Gathering Speed

It has been the role of art to, in some way, advance society. Some pieces extend well beyond genius into the realm of historical significance. We listened as Nirvana woke everyone up from the glammed-out nightmare of hair bands. We swam through Ulysses, hearing the words of Joyce take gigantic chunks out of the previously impenetrable wall separating ‘decency’ and vulgarity’. We were mesmerized by the onscreen savvy of Sidney Poitier, as his Virgil Tibbs met the hurricane of race relations head on. The funny thing is that very often, we don’t recognize these milestones as they occur; it takes a little time. There wasn’t the 90s equivalent of Disco Demolition Night with people in ripped flannel going door-to-door collecting Dio albums for immediate disposal. Despite what ESPN would have you believe, history takes a while. What’s my point and what does this have to do with the pursuit of common sense?

Go watch The Running Man.

The somewhat satiric Schwarzenegger vehicle places the hero in a world obsessed with an ultra-violent reality TV show, in which felons run through a gauntlet of gladiators to the visceral delight of millions of viewers. Betcha thought that was far fetched in 1987. Not so much anymore.

The evolution is clear with all of this. The first reality show (and there’s no need to challenge this) was MTV’s The Real World. Some brilliant producer recognized that there were few things Americans liked to talk about more than other people, and gave them a group of people that everyone could talk about together. It was meant to be an objective look at regular kids, like sitting on a bench in Central Park and getting to hear about everyone’s lives. After that wore a little thin, they raised the stakes by being more particular about the characters for the show; for one thing, they began to find people to play their ‘real characters.’ They’re not idiots, they’ve been to a football game where a fight breaks out in the stands: everyone turns, everyone’s got to see that loud jackass in a Browns jersey get pummeled by loud jackasses in Raider jerseys. They started paring card-carrying Klan members with Black Panthers, right-wing conservatives with atheist vegans, Balco-ed out ‘roid ragers with silicone enhanced frequenters of the electric beach. The (Fire)ball was in motion.

The next step was to add fuel to the fire: make it a competition. The old Real World was like watching a soccer game: you go in knowing there’s a good chance the game will end in a zero-zero tie (the Real World corollary being everyone gets along on real world), but you could also see a bicycle-kick game winner (the equivalent being Surfer Joey barging in on Goth Amy and Indie Rocker Steve mid-coitus in a walk-in refrigerator and a huge fight breaking out). They added the Chuck Rule to the NFL to open up the offenses and add more scoring, and they added competition to the reality shows to give everyone something to fight about. Hello, Survivor.

Soon it wasn’t enough to simply pick and choose who to like and hate. The Apprentice designed a scenario where a collection of amoral ass kissers jockey for position to massage the ego of the modern day Auric Goldfinger (side project: go watch Goldfinger, and watch The Apprentice. Same guy. I’m officially waiting for one of Trump’s henchmen to decapitate a contestant with a bladed bowler hat). We don’t even need to find someone to like: we can hate everyone and hope to god they make a fool of themselves. What’s better than that, eh?

(Another sidenote on The Apprentice: the New York Times, which annually shirks journalistic integrity to list the official catch-phrases of the year, included the line, “You’re Fired,” which was copyrighted by NBC. News for the Times: That’s not a catch-phrase, not any more so than “What’s your name,” “Could we have some more bread,” and “It’s inoperable.” Saying it twice doesn’t make it historically significant. Getting canned at work is not going to be done as an allusion to Trump’s Wilde-like wit.)

