Once we watched television to see the best singers, actors, dancers. Now we watch incompetent amateurs get a little more competent week-by-week at singing, dancing, or other skills. These are amusingly called ‘reality shows’, but they are as staged and as fake as almost all television. Reality shows come in three distinct formats. The first and least-popular are the talent shows. These involve amateurs or semi-professional performers, cooks, and dancers who have a genuine talent and are assessed in a friendly but critical manner by a panel of experts in that field. In programmes like Britain’s Best Dish, or So You Think You Can Dance?, contestants clearly have a lifetime commitment to their skill, and usually state a wish to become professionals.
The second format is the celebrity learner show. The subjects here are people from entertainment, sport or some other field in which fame can accrue, who lack previous experience in dancing, cooking or whatever, but who learn week-by-week under the guidance of an expert. In Strictly Come Dancing (called Dancing with the Stars in many countries), the winners usually demonstrate a real advance in skill, but never seek a career in their newly-acquired expertise. Their fame may, however, be enhanced.
The third format is the most popular, and is the Cinderella show. These superficially resemble the talent show, but have a quite different appeal. A wide range of people from humble backgrounds are recruited, most with minimal talent. These are weeded out in some amusing but rather cruel episodes, and a select group go forward to become temporary celebrities. In The X Factor, this involves performing before a vast audience, surrounded by dancers, lasers and so on. The appeal lies not in the special talent of the performers, but in their ordinariness. They are cinderellas, transformed suddenly from the sculleries of life to become princes and princesses. The audience can empathise and imagine themselves as stars for a day. The ‘judges’ in these programme understand the rules of the Cinderella shows very well. They are usually not critical of the (lack of) talent of the performers - instead they judge them according to their personal qualities and their ability to withstand the pressure of fame. The mass media too report in intimate detail the personal lives of these new celebrities-for-a-day, but have little to say about how well they sing one pop song or another.
Reality programmes have become so dominant in popular culture that they can affect how the public sees the wider world, including politics. Politics, like other occupations, has its career paths. In most countries, this involves either a demonstrated skill in winning election through a sequence of ever more important elective offices, or some form of apprenticeship in national policy-making. Political skills are hard-won, and success usually requires great perseverance. But reality programmes promote the amateur: since complete amateurs can apparently become singers, cooks, and dancers on television shows, they can surely also become national politicians. Indeed, their very ignorance and lack of experience can be promoted as a sign of their integrity and their ability to represent the ordinary citizen. In the USA, the Tea Party movement extols this kind of X Factor politician, and Sarah Palin is the archetype Cinderella figure. Her opponents fail to understand that criticising her for her aggressive ignorance and lack of experience increases her apparent ordinariness and hence her appeal to voters. Critics, like judges in reality programmes, are booed and barracked by the audience if they dare to make a less than complimentary remark about the Cinderella performer in front of them.
In the UK, there is dissatisfaction but as yet no X Factor politics. Instead, we have gone in the opposite direction, turning to the old elites. The Prime Minister is an Old Etonian, and the cabinet is dominated by Oxbridge graduates who have been privately-educated. The Labour Party, which once provided a route of advancement for people from more humble backgrounds, is now dominated by a group of academic and media families from North London. These elites may be drawn from a narrow range of society, but at least they transmit an impression of confidence and competence. But if the economy and public services deteriorate, voters might decide that it is time for Cinderella to replace the prince.
The second format is the celebrity learner show. The subjects here are people from entertainment, sport or some other field in which fame can accrue, who lack previous experience in dancing, cooking or whatever, but who learn week-by-week under the guidance of an expert. In Strictly Come Dancing (called Dancing with the Stars in many countries), the winners usually demonstrate a real advance in skill, but never seek a career in their newly-acquired expertise. Their fame may, however, be enhanced.
The third format is the most popular, and is the Cinderella show. These superficially resemble the talent show, but have a quite different appeal. A wide range of people from humble backgrounds are recruited, most with minimal talent. These are weeded out in some amusing but rather cruel episodes, and a select group go forward to become temporary celebrities. In The X Factor, this involves performing before a vast audience, surrounded by dancers, lasers and so on. The appeal lies not in the special talent of the performers, but in their ordinariness. They are cinderellas, transformed suddenly from the sculleries of life to become princes and princesses. The audience can empathise and imagine themselves as stars for a day. The ‘judges’ in these programme understand the rules of the Cinderella shows very well. They are usually not critical of the (lack of) talent of the performers - instead they judge them according to their personal qualities and their ability to withstand the pressure of fame. The mass media too report in intimate detail the personal lives of these new celebrities-for-a-day, but have little to say about how well they sing one pop song or another.
Reality programmes have become so dominant in popular culture that they can affect how the public sees the wider world, including politics. Politics, like other occupations, has its career paths. In most countries, this involves either a demonstrated skill in winning election through a sequence of ever more important elective offices, or some form of apprenticeship in national policy-making. Political skills are hard-won, and success usually requires great perseverance. But reality programmes promote the amateur: since complete amateurs can apparently become singers, cooks, and dancers on television shows, they can surely also become national politicians. Indeed, their very ignorance and lack of experience can be promoted as a sign of their integrity and their ability to represent the ordinary citizen. In the USA, the Tea Party movement extols this kind of X Factor politician, and Sarah Palin is the archetype Cinderella figure. Her opponents fail to understand that criticising her for her aggressive ignorance and lack of experience increases her apparent ordinariness and hence her appeal to voters. Critics, like judges in reality programmes, are booed and barracked by the audience if they dare to make a less than complimentary remark about the Cinderella performer in front of them.
In the UK, there is dissatisfaction but as yet no X Factor politics. Instead, we have gone in the opposite direction, turning to the old elites. The Prime Minister is an Old Etonian, and the cabinet is dominated by Oxbridge graduates who have been privately-educated. The Labour Party, which once provided a route of advancement for people from more humble backgrounds, is now dominated by a group of academic and media families from North London. These elites may be drawn from a narrow range of society, but at least they transmit an impression of confidence and competence. But if the economy and public services deteriorate, voters might decide that it is time for Cinderella to replace the prince.
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