There may be no more horrifying teaser than, "Tonight -- a two-hour Extreme Home Makeover." This "wholesome" show, in which a freshly traumatized family wins an insta-McMansion, is actually a revolting display of "reality" TV at its most false...and exploitive.
Consider the poor sods who have lost their family matriarch, spawned a mental cripple, been denied payment for an amputated limb, or gotten screwed by the local contractor. Are they deserving of a new dwelling? Of course. But first, they must endure today's most insidious device: the on-camera confessional.
Go ahead. Count how long the EHM lens lingers on the quivering, melted faces of distraught family members choking out their pain. All the while ABC happily counts its Sears money, hoping that millions continue to watch at home, chewing their schadenfreude-flavored cud.
Arguably more painful to watch -- and certainly more painful to listen to -- is the show's raspy, shrieking ring-leader, Ty Pennington. This bullhorn-toting madman, who occasionally moonlights as a spokesperson for an ADD drug (isn't he a walking advertisement for its lack of efficacy?) flies around the construction site as if nails are in his nads. He goads. He prods. He cajoles. He cares, dammit! And, of course, he and his lovable crew speak in clichés by the pound about the "amazing" and "brave" people whom they serve with the piety of Jewish carpenters.
I am tired of the reflexive moral elevation patronizingly bestowed upon victims of circumstance. Sometimes, the dying aren't brave. They're just dying. And for that matter, most of us do not need to have suffering pressed into our collective cornea to gain "perspsective" (another popular bromide of Ty's witless builders). Life gives us a daily dose, thank you very much.
If the hacks behind Extreme Home Makeover were truly interested in filming reality, they would observe the grim faces of the neighbors slightly out of camera range (behind Ty's belching, ozone-destroying bus) as they wonder to what lengths they would go for seven plasma TVs.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Her Annoying Holiness
Perhaps it is her perpetual invocation of “angels on earth.” Maybe it’s her honey chil’ patois fueled only by the presence of black guests. Possibly it’s her cameras-at-the-ready, “they need me” appearance at every international disaster (at least, the ones covered by ABC News). Or could it be her shameless, bug-eyed, bitten-by-rabid-squirrels studio audience?
For these and dozens of other reasons, Oprah must be sent away, camera-less, Steadman-less.
For these and dozens of other reasons, Oprah must be sent away, camera-less, Steadman-less.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Living the Dream in the Big Apple
You live in Coffeyville, Kansas. Save for the occasional dip into Oklahoma, you've never set foot outside of the state. But that is about to change.
You've gathered the requisite funds for a three-day stay in New York City. The possibilities are endless. But you have a dream that extends well beyond Broadway, the Met or the splendor of Central Park. Television is your muse. You were born for it. And though a neophyte, you head straight for the media mecca, Rockefeller Center.
It is raining, but you don't care. The ink on your pithy, home-crafted poster runs, but you don't care. Elbows are in your face, but you don't care. You are in the presence of Al Roker.
And so what if your fellow screaming cattle keep you slightly outside of Al's immediate orbit. So what if Matt Lauer's contract has a stay-inside-during-inclement-weather clause. So what if the on-air "talent" would sooner spit on you than share a dialogue when the cameras are off.
Clearly a quarter of your face was visible! And methinks your caterwauling about Bobby Sue's birthday was audible. Kudos to you. You've made the big-time.
You've gathered the requisite funds for a three-day stay in New York City. The possibilities are endless. But you have a dream that extends well beyond Broadway, the Met or the splendor of Central Park. Television is your muse. You were born for it. And though a neophyte, you head straight for the media mecca, Rockefeller Center.
It is raining, but you don't care. The ink on your pithy, home-crafted poster runs, but you don't care. Elbows are in your face, but you don't care. You are in the presence of Al Roker.
And so what if your fellow screaming cattle keep you slightly outside of Al's immediate orbit. So what if Matt Lauer's contract has a stay-inside-during-inclement-weather clause. So what if the on-air "talent" would sooner spit on you than share a dialogue when the cameras are off.
Clearly a quarter of your face was visible! And methinks your caterwauling about Bobby Sue's birthday was audible. Kudos to you. You've made the big-time.
Monday, February 18, 2008
This Just In...Local News Is Horrific
While never the bellwether of journalistic insight, local news has, over the past several years, slipped into a desperate, infantilizing coma. It matters not the tricked-up studio, pimped-up Guy Smiley/Cheese Cake anchor team or ginned-up “you should know” topic…your local news is an embarrassment (and the horrors are affiliate-agnostic). Shall we count the ways?
