaccines in a pandemic, then they need to have something in common—even if it is
just bingeing on the same series. Watching fictitious northern and southern Europeans
tear each other apart 2,000 years ago beats doing so in reality