Wednesday, March 18, 2009 

The Apprentice.

Is just Big Brother for the bourgeois.

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Tuesday, July 29, 2008 

Reality television, self-destruction and Jodie Marsh.

It's been alluded to in the press a few times of late, but it's worth dredging up here yet again as an example. In the very first episode of I'm Alan Partridge, in a desperate attempt to get a second series of his chat show, Knowing Me, Know You, Alan pitches a variety of brain dead concepts for programmes at the commissioning editor, including, most famously, Monkey Tennis. First shown back at the tail-end of 1997, in those intervening 11 years the idea no longer looks so absurd. In fact, if you set it up like the idea that if you give enough monkeys enough typewriters and enough time they'll eventually write Shakespeare, but instead give them enough racquets, enough balls and enough time, compared to Big Brother it would be exciting beyond belief. Will the monkeys ever play a rally, serve an ace or master the backhand smash? Tune in tomorrow just in case they do!

Commentators have been writing the obituary for reality television for almost as long as it has existed. At the weekend, supposedly prompted by the fact that Australia has cancelled Big Brother and that ratings for the show have fallen to 3 million (which is in fact the fairly average amount the show has been getting for the last couple of years) Rachel Cooke in the Observer went to investigate its health. While her article covers all the bases and is one of the better pieces on the genre's continuing lifespan, the most fascinating part is the interview with Jodie Marsh, who along with Jordan and Kerry Katona (both of whom existed prior to their forays onto reality television, but whom vastly improved their profiles due to it) is probably the other most recognisable female face which the shows have bequeathed us.

Marsh is a conundrum for the simple reason that unlike so many others who have attempted to shoot to fame on the coat-tails of the latest invasive camera show, she is quite clearly of above average intelligence. She could, if she was prepared to put effort into it, be something far other than the sum of her current parts, which include comedy sized breasts (paid for by one of the weekly one-handed lads' mags), comedy sized lips (courtesy of a Five show) and an apparently unfixable nose, which she broke whilst playing hockey at school. Instead, she's plunged herself into the world of reality television, not because she wants to just be famous, although that's part of it, but because she wants to be rich.

The trouble is that Marsh is a walking example of the maxim that money can't buy you love or real friends. It doesn't help that, judging by this interview and past ones, she seems to be thoroughly unpleasant and self-absorbed beyond belief, but again, that also hasn't prevented others from rising up the greasy pole. No, what overwhelmingly hits you reading the conversation between her and Cooke is the fury which seems to be sitting just beneath her skin. Also apparent is that this all too overwhelming anger is not just directed against those who have either slighted her or who she's worked with and thinks have taken advantage of her, but also against herself. The woman who formerly boasted of the fact that her breasts were real while Jordan, her erstwhile rival's, were not, has since had those same implants inserted into her already generous bosom. How else can you describe her decision to continue with such programmes as "Jodie Marsh: Who'll Take Her Up the Aisle", the inference being that not just will the husband she's looking for take her hand in marriage, but also be allowed to, as James Joyce's wife once begged her husband, "bugger [her] arseways," fitting neatly into that very modern, pornographic obsession and fetish that anal sex, probably because of the power it gives the male whilst giving the female none of the pleasure, is far superior to stuffy normal vaginal intercourse. It's hard not see, without getting too psychoanalytical, that Marsh's behaviour is self-harm on a scale which is far beyond what we usually associate with those who cut or otherwise hurt themselves, either as a cry for help or to "help", as they see it (and I include myself in this) with getting their pain out, while also providing all too vivid physical wounds to go with the mental ones.

Some will doubtless look at Marsh and feel that the blame rests purely on her own shoulders for the way she's lived her life. She has entered freely into the shows she's taken part in, knowing full well that she will be used just as much as she uses the producer's money afterwards. Unlike the aforementioned Jordan and Katona however, the difference between them and her is all too obvious to see: while both of them have been advised and have agents which have steered them reasonably effectively, with Katona a customer of Max Clifford, Marsh has for one reason or another relied purely on her own wits. They have ensured that their clients have not become the victim, or the one who is primarily being used; Marsh instead has made a whole host of terrible decisions, and has been fed on parasitically instead of making the deals that the others have.

In this, Marsh is perhaps the summation and ultimate tragedy not just of reality television, but of the way the tabloid media and culture works. Bullied at school, as she sets out in the interview, she sought solace in the thought of becoming famous, as none of the woman on the front pages of the men's magazines could ever be accused of being ugly. She then swiftly contradicts herself, making clear that no one should judge her on how she looks; yet it was her desire not to be that led her onto those self-same magazine covers. After all, how could she not be beautiful? She is little less than a walking fuck doll, the supposed male fantasy: blonde, large breasts, even if not real, luscious lips, and with a mind as filthy as a dirty protester's cell. Yet none of these things have made her happy. None of these things have brought the real success she craves. And very few men except a former boyfriend of Jordan's seem to want to go near her.

