Column: Surviving the pseudo-reality of "Survivor"

By Thomas Winterhoff
First published on July 5, 2000
Copyright © Thomas Winterhoff


Television is a strange and temperamental master.

For all the quality programs that entertain, amuse, inform or enlighten us, there are at least an equal number of programs that appeal to our most base and superficial instincts.

One of those instincts is to indulge in TV’s guilty pleasures: the shameful little secrets that you would never admit to partaking of – not to anyone you work with, not a valued member of your family, not even the most liberal-minded priest in a soundproof confessional booth.

I have a pure and untainted soul for the most part (ya, whatever), but one arena where I occasionally fall from grace is the type of television programming that is so appallingly bad that you can’t help but watch. Almost against your will, your remote control trigger finger comes to a screeching halt in mid-air and you greedily soak up all the electronic sludge, all the while glancing over your shoulder for potential witnesses.

For a colleague of mine, his poison of choice is Xena: Princess Warrior. My sister tearfully confesses to faithfully watching Relic Hunter week in and week out. Although the mind-numbing blandness of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? has never caught my fancy, its cheesy theatrics continue to enthrall millions throughout North America each and every night.

Someone in our home besides myself (whose identity I have sworn to protect, under threat of her doing me a painful injury as I sleep) can’t miss a single episode of Making the Band – a pseudo-documentary about the next big, superstar boy band (that hasn’t even cut a record yet).

No one whom I know can claim total immunity from this descent into total, time-wasting pap, and I’m no more virtuous than anyone else. For a few misguided and embarrassing weeks, I fell victim to the highly questionable taste and transparent morals of Blind Date – a TV show based on the premise of “let’s select two egocentric sociopaths, send them racing towards each other at 100 km-h (fuelled by a few dozen umbrella-topped alcoholic drinks) and sit back with a jumbo-sized bag of microwave popcorn to watch the emotional carnage.”

Blind Date is hosted by a smarmy little pinhead who quite literally rubs his hands in poorly disguised glee when the borderline civility between the participants begins to break down. The couple usually ends up hurling expletives at each other, accompanied by strident “What the hell was I thinking, going out with you?” undertones – before parting with a mutual slamming of doors.

Granted, the couple has been paid a substantial amount of coin to bare their drunken souls and baboon-like courtship behaviour to the masses, but it still amounts to the social equivalent of a 30-car train wreck. It’s very sad – and makes you question your own morals for watching it – but you just can’t help it (for the first half-dozen episodes, at least).

If this show accurately portrays the state of dating today, I am eternally thankful for the faithful presence of my long-suffering wife – and I hereby solemnly swear never to divulge her Making the Band addiction to anyone. Her secret is safe with me.

Just when I had sworn off Blind Date forever, along came the latest entry in the parade of “reality-based” programming…Survivor.

The premise is deceptively simple: take a grab bag full of 16 contestants, split them up into two “tribes” and set them loose on a (somewhat) deserted tropical island. Supplied with some basic tools and first aid supplies, the tribes are left to make their own shelter, catch whatever slithering and still quivering prey they can for their dinner, and deal with the hodgepodge of diverse temperaments and attitudes of their fellow tribe members.

If you you’ve ever seen an episode, you’ll already know that once every three days the tribes are set against each other in a test of skill, leadership and team spirit, while competing in some variation of an obstacle course (or collectively staving off man-eating sharks with cocktail toothpicks).

To the winner may go a bit of survival gear – fire, a snorkel or a fishing spear. To the loser, nothing – or a summons to a meeting where each tribe member must scribble, with a stick of charcoal on a piece of torn sailcloth, the name of the one person in the tribe whom they wish to vote off the island. Needless to say, the participants get a tad testy (or sycophantic, depending on how they fancy their chances at the polls) in the hours preceding the vote.

The first person sent into purgatory was a sweet, older poet/musician. Initially, she was probably good for the morale of her tribe, but she ran into difficulty when her dulcet musings didn’t help put food on the ol’ banana leaf or contribute to her tribe’s quest for fire. She never stood a chance.

Never mind that a half-dozen camera crews dressed in Tommy Hilfiger T-shirts and L.L. Bean sandals nibble on catered hors d’oeuvres as they shadow each contestant’s every move. Never mind that the setting for the council meetings looks like something out of Raiders of the Lost Ark. This is television voyeurism at its absolute best.

In the weeks to come, depending on their proficiency at the game show challenges put to them, the tribes will either remain strong and united or descend into mere bickering rumps of their former glory. At some point, the remaining members of both tribes will be brought together to form a single group and then it’s everyone for themselves in the competitions that follow, until a single survivor remains.

That person, whoever he or she may be, will leave the island with a cool $1-million cheque for his or her trouble. Those who were voted off the island will share amongst themselves (in varying amounts) another $500,000.

It’s crass, it’s emotionally predatory and it’s incredibly manipulative – sort of like Lord of the Flies meets Gilligan’s Island. It also makes for irresistibly watchable television.

I’ve just arrived home, just in time to watch it, but for some curious reason my key no longer fits in lock on our front door. And what’s this? It looks like a tattered piece of sailcloth with a name scribbled on it in charcoal...