Local Reaction Interviews.
Must every “report” on a murder, sports team loss or election be accompanied by the sub-human “opinion” of the troglodyte next door? When the Philadelphia Eagles lose, I’m actually a bit more interested in gaining insight from coaches who have studied thousands of hours of film than from Joe from Fishtown who spent the last four hours studying the bottom of a beer glass. And then there’s Mary, framed by the gauzy sheen of her screen door, professing surprise that her neighbor was decapitated, “particularly around the holidays.” Really, Mary? Would have been the normal course of business if it happened, say, in April?
The Special Investigation Team.
The glowering looks. The leather jackets. The brick wall background. Yes, this must be the can’t-chain-‘em-to-no-desk special investigation team. They’re walking the beat to root out scofflaws from Ninth Street to Tenth. And if they can’t find any real corruption, they’ll talk a tough game and gussy up drama with grainy videography and whip-pan camera work.
Transitional Banter.
After Jock Itch Joe finishes his sports report, Annie Anchor does not posses the internal fortitude to simply thank him and move on. No, she needs to engage in schoolgirl “reaction dialogue” along the heady order of “Wow, Joe, that hit looked painful!” or “Awww….better luck next time for our team!” This elicits some convivial but uni-syllabic grunt (hardly surprising that extemporaneous wit isn’t the province of lobotomized news personalities), and the cycle goes on.
Weather Coverage.
This category is worth its own multi-page blog entry, but I’ll try to condense the inanity to a few sub-categories:
1) Good weather gratitude. Our jovial “meteorologist” (try getting a degree in that from Harvard) is swathed in “thank you’s” for reading a sunny forecast, much like the 16th century shamans were honored for the patterns of the sun, rain and wind.
2) “Wacky” weatherperson names. Philadelphia has its Hurricane Schwartz; New York has its Storm Fields. Recent events have forced Tsunami Sam to rethink his moniker. Stage names certainly have value for heretofore-unknown actors, relying on the patina of notoriety. But weatherpersons? What exactly is to be served by treating viewers like a cluster of three-year-olds watching characters in Romper Room? (At least Hurricane’s shamelessness didn’t extend to de-ethnicizing his last name.)
3) Bread, milk and salt. In Philadelphia, three inches of potential snow is all it takes to generate state-of-emergency coverage, complete with shots of parked salt trucks, bread and milk aisles, empty racks of snow shovels and other stock footage dredged from prehistoric amber.
4) Seven reporters, Seven miles. During a snow “storm” your local news station bizarrely deploys a multitude of reporters to towns all within a seven mile radius. Turns out, the road conditions are…the same! The snowfall amounts are…the same! And, of course, what roving reporter’s dispatch would be complete without the studio-bound anchor beseeching him or her, with faux sincerity, to “get inside where it’s warm!”? Hey – I didn’t ask Suzie to “brave” the elements, but if frostbite ensues, I’ll at least get a modicum of real news (and entertainment).
5) Tips on beating the heat, useful for those in the womb. Every time the thermometer flirts with the 90° mark, we have to endure such brain-dead “tips” as “don’t wear black,” “get near an open window, or, better yet, seek air conditioning,” and “stay hydrated.” This sage advice is often accompanied by shots of ugly children sucking down ice cream cones. It is to die.
Local Reaction Interviews.
Must every “report” on a murder, sports team loss or election be accompanied by the sub-human “opinion” of the troglodyte next door? When the Philadelphia Eagles lose, I’m actually a bit more interested in gaining insight from coaches who have studied thousands of hours of film than from Joe from Fishtown who spent the last four hours studying the bottom of a beer glass. And then there’s Mary, framed by the gauzy sheen of her screen door, professing surprise that her neighbor was decapitated, “particularly around the holidays.” Really, Mary? Would have been the normal course of business if it happened, say, in April?
The Special Investigation Team.
The glowering looks. The leather jackets. The brick wall background. Yes, this must be the can’t-chain-‘em-to-no-desk special investigation team. They’re walking the beat to root out scofflaws from Ninth Street to Tenth. And if they can’t find any real corruption, they’ll talk a tough game and gussy up drama with grainy videography and whip-pan camera work.
Transitional Banter.
After Jock Itch Joe finishes his sports report, Annie Anchor does not posses the internal fortitude to simply thank him and move on. No, she needs to engage in schoolgirl “reaction dialogue” along the heady order of “Wow, Joe, that hit looked painful!” or “Awww….better luck next time for our team!” This elicits some convivial but uni-syllabic grunt (hardly surprising that extemporaneous wit isn’t the province of lobotomized news personalities), and the cycle goes on.
