The Brady Bunch is ripe for a reboot, and I’ve worked out new plot lines

Great ghosts of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s pioneering childhood, can it be true? I was just doing a spot of needlepoint and contemplating the freshly slain venison on the hearth when I heard the news: Netflix has decided to reboot the long-deceased Ingalls Wilder’s Little House on the Prairie.

Now, being something of a new-age trad wife myself, I’ll confess to being a little sceptical. Initially, I thought (to put it in homestead-speak), “my goodness, that large televisual pig looks like it’s getting a fresh coat of lipstick”, but then I sat myself down and gave myself a stern, 30-minute talking-to that contained three commercial breaks and a schmaltzy exchange with a precocious five-year-old. And then, hey presto, I was feeling better about the world. Roll credits, please.

The 1974 television series starred Michael Landon as Charles Ingalls.Credit: SHD Television Magazine

Just kidding. What actually happened was that having heroically breaststroked my way through Netflix’s treacle-laden promise that Little House on the Prairie part deux would offer a “kaleidoscopic view of the struggles and triumphs of those who shaped the frontier”, I felt an urgent need to have my back teeth removed by whatever surgical techniques passed for dentistry in the 1800s.

Surely, I thought to myself, Netflix executives have better things to do than pick the mothballs off a 51-year-old TV series that maybe four people watched on rerun for 10 minutes when they wanted a break from the fish tank at the gerontologist’s office. Then I discovered, to my quiet outrage, that according to media tracker Nielsen’s 2024 report, Little House was among the most popular “legacy titles” last year, racking up an astonishing 13.3 billion minutes of viewing time in North America on streaming service Peacock. Gunsmoke, meanwhile, was watched for 10.23 billion minutes across Peacock and Paramount+ according to the same set of results.

Michelle, I said to myself, between your wonky cross-stitch and your lack of aptitude for deer-slaying in general, you need to get out of the trad wife game and immediately become a Netflix executive. You can read a spreadsheet. Generating new content is basically just about following viewer trends nowadays. Take old show, shove in microwave, hit defrost, get some Emerging TikTok Star to rap some new opening credits (preferably incorporating a reference to a kaleidoscope because #netflixloveskaleidoscopes) and serve.

Plot lines for a rebooted Brady Bunch could be fantastic. Alice might start identifying as non-binary.

Streaming data means there are no secrets any more, so all those people publicly disavowing The Golden Girls and privately bingeing on their zany escapades are ripe for exploitation, especially if we throw in a few crafty 2025 twists. This time around, we’ll call them The Femmes de Formaldehyde and give everyone a Brazilian butt lift. Blanche could proposition St Peter.

We could easily administer the kiss of life to The Brady Bunch as well. Alice could start identifying as non-binary. Peter could get catfished. Mike could make a fortune buying Bitcoin and Carol could change the spelling of her first name and be revealed as a Kardashian, erm, kousin.

And what about A Country Practice, I hear you say. Remember Esme Watson, the town busybody and gossip? She was basically the great-great-great-great-great-grandmother of social media, ghetto-fabulous horn-rimmed spectacles and all. And if that Shirley Gilroy, with her white stick teepee and meditation-embracing ways, can’t go another round in these wellness-rich times, then who can? Potentially we’ll need to exchange Wandin Valley for Byron Bay and the hospital for an anti-vaxxer/Insta influencer’s eco-farm, but, you know, semantics, logistics … whatevs.

We shouldn’t limit ourselves to the small screen, either. On March 2, it’ll be 60 years since the cinematic release of The Sound of Music. It’s about time Baroness Schraeder – the most criminally misunderstood character in history of the silver screen – was given her due. If ever a script was ripe for a 21st century overhaul, it’s this one. Hot, rich, middle-aged woman with gay bestie gets dumped by weird, sullen widower who summons his seven children with whistle, in favour of much younger, bowl-haircut-rocking, yodelling ex-nun who dresses said children in clothes that she sewed from her curtains. Sounds feasible enough. They probably all met on Tinder.

Joyce Jacobs as Esme Watson, the great-great-great-great-great-grandmother of social media, on A Country Practice.

OK, Netflix, over to you. I realise this is an unorthodox job application, but we live in unusual times. And if you’re not immediately dazzled by my kaleidoscope of new show options (see what I did there?), I’ll very happily make a cameo on the new series of Little House on the Prairie.

In tonight’s episode, our new-age trad wife, confronted with a freshly slaughtered deer, dry-retches a bit, yells at her kids to get off their devices, and then remembers school goes back next week and no one has shoes yet. After fielding a litany of complaints about the prospect of venison stir-fry, the new-age trad wife swears at everyone on the prairie, calls UberEats, and stalks off for some well-deserved sulking time. I don’t know about you, Netflix, but I can sense a ratings bonanza.

Michelle Cazzulino is a freelance writer.