PUTNEY — I have to plead guilty to being a “Sylvaniaphile.” When some self-righteous polling entity says that the average American watches about three hours of TV a day, I figure I'm about average.
My old man bought our first TV in the early '50s. It was a 12-inch, black-and-white Sylvania floor model and cost $400. I've been watching the glowing eyeball of popular culture for lo these last 50 years.
There is no more informative method of getting a feel for the attitudes of America than following the development of the quiz show. The first one I remember was “You Bet Your Life,” starring Groucho Marx. Groucho would have guests on two at a time, and for 10 or 15 minutes he harmlessly poked fun at them while puffing his signature cigars and pogo-sticking his eyebrows in a lascivious manner. Once they finally got down to the questions for cash the show kind of petered out.
The first reality TV show I can recall is “Queen for a Day,” hosted by Jack Bailey. On the show, three blowsy, world-weary housewives were trotted out to tell their stories to a studio audience.
“My husband has been out of work since the depression and little Chester is going to have his iron lung repossessed unless I win,” a contestant might wail. Three horribly unhappy women all with sob stories to tell: Jack would then bring them all out on stage and use the “applause-o-meter” to decide the winner. She would get a huge coronation style crown, a flowing faux-ermine robe, and a dozen red roses. As the two losers slunk off stage to rejoin whatever refugee camp they came from, the Queen was showered with Kenmore appliances, vacuum cleaners, and refrigerators. It was great fun.
The '60s and '70s were a lot more celebrity oriented. “Hollywood Squares,” “What's my Line,” “Password,” and “Who Do You Trust”: These were vehicles with a very thin premise mainly designed to have celebs show off their cleverness. “The Gong Show” had a great run. It gave ordinary people with a dopey talent a chance to have Jaye P. Morgan, Buck Owens, Jamie Farr, and a host of other B-level celebrities applaud their efforts or “gong” them off the show.
Popular shows like “The Dating Game” and “The Newlywed Game” were tripe, pure and simple. Sexual innuendo and embarrassing moments were the fodder that fed the pig on these simple-minded shows. They couldn't say “having sex” or any of the more common synonyms for coitus despite the fact that both shows revolved around getting laid. They settled on “making whoopee” as their substitute for “sex.” Why the sponsors would insist on this idiocy was a mystery.
Reality shows began to be a bit more death defying with the recently revived “American Gladiators,” where steroid-stuffed freaks in Spandex competed against more ordinary (though very athletic) citizens. People got hurt regularly; not Japanese-reality-show hurt, but they got knocked around quite a bit nonetheless. The show stunk when it first aired, and the current rehash seems worse.
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Fast-forward to the recent past, and you had “Fear Factor” with Joe Rogan, a leering knucklehead, as the host who introduced couples to an array of creative stunts requiring helicopters, alligators, and the need to balance high above the ground. The requirements for male contestants included an IQ only slightly higher than a turnip. The women had no intelligence minimum but had to possess an eye-popping set of knockers. The highlight of the show had contestants eating various disgusting foods; rancid squid, live roaches, and rotting pig intestines covered with flies were commonplace. All the revolting foods were easier to stomach than Joe Rogan.
Enter the new millennium.
Now the limits of game show humiliation are being pushed. “The Biggest Loser” is a show purportedly to show America about the benefits of healthy eating and exercise. Right, and the Victoria's Secret fashion show is about fashions.
“The Biggest Loser” gathers a pod of grossly overweight men and women, puts them on a fat farm with two muscle-y, great-looking trainers, and then puts them through a series of challenges and exercises. At the end of the week each weighs in on a giant scale, and the ones who lose the least weight are eligible to be voted off the show by the other fatties. The men weigh in shirtless with enormous bellies hanging over their belts and huge, hairy man-boobs flopping on their chests. The women have to haul themselves up a set of steps to the scales wearing form-fitting Spandex. It is a humiliation fest. I never miss it.
At least the fatty show has a great payoff at the end when the biggest losers come back after months of dieting and exercise. They look terrific, and it is quite inspiring to those of us who fight the flab.
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The contempt that wells up in the viewer even listening to the promos for the latest show to hit the airwaves, “Moment of Truth,” is almost palpable. It is a show without merit on any level, appealing to the absolute worst in contestant and viewer. Its contestants take lie detector tests before appearing on camera and then proceed to earn money by telling the truth. The higher the money level, the more intimate and embarrassing the question. To add spice to their sick game they make sure the contestant's family is there.
“Did you ever steal from work?”
“Did you ever make a pass at your wife's sister?”
“Has your father ever been a little too intimate with you?”
Those on the hot seat squirm and writhe until ultimately their greed kicks in and they expose themselves to the audience and their families. I watched one show with a slightly nauseous feeling in my stomach and will never watch it again. How low an opinion must the producers have of us, the viewing public? What kind of sick voyeurs do they think we are? And where do they find people willing to destroy their families and their marriages for money?
If this show is not cancelled, what will the next level be? Sell your kid's kidneys for a Caribbean cruise? How about pimping out your wife for a new motorcycle? Maybe contestants could eat gum off the sidewalk for a chance to meet Tiger Woods.
If any of you amoral producers out there decide to use any of these ideas, I want my cut.