Weather Coverage.
This category is worth its own multi-page blog entry, but I’ll try to condense the inanity to a few sub-categories:
1) Good weather gratitude. Our jovial “meteorologist” (try getting a degree in that from Harvard) is swathed in “thank you’s” for reading a sunny forecast, much like the 16th century shamans were honored for the patterns of the sun, rain and wind.
2) “Wacky” weatherperson names. Philadelphia has its Hurricane Schwartz; New York has its Storm Fields. Recent events have forced Tsunami Sam to rethink his moniker. Stage names certainly have value for heretofore-unknown actors, relying on the patina of notoriety. But weatherpersons? What exactly is to be served by treating viewers like a cluster of three-year-olds watching characters in Romper Room? (At least Hurricane’s shamelessness didn’t extend to de-ethnicizing his last name.)
3) Bread, milk and salt. In Philadelphia, three inches of potential snow is all it takes to generate state-of-emergency coverage, complete with shots of parked salt trucks, bread and milk aisles, empty racks of snow shovels and other stock footage dredged from prehistoric amber.
4) Seven reporters, Seven miles. During a snow “storm” your local news station bizarrely deploys a multitude of reporters to towns all within a seven mile radius. Turns out, the road conditions are…the same! The snowfall amounts are…the same! And, of course, what roving reporter’s dispatch would be complete without the studio-bound anchor beseeching him or her, with faux sincerity, to “get inside where it’s warm!”? Hey – I didn’t ask Suzie to “brave” the elements, but if frostbite ensues, I’ll at least get a modicum of real news (and entertainment).
5) Tips on beating the heat, useful for those in the womb. Every time the thermometer flirts with the 90° mark, we have to endure such brain-dead “tips” as “don’t wear black,” “get near an open window, or, better yet, seek air conditioning,” and “stay hydrated.” This sage advice is often accompanied by shots of ugly children sucking down ice cream cones. It is to die.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Two Words Even More Irritating Than "Wintry Mix"
Has there ever been a more specious phrase than "soul mate"?
Smacking of provincial fatalism, it combines, in equally absurd spoonfuls, hothouse teenage drama ("Now and forever, Thad, we are soul mates!") and desperate religious justification ("A higher power has blessed us each with a soul...each of which has but a single, perfect mate!"). The reality of the "soul" is, of course, as patently absurd as any of the poorly written parables and lessons found in your local hotel room's night table.
The intellectually honest will readily admit that no matter how fine the state of their marriage or partnership, there's a lovely person in Dubuque, Iowa, Quebec City, Canada, or Damascus, Syria with whom they are at least as compatible.
Smacking of provincial fatalism, it combines, in equally absurd spoonfuls, hothouse teenage drama ("Now and forever, Thad, we are soul mates!") and desperate religious justification ("A higher power has blessed us each with a soul...each of which has but a single, perfect mate!"). The reality of the "soul" is, of course, as patently absurd as any of the poorly written parables and lessons found in your local hotel room's night table.
The intellectually honest will readily admit that no matter how fine the state of their marriage or partnership, there's a lovely person in Dubuque, Iowa, Quebec City, Canada, or Damascus, Syria with whom they are at least as compatible.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
The "Hero" Horse Who Died For Our Sins
Recently, America's news media breathlessly celebrated the one year anniversary of the death of Barbaro, Preakness-crippled equine. It brought back horrid memories, not of the undeniably sad leg breakage, but of the childish coverage of Barbaro's cruelly-lengthened life. The best line may have been from the Philadelphia Inquirer the day after his life was mercifully ended: "Barbaro fought like a champion until the very end.”
Really? How, precisely, did they know that? Unless I'm mistaken, Barbaro possessed no opposable thumbs nor the ability to speak any particular dialect, in which case he would have certainly expelled a bullet into his own head or asked his "caretakers" to do the same.
The public deserves blame as well, bizarrely showering the gates of Rancho Barbaro with plastic flowers and school-sanctioned letters from children, never to be sniffed or read.
Really? How, precisely, did they know that? Unless I'm mistaken, Barbaro possessed no opposable thumbs nor the ability to speak any particular dialect, in which case he would have certainly expelled a bullet into his own head or asked his "caretakers" to do the same.
The public deserves blame as well, bizarrely showering the gates of Rancho Barbaro with plastic flowers and school-sanctioned letters from children, never to be sniffed or read.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
When the Otherwise Sensible Go Dim
"Fate." "Meant to be."
