Mr. Rogers meets Joe Millionaire
by Stephanie Piper
Here's my theory: Reality TV is today's answer to gladiatorial games and public executions.
Think about it. People flocked to those events, stood in line, crowded into arenas and town squares to watch other people lose their heads or be devoured by ravenous beasts. It might have been brutal, but it passed the time. It was entertainment.
Today, of course, we're more civilized. We sit on the couch and watch as people lose their dignity and are devoured by pride, envy, gluttony, lust, avarice, anger, and sloth. It might be stupid, but it passes the time. It's entertainment. Like the ancient Romans or the guillotine groupies, we enjoy these spectacles from a safe distance. And we rejoice in the fact that it's not us up there, making fools of ourselves.
It reminds me of something the late Fred Rogers once said. "I got into television," he told an interviewer, "because I hated it so much."
He was overwhelmed, back in 1963, at the power of this fairly new medium to influence young lives. He refused to accept the notion that dopey cartoons could pass for children's programming. So he quietly launched his own version of reality TV, pre-school division.
Mr. Rogers' reality was the real- life experience of small children. He understood that they worried about things like going down the bathtub drain, or what a new baby in the house might mean. He made these worries manageable by talking about them, acting them out, shining a light in the dark corners and inviting the monsters to show themselves. He insisted, gently, on the truth.
I thought at first that he was a little goofy, this slight figure in the zip-up sweater and spotless Keds. Then one day, I saw his work in action.
My middle son, at the age of 4, was terrified of the barbershop. Every haircut was a howling, writhing ordeal. Nothing worked: not reassurance, or bribery, or sitting on my lap while the barber snipped away. Late one afternoon, I passed his room. He had lined up his stuffed animals and tied towels around their necks. Armed with a pair of blunt-point scissors, he busily clipped their furry heads. They aren't scared anymore, he told me. They found out it doesn't hurt.
This apt pupil of Mr. Rogers had demonstrated one of his TV mentor's basic principles: The true measure of a television show is what happens when it's over. Those hours in the "Neighborhood" had left their mark. A 4-year-old had found a safe way to handle fear.
My problem with reality TV is the reality it presents: mostly sleazy people making mostly sleazy choices. No one dies, but no one gets better. That is real life, you might argue. These shows just hold up the mirror.
I don't have many illusions about human nature. I understand that people can be venal and crass and impulsive and cruel. So did Mr. Rogers. But his refusal to accept the lowest common denominator made the world a safer place. When the show was over, his quiet voice stayed with us.
Somehow, I doubt anyone will ever say that about Joe Millionaire.
March 12, 2003 * Vol. 13, No. 11
© 2003 Metro Pulse
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