So Fox, the Vespuggis of good taste and common sense (still lookin’ for that border), kicked out ugly people dating hot chicks, midgets getting married, and gold-diggers going after Joe Millionaire’s fake fortune. I was reminded of Winston Churchill’s famous line whenever that show would air a commercial: “-Madam, would you have sex with me for 10 million pounds? -Yes, I guess I would. -Would you have sex with me for 7 pounds? -No, what kind of girl do you think I am? -We’ve already established that, my dear, it just seems to be a matter of price.” Brilliant. Anyway, Fox trudged down this road until they hit solid gold with American Idol. Originally devised as proof that Americans will buy anything they’re told to buy (Clay Aiken sells out Madison Square Garden, ladies and gentlemen), they found a whole new purpose by releasing the audition tapes of the worst singers the world has ever seen. We get to see these poor saps get their souls torn apart by an ornery British gentleman with an encyclopedia of insults and Paula Abdul, whose cred comes from dancing with a cartoon cat in the late 80’s. They might as well rename the show “Abuse” and people would still watch it. “Today, on Abuse, a 17 year old kid makes a courageous leap for fame and is met head-on with a comparison between his voice and the sounds of Robert Plant dry-humping a car alarm. Followed by your local news.”

I’m not trying to make any sort of stand for decency or ethics here, that’s not what this is about. I just want to make sure we’re all a little more realistic about why we watch this stuff. ‘Dancing With The Stars’ is not about appreciating ballroom dancing. It’s hoping Jerry Rice or Master P kung fu kicks their Columbian partner in the face, intermittently dispersed with shots of Stacy Keibler (a Baltimore native and certifiable 10 1/2 if there ever was one). Sex and violence, it’s all we need. They ignored the sex element on “Skating With Celebrities” and went straight for the death-defying spin moves attempted after two weeks of televised training. While this may be ridiculously dangerous, it’s not hard to book these D-list ‘’stars” for this show; Dave Coulier would absolutely fight Sub Zero to the death to regain his mid-90s Full House stock.

Watch The Running Man again.

The most significant scene in that movie (I love breaking this down like it’s Beowulf) is when Producer/villain Killian (played with gusto by Family Feud’s Richard Dawson) decides that he’s had enough of Schwarzenegger defeating his MetRx Minotaurs and removes the chance element from the show by staging the Austrian’s death at the hands of Jesse Ventura’s Captain Freedom, in what became the nation’s first Governor-on-Governor melee, meant to represent that no matter how high and mighty California might aspire to be, the midwestern sensibility of Minnesota will always prevail. Killian’s audience wanted to see the convicts get their comeuppance in the bloodiest possible manner. The reality show audiences of today want to see people look like idiots or get in fights.

Watch The Running Man again.

Here’s a steaming pile of Common Sense: “Reality TV” is a misnomer because nothing on TV is reality. Omarosa was a construction of careful scripting, strategic editing, and a willing participant. Finding William Hung was more significant to Fox than finding whoever won that year (and isn’t it interesting I don’t know their name?). There’s a reason these people get agents as soon as they are signed to a show. There’s a reason they have AUDITIONS for Reality TV. They’re not going out to the Damen Blue Line stop in Chicago to find people to toss onto an island for a month. At least not without a headshot and stat sheet.

But I don’t blame these TV execs for doing this. I am by no means calling for them to wake up and find better stuff to put on their networks. We won’t watch it. The acolytes of common sense are begging for the next All in the Family or Seinfeld, and Fox has to cancel Arrested Development, the smartest show in the last ten years, because no one’s watching it. Millions tuned in weekly for The Simple Life, and SportsNight came and went with only a couple people noticing. People like their drama formulaic and predictable and their comedy as easy to digest as possible. We get both from a single episode of The Biggest Loser, along with ample “Look At That Fat Guy” gawking opportunity. In the words of Killian, “We’re giving them what they want.”

There is an end to this, and it may be watching Scott Peterson joust on a motorcycle against Ted Nugent (which, by the way, would land Super Bowl-level ratings). Eventually the well will run dry, as the country’s thirst for freak-shows will outrace the network’s creativity. We will get over this; fads come and go. We’ll find something new to talk about at work and plan our gym schedules around. It might be a renaissance of political satire and it might be raccoons doing Shakespeare. Somewhere the Kurt Cobain of television is writing the show that will snap us out of this Reality TV nightmare. Either that or he’s auditioning for Paradise Canoe.