A few months ago, I had a behemoth of a cold. We are talking the Hindenburg of nasty viral infections. I was sick as a dog, I should have been quarantined and not have been allowed to resurface until Hilary is elected in office (meaning, of course, never). My point being, I had some unwonted free time, as rare as a lunar eclipse or Brittany Spears wearing more than one layer of clothing. Excellent, I thought. Now I can catch up on all of the quality television shows I’ve missed when I have so diligently been studying 18th Century British Literature.
False.
I turn on the tube only to find a terra nullius of shows—“Survivor,” “Big Brother,” “The Bachelor,” “My Super Sweet 16,” “Next,” – in fact, any show on MTV. (That network, at one point, used to play music, right? Or was that just a Buggles-induced fantasy?) The infamous Writer’s Strike of 2007-2008 had deprived me—and, by proxy—the world, of intelligent, plot-driven shows. Nowhere to be found was “The Office,” “Lost,” “Pushing Daisies,”—anything. It was a vast and desolate wasteland of shoulder cams and cleavage. Studies have shown, people have lost brain cells by watching “Fear Factor.” “Joe Schmo” has been known to cause uncontrollable drooling. And “Flavor of Love” has killed thousands of babies because of its asinine lack of plot and Flava Flav’s wardrobe choices.
Whatever happened to worthwhile, quality television that was both educational and entertaining, that stimulated a few dozen neurons and dendrites while being mildly interesting? While you’re shoving Cool Ranch Doritos in your pie hole with the same lusty vindictiveness in which Gerard Butler slays the Persians in a skimpy man-skirt watching “Big Brother,” is there any activity between thalamus, hypothalamus, and cortex? I’ll take a stab in the dark and say, probably there is not.
But it’s just a hunch.
Though I was young and naïve and had the thin veil of ignorance and callowness and extreme amounts of sugar from Hawaiian Punch, I remember the glory days of “Sesame Street.” And, of course, there was the wonder of “Wishbone,” a mid-90’s PBS show about a literature savy Jack Russel terrier who takes the viewers through lush landscapes of literary masterpieces. Ivanhoe. Paradise Lost. Great Expectations.
Now, the only Great Expectations viewers can hope for include the nagging question if Tela Tequila will ever find true love through the vast sea of sexually confused C-list actors and actresses. It is the basest form of television for those who will not or cannot follow simple story arcs and character development.
ABC recently broadcasted a teaser commercial proclaiming “The Mole” to be “the most fun you’ll have all summer.” Thanks, ABC executives. Why yes, before “The Mole,” the best hope for fun I had this summer was lathering SPF on Great Uncle Al’s back and trimming his nose hair. Geez. Just give me an embolism already.
In specific terms, “Kid Nation” is the Pol Pot of the reality TV show. Not only is it mind-numbingly dull to watch, but there are moral qualms as well. In a word, the show is about forty children, ages 8-15, who are left to their own vices in a ghost town in New Mexico. The ghost town looks suspiciously similar to the set of 3:10 to Yuma. It’s a western Lord of the Flies.
Or it would be, if not for the constant, irritating, and heavy-handed interference of the lobotomized CBS executives. Of course these children are not by themselves. They are surrounded by cameramen, producers, and child psychologists. And, like its’ big brother, “Survivor,” it is not the simple subsistence of surviving on an island or ghost town, but a heavily contrived romp of game-show like challenges and confessionals.
The children are split up into four teams—red, yellow, blue, and green. And from the get go, live, work, and play in these predetermined groups. Moreover, the socioeconomic status for the group is determined who wins the challenges. Say the Blue Team pushed all of their wagons over the finish line first. Then they become the bourgeois, and the others are below them. But do you see the flaw? (Loaded question, yes, but I mean within this context.) This is not a social experiment. It is the basic reinforcement of class and socioeconomics. In a word, it is reiterating the sordid underbelly of the American lifestyle.
The medium of television has allowed for this sort of meta-reality. It is not reality, but neither is it fictitious.
Even if this society would be autonomous—without the interference of ‘grown-up’s,’ there are the moral questions. Has television really sunk so low that they subject children to manipulative submission for the entertainment of a nation? In the “Kid Nation” contract, for example, there is a clause that reads something along the lines of the parents cannot sue and surrender all rights, including but not limited to if their child ingests bleach, looses an appendage, dies, or is sexually assaulted. For that matter, what kind of parent would subject their kid to this? And for a paltry $5,000 stipend, no less.
Excuse me, I need to release my vexation with this show and eat some Teddy Grahams.
It is called the Idiot Box for a reason, yes. But, what of what critics say—that we are in the Second Golden Age of Television? If that is the case, then there are a plethora of shows of which to chose that can be defined as entertaining, but with actual redeeming qualities. (Of course, the media is what I study, so I justify being able to watch 13 hours of straight TV). Post-Writer’s-Strike-Draught, there is a digital Babylon of quality shows. What of “30 Rock,” a wickedly intelligent comedy about writers in New York? Or “LOST,” perhaps the most intricate show to grace television since the dawn of, well, television?
What it boils down to is that people don’t want to have to think when they watch television. It is an escape, a means of travel that doesn’t cost $4.00 a gallon. It takes the viewer from the sofa to an abandoned ranch in New Mexico or an island in the Philippines without the hassle of having to follow intricate plot lines. That is, there is very little invested in reality television. You can just as soon sit down and watch season five of “Big Brother” as the pilot, and understand what is going on. Not so with “24” or “Dexter.” It’s the difference between a seven-course meal versus fries, a burger, and a shake at the local Burgers ‘R Us. One is delicious and takes time to ingest and discern, one is a quick fix.
And Americans have spoken on which of the two they like. Keep your giant hamburger with onion rings and pass me a book.
I think I’ll stay in bed with that cold.
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