There are two versions of me. The first is cultured, sophisticated and watches documentaries on SBS or ABC if anything at all, preferring instead to read the works of Nietzsche in the original German whilst listening to the collected works of Rachmaninov. The second, however, is uglier and far closer to the truth. This is the individual who would gladly watch a fly crawl across a wall so long as it was televised five nights a week and included a chance for a phone vote. There’s no easy way to say it: reality television has made me an imbecile.
There are two versions of me. The first is cultured, sophisticated and watches documentaries on SBS or ABC if anything at all, preferring instead to read the works of Nietzsche in the original German whilst listening to the collected works of Rachmaninov. The second, however, is uglier and far closer to the truth. This is the individual who would gladly watch a fly crawl across a wall so long as it was televised five nights a week and included a chance for a phone vote. There’s no easy way to say it: reality television has made me an imbecile.
My father still refers to television as ‘chewing gum for the eyes’. He further reinforces his point by never consuming chewing, bubble or any other kind of gum, preferring instead to chew loose bits of gravel found on the driveway. The only exception to this rule was the news and the show ‘Sale of the Century’ which he deemed to largely be educational, except for the showcase models, from whom we were required to avert our eyes. But despite growing up in a household where televisual standards were extremely high, I have found that these have steadily eroded over time. I guess I could and probably should blame myself but, frankly, where’s the fun in that?
Like many others, I resisted at first. But resistance, much like quality programming itself, is largely futile. Over the past few years, it’s become clear that there are some key principles that underpin the whole reality television phenomenon. The first and, indeed, golden rule of reality television is the one thing they all have in common – namely, transformation. Like Kafka’s Metamorphosis, these programs seek to transform the contestants from ordinary to extra-ordinary through ritual humiliation. Despite the risk of failure and national embarrassment, the idea of being rescued from obscurity appeals to everyone. Which of us does not secretly hope to be plucked from our everyday lives and reborn as a hero to millions? That it could happen to the most ordinary among us only strengthens its attraction. The sheer randomness of it all takes Warhol’s concept of fifteen minutes of fame and turns it into a spectacle for your viewing pleasure.
Frankly, it’s my turn. But even though it’s high time that reality television’s magic touch was applied to me, I don’t fancy my chances at present. I often wonder when somebody will get around to inventing a reality television program that suits my particular talents. This, of course, would be easier if I knew what my particular talents were. None of the current shows quite fit.
It takes guts to be a contestant of reality TV, and a whole lot of them if you’re to stand a chance of winning one of those weight-loss programs. Even if I could stand to lose a couple of kilos, there’s simply not enough of me to be competitive. Besides, I’ve long believed that there’s a very good reason that sessions at the gym are not televised. It’s true that I can almost hold a tune, but it’s no use appearing on one of those singing shows, either. Given that I have an intense allergic reaction to Michael Buble and being intimately familiar with the Buble cannon seems to be a requirement of entry, I wouldn’t get past the ‘weeding out’ stage.
If I’m being honest, I have no chance of being on anything with ‘Celebrity’ in the title either, even if it’s clear that the ordinary Dictionary definition has been gleefully abandoned. Of all the reality shows, the ones involving ‘celebrities’ are, by far, the most curious. These take people that you might have heard of and against whom you have no particular grudge, and expose a dark side that – if you were to see them coming down the street – would make you want to actively cross to the other side. Granted, they’re always done for charity, but they too often have the effect of diminishing everyone involved.
Cooking programs are way too cutthroat. I used to think that, when it came to good cooking, the secret ingredient was love. Apparently not. If nothing else, reality television teaches that the secret ingredient is, in fact, polenta. These shows routinely challenge everything I understand about cooking. Previously, I had thought that revenge was a dish best served cold, but I now know better. Revenge, it seems, is a dish best served with a jus reduction, albeit with a crispy salad.
As for home renovation, I should simply not bother. If I’ve learned anything from watching these shows it’s that changing the occasional light bulb and replacing the batteries in the smoke alarm are not considered home renovation, per se.
In truth, I am only exceptional when it comes to complaining. That, I feel, is my true talent. Sadly, it’s one that the world of reality television has not yet deemed fit to recognize. All I can do is hope that they’ll come to their senses, even if the available evidence suggests that this is highly unlikely. But should any of the major networks finally pluck up the courage to commission a series of ‘Australian Curmudgeon’, I’ll be the first in line to humiliate myself. Until then, perhaps I’ll let the other side of my nature wrest control and read a good book or two.