Perhaps, apart from her own bad decisions, the real reason why Marsh has not achieved the success of her rivals is that she embarrasses those who have made the rest of them. They're the ones who have set-up the rules, created the celebrity culture, and shoved all of this down our throats, yet Marsh's chutzpah and path of self-destruction is too much for them. She is simply too much; she's tried too hard, and she's followed all the rules far too closely. She is, in short, a monster of their own creation, and that repels them.

I'm not one of those indulges the view that this part of our culture instantly means that we have an entire generation of Jodie Marshes waiting in the wings to join her once they reach the required age. What is of concern however is that those who have grown up with reality television and what some call the raunch culture have not yet reached their coming of age, so we do not yet know what the overall effect will be. While I disregard the view that watching violence encourages violence, as it is hardly ever provided as aspirational, what is clear is that there is peer pressure amongst teenage girls, bullied perhaps like Marsh was, to look like the young women on this week's Zoo or Nuts, to act almost purely as their walking fantasies, indulging their every whim. As the National Post article I linked to at the weekend said, how did we know when first embracing "low culture" that it would become the only culture? It's not entirely true of course; there are other role models, other cultures, other trends. It's just that it's this one that seems so prevalent, and the one which is undoubtedly the most pernicious and troubling. Jodie Marsh, in her misery, is a warning, and might well be reality television's real lasting legacy.

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Saturday, June 02, 2007 

10 weeks of absolute fucking hell.

Living on the edge of a city in a village surrounded by farms, you still never get used to the smell that often emanates from the surrounding fields after a healthy dose of spraying. You know it's going to happen, that there's going to be a smell which permeates almost everything, and will slowly but surely drive you crazy, but there's nothing you can do about it, save turning arsonist and burning down the shit-loving masochist's living quarters.

Much of which could be said about Big Brother. It's the stinking putrescence of vanity, greed and idiocy that blares at you from the television, occupies the front pages of those excrement purveyors, the tabloids, and tries to infiltrate its way inside your skull, infecting your brain and turning it inexorably to a maggot-ridden decaying reeking orb, being eaten away as the very oxygen you breathe itself seems to have become stale as a result of the demoralising, blanketing vacuity of it all. It's the nose-wrinkling decomposition of all that terrestrial television once stood for, laid bare, eviscerated for all to see, completely inescapable unless you decided to board up your windows, smash the goggle-box, throw the radio out the window and stay in bed living on tinned food for the best part of 3 months.

Yep, It's back. Despite being forced to issue 3 groveling apologies over its handling of the racism row in the celebrity version, the seeming opiate of the young masses has returned, as if its return had ever been in doubt. When it comes down to it, it's all about cash: Channel 4 probably simply can't afford not to keep Big Brother going, as according to MediaGrauniad it makes £50 million a year.

Both Endemol and Channel 4 have of course learned nothing from the controversy surrounding Shilpa and Jade, or rather, they have learned everything. Why else would they have purposefully chosen a house entirely populated by women otherwise? The biggest ructions of the last two series' have all surrounded the female housemates and their ability to bitch about and loathe each other, so why not go the whole way and centre the whole pointless exercise around just that? The other factor informing such a decision has to be pure cynicism: nearly all the young women featured in the show of late have sold both their souls and their bodies to the teenage wank mags, whether they originally intended to or not. This depressing development was almost certainly taken with such a prior knowledge that this series will doubtless turn out much the same. The Scum has already acknowledged this in a nasty, misogynistic tone: calling the younger housemates beauties while those older or not as good looking are "beasts". The MurdochSpace/Facebook profiles have all been inevitably raided, with the photographs splashed across the front pages.

It could all be so different. Channel 4 can still produce fantastic programmes when it wants to, as Peep Show could not more exemplify, the 4th series recently coming to an end with the writing as fresh, inventive, reflective and hilarious as it was during the first. It occupied the 10:30 slot on a Friday, which Big Brother will now miserably fill. While that show bases itself around the thoughts of its two main characters, Big Brother only viscerally identifies the emptiness going on inside the brains of both the contestants, producers and commissioners. It worships at the throne of all that is wrong in the world, combining naivety with exploitation, emphasising that you too can become rich and famous, at least for 15 minutes, as long as you debase yourself enough in front of millions of people. It's masturbation for the mind without the fleeting moment of pleasure, the self-hatred and misery which swiftly follow instead becoming the enduring feeling and emotion.

The one relief is that at least it's 3 weeks shorter than last year's effort, as even its most ardent fans admitted that fatigue set in long before the end. As for the tabloids' obsession, for reasons known only to myself the Big Brother paper-watch will again be operating, with likely ever diminishing returns. It might take a death before it finally gets pulled, although it'll be too late for the girl who committed suicide because she wasn't allowed to watch.

