I’m still wondering what happened to Cheers.
Certainly one of the high points of American popular culture in the last 40 years, the ebbing sexuality betwixt Sam Malone and Rebecca Howe, the legendary pontification of Cliff Clavin, the pompous analysis of Frasier Crane, and other intermingling characters gave the show a chemistry that hasn’t been successfully duplicated since.
Situational comedy is by nature a tricky medium — the identities of the characters must be established, developed, and intertwined in 25-minute weekly snippets, all consistently infused with realistic laugh lines to keep the plot moving. Cheers had incredibly honest and human characters living in an acutely timed and thoroughly possible reality, with somewhat improbable but not impossible realities.
And so we laughed. Not gawked, but laughed.
Somehow, the paradigm shifted. We want to gawk with our entertainment, to be shocked, to peer into people and events that would otherwise be none of our business. I’d guess it started to happen around the time of Bill Clinton and his scandals — after having been conditioned to bombardment with our president’s dirty laundry, the messes of some 20-something from California seem altogether paltry — and reasonably entertaining, probably because they aren’t us.
It’s hard to plug character development during a 25-second plot at the two-minute warning of Monday Night Football. So plug a contrived blend of sex and intrigue instead, all draped under the guise of real people and real drama, to a willing and increasingly voyeuristic audience — a textbook example of marketing at its best.
Even the term “reality television” is quite possibly the most egregious oxymoron to penetrate American vernacular since “fresh frozen vegetables”.
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Before we move forward, this column requires a disclaimer — my experience with “reality television” extends little beyond the aforementioned interruption in a Packer game. You’re dealing with someone whose television appetite rarely departs from ESPN, the Weather Channel, and C-Span. Throw in the occasional nightly newscast and an AMC Movie, and you’ll satisfy the breadth of my desire for television consumption. I haven’t watched programming with any regularity since Seinfeld (at which I gawked, but the over-the-top situations made no pretext of connectedness with reality) and I rarely channel surf.
To resume: Nothing about pre-produced television is real; that’s why it’s television and it’s watchable — it removes us from what we know and see on a day to day basis. These “reality” shows don’t even run live. And even if they did, if the execs in New York opened the Pandora’s box of slipped tongues and awkward exchanges, anyone who has ever been in front of a camera can tell you that the ability to appear nonchalant in front of rolling broadcast equipment comes from one of two sources: lots of practice or lots of alcohol. The fact that “the Bachelor” and “the Bachelorette” were camera-savvy enough to secure their parts in the first place throws 98.6 percent of “reality” out the window. They’ve certainly had experience, training, and at least four plastic surgeries between them.
As far as the alcohol goes — this has potential to be the next big thing.
How about the “Worldwide Bachelor Party Tour” reality show? Get some now-attached, but still hormonally charged former-frat boys and fill their pockets with enough cash to cover G-strings and bail; fly them to the hottest strip clubs and casinos in Bali, Cancun, Morocco and Vegas; and televise live on-location between the hours of one and three in the morning, live local time.
The ensuing melee of drunken debauchery, hell-bent hedonism, lewd lechery and general gratuitousness would have beer companies lined up in droves for ad space. Throw some live cameras on the characters’ stateside significant others as they watch the action unfold, complete with cutaways as the stranded ladies heave our heroes’ undergarments and sporting equipment from third-floor apartment windows. Rev up instant replay, the telestrator and Terry Bradshaw for some expert analysis …
A guy can dream, no?
For now we’ll have to deal with the likes of “Joe Millionaire” and “Fear Factor” — the latter of which presents its own paradox.
Let’s stick a bunch of famous/beautiful/gullible people in extremely scary situations and see how they react — with the underlying “reality” (pun intended) that detail after detail will be exacted to ensure none of these individuals is met with significant or lasting harm. The prospect of a supermodel left seriously incapacitated after performing insane stunts under the watchful eye of the world’s most wealthy media conglomerate is the wet dream of every personal injury lawyer in the country.
Same goes for “Survivor.” No one is “surviving.” They’re just dealing with chafed rear ends and B.O. for a few weeks.
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As for this Joe “Evan” Millionaire fellow, can anyone honestly believe this guy is going to continue to make $19,000 after he’s logged three to four months as the hottest act on national primetime television? So what if the inheritance and castle are made up. After the book deal (ghostwritten, of course), the talk-show circuit, the gig as pitchman for Brawny paper towels and a bevy of other household products, SNL, Celebrity Boxing, a bit part on Days of our Lives and a run for Congress, Evan isn’t headed back to the poorhouse.
And he’s obviously quite the stud. So how was he doing what FOX claims he was doing? If you looked like that, would you be working construction? Would you even be attempting to get an education at the University of Wisconsin? Of course not. If you had any scruples at all, you’d be auditioning for the WWF.
All the haziness of the plotline aside, the show itself has got to be rigged. Let’s explore the hypothetical: After your first dinner party; you’ve fallen desperately, madly and genuinely in love with one particular contestant. She’s perfect — intelligent, witty, charming, deep, strong, committed, everything you’ve ever wanted. The feelings are reciprocated and the fairy tale just might come true … if not for the fact she also has a mildly unsightly and altogether noticeably big butt. Or crooked teeth. Or chubby knees.
In short, nothing that would remotely disqualify her as matrimonial material, or even universally qualify her as unattractive. But in the world of primetime TV, some intern in casting was probably axed for letting her not-ready-for-primetime-bum slip through the cracks and onto the screen. TV adds 10 pounds, and nobody wants to see anything resembling a bubbly silhouette during the crucial final moments of passion and intrigue.
Thus, no network executive worth his salt and his Harvard MBA with a quarterly goal to meet is going to let you rain on his fairy tale — the 18-34 male demographic and the ad revenue that comes with it — by slipping a necklace over her potentially-too-thick neck. Don’t kid yourself into believing any of the decisions about who stays and who goes are made by the folks onscreen. If there’s a kitty out there who’s bringing in the mice, you’re not about to stuff her in a kennel.
So cut out the primetime voyeurism and pick up a newspaper. If it’s dirt you’re looking for, we too probe the laundry of real people. As an added bonus, we do it free of compensation and invitation, we’re much more pesky and resilient.
Eric Cullen ([email protected]) is a sophomore majoring in political science and history. He welcomes the stigma of a no-fun pseudo-intellectual who could easily be mistaken for someone over the age of 33.
