Reality TV

Originally published July 14, 2000, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1391

“I want to decide who lives and who dies.”

–Crow T. Robot

It’s really coming true, isn’t it. From peek-a-boo websites to game shows where people screw up their courage to face Regis Philbin and try to land a million dollars (although, considering the tax cut, the show’s name should really be changed to, “So You Want To Be a Half-Millionaire?”) to—most hideously—the new shows that make such future-vision films as The Truman Show, EdTV, and Network seem short-sighted in comparison. After all, Truman was ultimately more parable than prediction: Man’s relation to his creator, with man deciding this time around to walk away from the Garden of Eden on his own, leaving an unnecessary God whining and begging for him to come back. And EdTV, a marvelously realized comedy that was unfortunately overshadowed by Truman, was nothing more than the story of a network formalizing what already exists on assorted websites—twenty four hour observations of one person’s life.

But shows such as Survivor and the forthcoming Big Brother take voyeurism and add something new to the mix: Cruelty.

You see, the subtext of the cinema verite websites (or The Real World on MTV or even talk shows such as Jerry Springer, for that matter) is that so-called “ordinary” folks are putting themselves out for public display and basically saying, “Here I am. Watch me. Take interest in me. Accept me for what I am.” That’s what it boils down to. Every one of us, even the most contentious of us, wants to be accepted and loved on some level for who we are. The horrifically brutal spin is that Survivor and Big Brother give America as a whole the opportunity to reject people precisely for who they are, a privilege previously reserved mostly for elections (and even then, we generally suspect that we’re rejecting politicians not for who they are, but who they’re pretending to be.) I wonder how Americans will feel the first time someone who is rejected by the viewing audience winds up committing suicide, metaphorically throwing himself on his sword, because every time he walks down the street he imagines that passersby are looking at him and thinking, Get away from me, loser, and just can’t deal with it.

I have never watched Survivor. I have no immediate plans to do so, because I find the entire concept repellent. Perhaps I seriously don’t have what it takes to go places in show business. It never would have occurred to me, upon reading Lord of the Flies, to think, “Whoa… this would make a great game show.”

Survivor, for those of you who might have been in a cave or—appropriately—off on a desert island somewhere, involves a cross section of over a dozen volunteers (culled from a reported six thousand) who endeavor to survive on a desert island with a bare handful of extra “items.” They engage in various competitions and, one by one, are voted off the island by their fellow castaways until only one is left. The “Survivor” then gets a million dollars for his efforts. Whether he or she gets back self-respect, dignity or privacy remains to be seen. Big Brother takes it one step further, in which residents of a house, under constant surveillance, are voted out of that home by the viewers.

Now there are presently all sorts of analyses going on as to just what makes this entire phenomenon tick. What does it say about us as Americans that viewing habits have been transformed into the electronic equivalent of a burning factory fire? The last time real-life images and concepts as repulsive as this hit the airwaves, it was the six o’clock news showing American soldiers getting napalmed in rice patties and it led to the U.S. pulling out of the Vietnam war… if for no other reason so that Americans could go back to watching the news during the dinner hour without being grossed out of their TV dinners.

Fulfilling the prophecy that in the future, everyone would be famous for fifteen minutes, the future is clearly here. “We have met the enemy, and he is us,” quoth Pogo, and we are watching the enemy with rapt fascination. I don’t have to watch Survivor to comment on it, because I hear about it from everywhere. It’s on the news, in magazines, on chat boards. Every week someone gets punted off and becomes a media star who, like Roy Batty in Blade Runner, flares brightly and then is gone.

And possibly the most appalling aspect of all is the tendency to refer to the contestants as “characters.” That’s what I hear all the time. “I like this character,” “I like that character,” “My favorite character is the Navy SEAL.” “Really? I can’t stand that character, is he gone yet?” My God… they’re not characters. I know characters; I’ve worked with characters. These are not characters. These are people, flesh and blood, warts and all, endeavoring to mush their way through an experience that I freely admit I would have managed to endure about five minutes, if that. My idea of roughing it is not eating rats. My idea of roughing it is staying someplace that doesn’t provide room service.