Related posts:
13 weeks of absolute fucking hell.
Stockholm syndrome.

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Saturday, December 02, 2006 

Stockholm syndrome.


"Nothing ever happens / So why are you watching?"
-- Stockholm Syndrome, Milburn
In a world of car bombings, endless suspicion and angst about sex offenders in our midst and poisoned ex-pat Russians, it may be a little self-indulgent to be more depressed about a television programme being recommissioned, but then not all television programmes are Big Brother.

It can be quite convincingly argued that writing angrily and contemptuously about something as banal and inconsequential as a television show only adds to what the producers want - an endless buzz about their labour of love - but as Marina Hyde writes today in the Grauniad, the TV revolution sparked into motion in the UK by Big Brother is infecting all of us, whether we want it to or not.

While Hyde's main concern is that treating young people as too stupid or apathetic to care about politics without introducing futile and patronising reality TV style contests or content, like sort-it.co.uk, or Cameron's fated decision to find a candidate for London mayor through an X-Factor style voting competition, this ignores just how exploitative Big Brother actually is. While the X-Factor at least builds up self-esteem in those taking part who progress beyond the preliminary stages, even if it shames those who try and are then subjected to invective from Simon Cowell, Big Brother could accurately be described as a misanthropist's dream. It happily confirms all the prejudices of such enlightened commentators as Very Scary Spice, mad Melanie Philips, that society is going down the toilet. You don't need to be Darwin to notice that something seems to have gone very wrong in the evolutionary process; these people aren't just the scum of the earth, they seem to share the social skills of an amoeba while having the brainpower of a retarded, poisoned fly, spinning its last on its back. All human life is there, as long as human life only has a vocabulary that doesn't go much further than yes, no and fuck, women whose only ambition in life is to appear in the lads' mags once they leave the show, and men so sleazy that their skin seems to excrete snake oil.

The last series of the show, the worst yet, seemed to abandon all its previous pretences of being some kind of social experiment. The modus operandi seemed to be to throw together the most obnoxious group of people you could ever find together and see what happened. Of the women that took part, at least 5 of them have since appeared in lads' mags without their clothes, one of them had already starred in several pornographic features and one was already a model. The men either seemed to fit the stereotype of being highly sexed, incredibly stupid, vain or in Pete, the eventual winner's case, apparently normal apart from err, having Tourette's syndrome and cross-dressing. While many of those taking part can be dismissed as seeking fame for fame's sake, as well as the cash prize, some genuinely didn't seem to realise what they were getting into. Shahbaz, a clearly mentally unstable man, was bullied viciously by other contestants on his final day before leaving, while George also left 9 days into the show. The much vaunted sessions with psychologists prior to entering the house were left looking callow as a result.

This is where the exploitation directly comes into play. The prize money for winning the show is a relatively low £100,000. By comparison, according to Media Guardian, the show makes Channel 4 £50 million a year. Not only are the producers in effect exploiting those that watch and vote via phone, they're making huge sums while giving the stars of the show very little apart from short lived fame or infamy. The long-term mental effects to housemates, especially of the last couple of series' may not be known for years.

Natasha Walter, writing on Comment is Free earlier in the week, goes further into the genre and finds herself distressed by the conformist attitude that seems to permeate from it. This itself is something of a paradox; from a genre which is meant to give the viewer near to total control, those taking part are often entirely denied their own say. Fine, you might say, but all these people know what they're getting themselves into, they made their own free choice. While true, the attitudes that seem to be emerging from reality TV are certainly not encouraging. Far from proving that you can break free from your own restraints, some of it is more concerned with seeming to show you exactly what and where your place is. You vote, but it doesn't change anything. What does that remind you of?

As some of the respondents to Hyde's column have pointed out, this completely ignores the general attitude of the young towards politics. The imposition of the values of reality television onto the political system is not just patronising and ignorant, it's showing the complete lack of ideas which our current lot seemed to be blessed with. The vast majority that are interested feel turned off by being talked down to, while those who weren't interested in the first place aren't suddenly going to become enlightened thanks to gimmicks. It's events in the real world that open minds, great ideas that stimulate and genuine listening which enthuses people. By contrast, Labour's Big Conversations and the Tories' sort-it are the opposite of these things. We all know Labour only wants to listen to what it wants to, with its debates being nothing of the kind, while the Conservatives are so desperate to prove that they've changed that they'll try absolutely anything, even when it later turns out that like the "inner tosser", they've got huge debts to go along with their baggage from the past.

It's all a little reminiscent of Big Brother itself. It's interminable, goes on too long, thinks it's clever when it's not and promotes bullshit and exploitation. When our politicians have worked out that those of us who are already interested generally reject all of those things, maybe then they'll they be better placed to attract those who are alienated.

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