Mary McNamara, Decade
of reality TV glorified the mundane
Chicago Tribune (December 26, 2009)
Balloon Boy, the White
House party
crashers, Octomom, Jon & Kate, Speidi -- nearly 10 years after the
first
"Survivor" offered us winner and dubious role model Richard Hatch,
reality television remains the genre that just keeps on giving.
Ten years ago, who among us could have imagined a nation riveted by the
semi-scripted rantings of various "real" housewives or the emotional
and physical exertions of the morbidly obese? (P.T. Barnum being
already dead
and all.)
Certainly, as a concept, reality programming offers the possibility,
and rare
actuality, of personal drama and cultural revelation. The various
talent
competitions -- "American Idol," "So You Think You Can
Dance," "Dancing With the Stars," "Project Runway" --
showcase the grueling effort required in the creative process, as well
as its
often-stunning outcome.
But from the nurse log of "American Idol" and "The Amazing
Race" have sprouted all manner of shows in which the time-honored
division
between fame and notoriety has been unforgivably mangled, creating a
pop
culture smoothie in which there is not so much flavor as sensation.
Raising
children, surviving marriage, gossiping with your friends, looking for
a job,
losing weight and buying expensive things -- most reality shows
celebrate
nothing quite so much as the utterly mundane.
Which would be great if the message were something like: There is quiet
beauty
in the ordinary life lived well. But reality show programmers are not,
by and
large, Transcendentalists. They, and we, are much more interested in
the
ordinary life lived petulantly -- it wasn't all those kids that kept us
tuned
in to "Jon & Kate Plus 8." It was all those kids and that veiled
hostility between the parents.
Society has always celebrated people of little or no actual
accomplishment --
before there was Kate Gosselin, there was Evelyn Nesbit. But Nesbit at
least
was involved in the murder of famous architect Stanford White; her
story
provided a tantalizing glimpse of the imagined and possibly real
depravity of
the cloistered cultural elite. The Gosselins have done nothing more
than
reproduce and split up, offering no particular insight on either topic.
But the point of these shows is not illumination but reassurance. We
call them
our guilty pleasures, and there's a reason for that. Too many reality
shows and
their "stars" have become the small, dim mirrors in which we examine
ourselves, finding comfort in the fact that if banality is televised,
perhaps
it isn't such a bad thing after all. Excellence is hard to achieve; why
go to
all that trouble when mediocrity will make you just as famous?
To a certain extent, reality television reflects our fairly recent
obsession
with full and electronically instant disclosure. We have become a
nation of
memoirists, obsessed with examining every previously shameful inch of
our
social intestinal tract. My alcoholism, your gender confusion, his sex
addiction, her binge eating, their dysfunctional family. And every
issue has
its own show.
www.chicagotribune.com/entertainment/chi-sc-ent-1224-tvcolumn-realitydec26,0,1328307.story