I feel some mild twinge of hypocrisy in that I admit to being intrigued by 1900 House, the Brit series in which a Victorian house was restored to its 1900 condition and a British family endeavored to live for three months there with only the accouterments of the Victorian era to sustain them. I missed the second episode, but was fascinated by the first (which mainly detailed everything that was involved in refurbishing the house.) Nevertheless, there are differences. For one thing, no one’s deciding which members of the family are going to be thrown out of the house each week. Second, there’s no money involved. And third—as is appropriate for a show being broadcast stateside by PBS–it’s educational. Survivor provides an extremely unusual and horrific situation, but in watching 1900 House you cannot forget that everyone lived like this—and many not even quite as well—merely a hundred years ago. Whereas Survivor paints a nauseating picture of where we’re going as a nation, desensitized to human strife except when we’re captivated by misery, 1900 House gives dazzling insight into where we came from and an appreciation for what relatives as near as our great grandparents had to deal with on a routine basis.

But you know what? I’ve been thinking it over… and maybe the problem is that we’re not going far enough. If we’re going to view fellow humans in a degrading manner, then by God, let’s up the stakes, shall we?

The next step, obviously, is to do a series called Death Row. Hosted by George W. Bush, it would be the biggest threat to life to come out of Texas since J.R. Ewing was gunned down at the end of the third season of Dallas. Each week we’d have a new contestant on Death Row who presents his case to the American people. Why not? Gary Graham did essentially that. The story of his conviction, with no forensic evidence placing him at the scene of a murder, exactly one eye witness, contradicting evidence from other witnesses, and a defense lawyer who apparently displayed the legal acumen of Jethro Beaudine, was not enough to sway the hearts of a plethora of Bush appointees who had him lethally injected. It did, however, sway the hearts of many Americans, including the several hundred protesters I saw in Times Square (although what protesting in front of the Warners Store was intended to accomplish, I’ve not a clue.)

Basically, on Death Row, the details of the crime would be presented. Everyone, from convict to victim would be heard from. Arguments and pleas would be made all around. And then, just like the kill-Robin hotline, Americans would get to vote as to whether or not the guy should be executed. Better make sure the guy’s heavily made up so it can’t be discerned whether he’s black or white: If it’s the former, Bush might not wait for the vote.

By instituting Death Row, we’re simply reducing populist entertainment back to its roots, giving Americans the yea-or-nay power enjoyed by Roman citizens centuries ago. Like the Romans or even Crow T. Robot, we should get to decide who lives and who dies.

Life and death too high-stakes for you? Then consider my alternate show: Strange Bedfellows.

I submit, my friends, that there is something fundamentally wrong with a presidential election process that narrows the field to two candidates who generate as much enthusiasm as a hemorrhoid commercial.

Imagine, if you will, that it had been done entirely differently from the start. Picture all the candidates being dumped on a desert island and having to fight to survive. Would Gore continue to remain so wooden that they could use him for kindling? Would Bush remain so cold to people fighting for their existence that he would continue to support an imperfect capital punishment system? Something tells me “no.” And every week, the “Strange Bedfellows” (which, as we know, politics makes) would vote another member of the group off the island. Money, soft or hard, legit or ill gotten, would make no difference here. Dirty campaign tactics would be irrelevant. We’d get down to the nitty gritty. You wanna be president? Would you be willing to eat a rat to do it? Bugs? You think you can be of use to the country? Let’s see you anchor a tug of war or run a relay.

To hëll with carefully conceived debates and canned answers. Finally, finally, you’d get to see John McCain as you know you wanted to: Slamming Dubbya around, shoving his face into the sand while snarling in his ear, “You’re mine now, maggot. Who’s your daddy? Say it! Say it, you turd!” It’d be a fascinating study in conflicts. Sure, the candidates would want to vote McCain off first. On the other hand, the chances are they wouldn’t last a week without him. McCain survived a ’Nam POW camp. You don’t think he can handle a month and a half with a bunch of guys whose idea of torture is being asked if they know how much a gallon of milk goes for? The only way McCain doesn’t come out on top is if the final conflict boils down to a slam dunk contest, in which cast Bill Bradley would have a significant advantage. And forcing the candidates to make the harsh choices of who goes and who stays will be an indicator—for themselves and for Americans—of the type of decision-maker they will be. Hëll, some of them may vote themselves off, coming to the harsh realization that they simply don’t have what it takes.

Granted, the flaw in this plan is that it means the American public doesn’t get to vote on who becomes the leader of the free world. On the other hand, two out of every three Americans don’t bother to use that privilege anyway. Besides, they’ll have the chance to vote in the only way that anyone really seems to care about anymore: The remote control.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, was unaware that the word “Get” was in such disfavor. In the spirit of Winston Churchill, who stated, “A dangling participle is an abomination up with which I will not put,” he cheerfully suggests that those who have a problem with “get” are cordially invited to acquire a life, remove themselves from his back, and become stuffed.)