When you hear this bizarre collection of words, run far away. They are all part of the dim legacy of our ancient ancestors, whose cognitive infancy lives on. Here's a perfect example of how the contemplative abilities of otherwise bright people turn to mush...
I once told a well-educated colleague about a particularly striking event in a football game. During one play, the tight-end caught a sideline pass, the trajectory of which forced him out of bounds. Before he could stop, he barreled into an elderly assistant coach whose head crashed to the turf. Knocked unconscious, the coach was rushed to the hospital where he received head x-rays to check the severity of the damage. Although he was only diagnosed with a concussion, one scan revealed a small spot that turned out to be a malignant brain tumor. It was removed. He's now cancer free.
As I told my colleague this bizarre story, I couldn't help but notice his slow, purposeful nodding and increasingly glazed, Magic Kingdom smile. At the story's conclusion he said, “See? It was meant to happen.”
Puzzled, I asked, "What exactly was meant to happen?”
"The play. If that didn’t happen he would have been dead. It was fate.”
To which I said, "Let me see if I'm perfectly clear. 1) God arranged for the quarterback of the Kansas City Chiefs to slightly overthrow his intended receiver on a tight-end crossing pattern so that he would smash into the poor gentleman; 2) God caused the force of the collision to give the man a concussion [which, by the way, forced him to retire early from the game he loved]; so that 3) the tumor -- which was presumably put there by God -- could be discovered?"
“No, no, no....God didn’t give him the tumor. He led him to recovery.”
"And 'He' couldn’t have simply whispered something subtle like 'You have a brain tumor!' or have spelled out the imminent head injury in the coach's alphabet soup?"
My colleague ignored the question and finished the dialogue with, "And his doctor was also given the gift of practice."
A perfect microcosm of idiocy in action, yes?. In this world, a fortunate coincidence is God's work. A tragedy is too, but its ultimate meaning will be "revealed" later. Faith loopholes are endless. "Meant-to-be" moments are cherry-picked like the non- stoning/slavery/murdering sections of the bible (which are few and far between). And what precise value does prayer have when things are pre-determined? Can slapping our palms together really influence events in such a place?
What's most dispiriting about all of this fate nonsense is that it nullifies our responsibilities, our individual glories, our critical faculties. What could be more "unholy" than that?
When you hear this bizarre collection of words, run far away. They are all part of the dim legacy of our ancient ancestors, whose cognitive infancy lives on. Here's a perfect example of how the contemplative abilities of otherwise bright people turn to mush...
I once told a well-educated colleague about a particularly striking event in a football game. During one play, the tight-end caught a sideline pass, the trajectory of which forced him out of bounds. Before he could stop, he barreled into an elderly assistant coach whose head crashed to the turf. Knocked unconscious, the coach was rushed to the hospital where he received head x-rays to check the severity of the damage. Although he was only diagnosed with a concussion, one scan revealed a small spot that turned out to be a malignant brain tumor. It was removed. He's now cancer free.
As I told my colleague this bizarre story, I couldn't help but notice his slow, purposeful nodding and increasingly glazed, Magic Kingdom smile. At the story's conclusion he said, “See? It was meant to happen.”
Puzzled, I asked, "What exactly was meant to happen?”
"The play. If that didn’t happen he would have been dead. It was fate.”
To which I said, "Let me see if I'm perfectly clear. 1) God arranged for the quarterback of the Kansas City Chiefs to slightly overthrow his intended receiver on a tight-end crossing pattern so that he would smash into the poor gentleman; 2) God caused the force of the collision to give the man a concussion [which, by the way, forced him to retire early from the game he loved]; so that 3) the tumor -- which was presumably put there by God -- could be discovered?"
“No, no, no....God didn’t give him the tumor. He led him to recovery.”
"And 'He' couldn’t have simply whispered something subtle like 'You have a brain tumor!' or have spelled out the imminent head injury in the coach's alphabet soup?"
My colleague ignored the question and finished the dialogue with, "And his doctor was also given the gift of practice."
A perfect microcosm of idiocy in action, yes?. In this world, a fortunate coincidence is God's work. A tragedy is too, but its ultimate meaning will be "revealed" later. Faith loopholes are endless. "Meant-to-be" moments are cherry-picked like the non- stoning/slavery/murdering sections of the bible (which are few and far between). And what precise value does prayer have when things are pre-determined? Can slapping our palms together really influence events in such a place?
What's most dispiriting about all of this fate nonsense is that it nullifies our responsibilities, our individual glories, our critical faculties. What could be more "unholy" than that?
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