The Reality of Reality TV

Will someone please explain to me, the purpose for shows such as “The Real Gilligan’s Island?” I accept that reality TV has become, well, a reality, but isn’t there a limit?
While waiting for my daily dose of Sex and the City, I caught the last five minutes of this peculiar series. I guess the basic premise – contestants dress up as the characters of the 60’s sitcom -Gilligan’s Island, and try to make it on an abandoned island, like the current show, survivor. Hmmm. So let me get this straight, not one, but two knockoff’s? How original. And, the winner receives a quarter of a mill. Hey, two hundred and fifty thousand is definitely a nice handful, but compared to the likes of – The Amazing Race, The Apprentice, Survivor, where the winner takes home a cool million, it kind of seems like chump change. I watched, and hoped it was actually a parody, like a SNL take off or something, because then I could find humour in its stupidity. Alas, no. It is real. Which made me wonder, are we watching reality TV or has TV become our reality?

Friends of mine are currently producing a documentary in the US, called Independent America. Their mandate is to focus on independents, the “mom and pop” shops. As box stores manifest throughout our planet, these two journalists want to feature local business all over the globe. Raise awareness on the “little guys”. Why? Well it’s not that they don’t understand superstores, but it’s these small stores that offer a unique and quality experience. Something many of us have lost appreciation for in return for a quick and cheap fix. In my mind, this is real TV. True reality. Yet, there is a good chance, the general public won’t get to see this work. It’s not “sexy” enough. Instead, the network will air shows like, Britney Spears “Chaotic”.

In the city, my producer friend, fights a daily battle – finding stories that matter to everyday life vs. stories that will get high ratings. Unfortunately, they are not one in the same. So the powers that be, found more value in the “Belinda Stronach” scandal, including a forum on her whereabouts vs. the whereabouts of our government. I am still trying to figure out how romantic relations of this politician have anything to do with well-being of say…our healthcare, for example?

Hey, entertainment is subjective. I get that. For me, dissecting the character development in Six Feet Under - is fun. For my buddy, wondering if the twin blondes will eat worms – is fun (although I think it’s more about the blondes than the worms). We all need an escape; TV is a great place to do it. We choose what we want to watch. But what happens when the power of choice is limited by narrow programming? When all we have to choose, is the clone of the same idea redone a hundred times over? New information becomes extinct. Please tell me, someone, somewhere- will call out to the media gods, see the light and allow for different, offbeat, interesting programming. That we will utilize this media to it’s fullest potential. Until then, I guess we’ll just have to find value in Rachel Hunter dressed up as the Movie Star.

©Desiree Daniel June 23, 2005

Ten Years?!!!

Morning coffee. Morning paper. Morning headline. The Grads of 2005. I suppose it was prom night; glorious gowns and tuxedos decorated the front page of my newspaper. Nostalgia broke open a smile. I thought back to my final days of high school, the countdown to “freedom”, when the ol’ gang geared up for graduation. We thought we were so cool. Although, looking back now…Helena resembled Judy Jetson, Lindsay’s hair took her 5’4 frame to a good 5’7 and my dress could have been, at least an inch longer (dam, I was hoping to skip the “what was I thinking” phase).

Floating on the left over high of high school, my mind returned to life at 17. A time when the immediate mandate was - to figure out who I wanted to be, when I grew up. (Shoot, still working on that one). I was ecstatic at the idea of going to the bathroom with out having to ask permission (no more putting your hand up!). I’d gain the power of creating a schedule that suited me…not the school system. There would be new people to look at everyday, not to mention, an entire world of untouched experience – just waiting for discovery. The most difficult decision I had to face was what to do after summer vacation. And minimum wage was darn good money. Too young to know any differently, too naïve to care.

My blinking computer disrupted me; an email just begging for attention. Apparently my good friend “classmates” was inviting me to the “Class of 95” reunion. Ok, wait a second. I scrolled up and down the page, trying desperately to absorb the cold truth starting in my eyes. Ten years?!! It had been ten years since I graduated? Wait a second, the memory didn’t seem that long ago. In fact, I think the dress I wore to prom is still hanging in my closet. Ten years?! Seriously? Where did an entire decade of life go?

Suddenly the cozy thoughts of my wonder years, turned into an uncomfortable angst. It really didn’t feel like I was given enough time to go back and share my creations yet. (And in all honesty, if you go to the local bar in my hometown it’s the same as a ten-year reunion because almost everyone still lives there.). I looked around and wondered if the life I had created meant anything. Was I reunion worthy? Had I reached the goals I so blindly made as a teen? Was I proud of myself? If I was going to return, I had to be “good enough” to represent me.

Which is when I realized; the judgments on my reunion were actually a judgment on me. The pressure I put on time, and where I “should” be. It was ruining the whole essence of uniting with the life I lived ten years ago. Instead of asking where I wasn’t I decided to look at where I was. I figure an amazing accomplishment to return with, is to be at peace with my life. Either that, or to fit into that old prom dress.

© Desiree Daniel June 9, 2005

Scaring the Artist out of You

I once read; a writer feels everything twice, once in the moment, then again, when they write about it. (Like the first time wasn’t emotional enough?!) Perhaps it’s a writer’s karma? In order to reach people, we must first, delve into the intensity of life and somehow put words to the experience. Hoping, that someone, somewhere, will feel effected by the work. I am sure every artist has his or her own fate to explore. But I finally accept this as mine.

Yet, I stumbled with the concept; “I am a writer”. Who gave me the permission to call myself a writer? I am not good enough for that! Which is when I realized, to make my creativity real, I would have to take myself, seriously. Best way to do that? Shake my comfy bubble, and scare myself senseless. I joined a writers group. I figured, to overcome the fear, I’d submerge myself amongst the best.

At my first meeting, I sat among eight strangers, all bonded by a common love for the written word. Peers, who “knew” more than me. (Just a little intimidating). Our mandate was to read one piece of writing. Funny, up until that moment, I dreamed about reading to crowds of people. Suddenly, I was too embarrassed to even mutter my own name. See, it’s one thing to be an anonymous writer, unaware of the reader. It’s another, to expose your vulnerability in public.

It was my turn. I contemplated leaving. I considered the ol “oh I forgot to bring something” routine. They looked smarter than me, so I was pretty sure they’d be able to call my bluff. My critic pulled in tight. My book didn’t feel as strong or witty as it did when I read it to the mirror at home? I frantically tried to change words and concepts in my mind, thinking anything would sound better than what I had already wrote.

But with sixteen eyeballs starting my way, I had no choice but to read. I concentrated on my imperfections, vs. the material. I read from my head instead of my heart, fumbling word after word. So I stopped. Cleared my voice and said “screw it!” (in my head). And just went for it. I began reading as the writer, the one who once experienced the story, then wrote about it. Fear, my fuel.

When I got home, an email from the leader awaited; “it was great having you at our group. You are a brave woman for baring your soul to strangers. Fun isn't it!”. And it was. The experience was totally exhilarating! It’s amazing what happens when you let that part of you come to life.

It takes courage to embrace your inner artist. We all have one inside of us, searching for an outlet to shine. Most of us ignore it though; push it away like an insignificant voice. Not useful for “real life”. It never occurred to me that art wasn’t a right, but rather an expression. We all have the right to express. And funnily enough, here I am, feeling it for the second time, and writing about it all over again. I guess I am a writer afterall.

© Desiree Daniel June 15, 2005