It all began with ‘So you think you can
dance’. I am a lifelong dance-fan and unashamedly addicted to excellence so not
even Mary Murphy’s ear-splitting screech could derail my determination to
devour every carefully-choreographed movement of these supremely gifted
dancers. That is all well and good. But when I realised, one night, that I was
glued to the goggle-box watching four young women with equally unattractive personalities
cruelly criticize each other’s weddings, I knew that I was perilously close to
passing the point of no return. It was a telling moment and the prelude to one
of those long, dark nights of the soul. But the next night I was back in my
seat, muttering imprecations at Simon and the Gang while munching my microwave meal.
What floors me is that we all know full
well that these programmes are not the unscripted, spontaneous ‘window into my
world’ affairs that the networks would have us believe we are watching. For a
start, I have deep-seated doubts about whether people are capable of behaving normally,
let alone naturally, when they know their every move is being recorded for the
critical consumption of the media-mad masses. You don’t have to be an
anthropologist to deduce from the way spectators of all colours and creeds
react when they realise that they have caught the roving eye of the ubiquitous
camera man that exposure to the spotlight triggers strange behaviour among
members of our species.
Nor
will you convince me that there is no direction at all from the producers of
these shows. It’s all about ratings, after all, and if a programme is deemed to
be boring by a viewing public that is insatiable in its search for sensation,
it has as much chance of making the big time as the clueless contestant whose
performance earned her three red crosses and a standing boo. Characters and
contexts are carefully manipulated to elicit the maximum mileage from every
scenario.
The reality is that there is no such
thing as ‘reality television’ – apart from the news and sports channels, and
there is considerable justification for excluding those categories from the
list these days. So what is it about these shows that we find so fascinating?
I suspect it’s all about emotional
voyeurism. We are able to step aside from the complex challenges of our own
realities and live vicariously, sniffing sympathetically with the recipient of
the cheque from the ‘secret millionaire’ (I love the paradox of ‘secret’ in the
context of a televised reality show) or grinding our teeth in frustration at
the outrageous attitudes of rebellious teenagers whose incorrigible behaviour
has earned them a sojourn with super-strict parents in ‘remote places’ (like
South Africa!). The changes those grumpy grown-ups can apparently achieve in
two weeks is nothing short of miraculous and I am surprised that the penal
system hasn’t cottoned on and hired them to sort out all those maximum security
prisoners!
Then there is the opportunity to live
out our dreams of fame and fortune without the fear-factor of making a public
patsy of oneself. We watch in awed admiration as (yet another) star is born and
cheer them on their meteoric rise with the same genuine enthusiasm with which
we mock the cringe-worthy capering of talent-challenged wannabes who should
have listened to their enemies instead of their friends. If truth be told there
are some striking and rather disturbing similarities between our enjoyment of
reality shows and the Roman crowds packing the stands of the Coliseum as they followed
the fortunes of the gladiators and bayed for first blood in Christians vs Lions…
with one important difference. In our 21st century cyber-version of
‘the games’, the victims are volunteers.
And that, I believe, is the real
attraction of reality shows. I think it was Confucius who sagely observed that
there is little more amusing than watching one’s neighbour fall off his roof
but civilization has handicapped us with an inconvenient sense of guilt about indulging in the sin of schadenfreude. Enter Reality TV. Deep down, where our consciences live in
cramped quarters, we know that they are not real and that any suffering that is
endured is, in the final analysis, self-inflicted.
And so, until they find the
formula for calorie-free chocolate, you will find me in front of my flat-screen
most evenings, indulging in my daily dose of emotional therapy. After all, contrary
to what Karl Marx claimed, TV is the real opiate of the masses.
