The view from over here. (Has reality TV gone too far?)

Member Name: peel.rebekah

Product:	Has reality TV gone too far?
Date:	06/07/01 (319 review reads)
Rating:

Advantages: Chances of seeing people at their worst.

Disadvantages: It ain't real.

While you lot have been basking in the bewildering phenomena that is Big Brother (one and two), soaking up the action on the beaches of Shipwrecked, and blissfully peering into the lives of unknowns, us lot on the other side of the channel have remained subdued.

There was I, believing that the French might just possibly have a moral high ground from which they could scream at Britain's questionable voyeuristic tendencies; either that or just incredibly boring TV producers that couldn't find the cash or the motivation to pleasure the younger audiences. WRONG. Somewhere down the line I noticed that TF1 (a kind of equivalent to BBC1) had bought the rights to Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?, and EEK! soon to follow is that halitosis of a game show, The Missing Link. Then, lowishness and beholdment, the French media announces the first, real life, live, audience interaction, super dooper teenager attraction - Loft Story.

Hmmn.

A quick run down on the differences to B.B.

*The winners of the game are a couple (but not necessarily a 'couple' couple, if you get my drift).

*The winners get a rather sumptuous villa in the south of France (plus oodles of cash).

*The losers all get to fulfill their hearts desires; the last two to lose also get an horrific people carrier of a car, and two weeks in Club Med with a guest of their choice.

*Ummn, that's about it: 12 kids just so randomly pulled off the streets (please notice - irony), living for 70 days in a 'loft' apartment, fitted out by a more than willing Ikea, and commented on daily by a charmingly smarmy host.

So, Loft Story begins, with annihilistic pseudo social/philosophical comments in all of the papers worth reading (as in: those that aren't worth reading splurge the beautiful faces of the 'Lofters' across their front page, and engineer their sales by exposing the skeletons in the Ikea cupboard (probably called N
ordic, or something)).

Being the first of its kind (although we do have the rather dated, but classy, Belgium production, Striptease on our screens), I felt this was a superb occasion to watch the watchers - to see how the French public reacted to this new genre.

First up, was the almost immediate disenchantment of one lofter: The poor boy wasn't made from the same fluffy brained stock (meaning he was still fluffy brained, but not as completely beautiful and clubland as the others) as the rest of the team, and soon stood up to be counted - out.

The publics reaction was commendable - for a few days: Yeh, too right, why should he have to put up with the whinings and foolishness of the other 11? Yeh, good on yer mate, you've realised this shallow piece of poo for what it is. And then, shortly after: What a loser, couldn't stand the pace; could possibly have psychological problems?...and so off the media went to investigate.

T'was not going to be an easy ride for those lofters with the hyperactive French media in tow: Soon to come was Loanna's (one of the winners, but I'll get to that) misspent youth, adopted child from her teenage pregnancy, plus her EXTREMELY annoying habit of drinking out of a baby's bottle (let's not even mention her recent profession as a table top dancer). Followed by a full frontal nude (fully sheared, I hasten to add) spread of the newest member, Kimmy. Then upsy comes the inside news that at least five of the candidates have, in fact, some sort of connection previous to there lofting experience with the television stations, producers, sponsors etc. involved.

Tsk tsk. Naughty television people.

But does all this 'reality' shake the French publics perception of reality TV?

What happened next was stupefying: The public began an illicit love affair with said Loanna (think SERIOUS blonde bimbo (hey, I'm blonde, don't knock it), as scantil
y clad as is humanly possible, 5 inch platform shoes, and a penchant for pink teddy bears - please, I'm trying really hard not to be too judgmental, but seeing is believing and listening to is just downright offensive). Eurggh. It was disgusting. This girl got the mass sympathy vote across the country, BECAUSE of the REAL reality, not because of the performance being witnessed by the cameras. Granted, she was a lot less harmless - therefore viable, than several of the other contestants; yet this choice illustrates perfectly France's continuing obsession with the body beautiful and all that is dumbed down in women. Eurggh, I say again.

And then an outcry from the gay community: One of the contestants was extremely, obviously, unquestionably gay, yet, in his 'reality' performance on screen, no mention of this is made - in fact, there were often subtle suggestions of his makin' eyes at the girls. I laughed. When he was finally ousted from the loft, the gay rights protesters claimed that this was deeply unfair, as how could he have possibly made a 'couple' if he was the only gay man in the house? No sad end for him though: He's carting around town with Jean-Paul Gaultier, dressed to the nines and mixing with the stars. He's a cutey, and I think Mr Gaultier agrees with me on this one.

Meanwhile, the public were being enlightened by the loft's personal psychologists, as to the psychological stresses and strains the contestants were enduring; they had very little to add to the distress and tears viewed by the masses as the contestants took refuge in the confessional box, but at least they added a medical diploma or two to the credence of the show.

And then, the worst bit: Not only were the public taking this whole brightly packaged light entertainment waaayyy too seriously,but then the STARS decided to get involved as well: Viewers were utterly gob smacked as Jean-Claude Van Damme mounted the podium to sho
ut at the audience, "This is about coming from the heart. Shut up, you lot, this is serious." Serious, my behind. 12 (13 in the end) pretty faces with nothing to talk about, talking about nothing, and we all fall for it.

Then up pops a very well known film director who wants to be allowed a privileged entrance into the loft to have dinner with those still inside...luckily this little happening never materialises, as the director has the decency to back out of his proposal.

One (well, two) of the lofters decided to ask for a little more privacy - and they were granted it; so all the nooky bits took place when the cameras were turned off - pfff, what kind of voyeurism is that, then?They exit-ers were also allowed to go back into the house for a reunion party - a week before the end of the game. Talk about moving the goal posts.

Enough, said I, this isn't harsh, personal isolation in the aim to gain intimate social knowledge about the workings of the mind - this is a flouncy, frivolous set up to make 13 wannabees into minor celebrities and to reel in the cash (and why did everybody start being sooo nice so near the end, eh?). I can't really talk about the integrity levels of B.B. in comparison - but Loft Story stank to high heaven of corrupt fishiness.

Last night, Miss Loanna won the game; the boy she had been 'dating' until very recently was sure to be at her winning side - but, as is this fickle audience - once he and Loanna parted snogging company, the public's view of him changed dramatically; the winner was the other bloke, who, commendably, has been a really sincere sweetheart throughout; never taking sides, honestly commenting on the fruitlessness of it all, and engaged (and loyal) to another member of the loft who was voted out earlier for being too boring.

Loanna has been offered a modeling contract - I hope they will sort out the split ends, dodgy eyebrows and serious root problems
before they dash her face across the front pages of the glossies. Please.

And this all ended with a very strange statement from one of the producers of the program:

"This has been one of the greatest days for France; this is a first; this day shall be remembered along side that other great day - when we one the World Cup."

So, what does this all add to the French television viewer's psyche? I've been witness to every level of conversation on this subject, from tabloid, to "belle poitrine" (nice chest), to deep philosophical thought and back again. The only total conclusion I can come to is that they have taken this experience out of it's game show box and adopted it as their homeless puppy (of which there was one in the loft as well). They are already talking about a sequel (let's see how far this nepotism can run, eh?), and I'm already cringing at the thought.

It's an interesting concept, this reality programming, yet, as we all know, incredibly hard to achieve, and worryingly telling on our own mindsets: How can this be any kind of reality when the people involved know exactly what is happening? They perform for the cameras; they swear under the bedcovers; they fart discreetly. We lap it up, believing that this is some sort of an insight into a character that we probably wouldn't normally take the time to have a pint with down the pub. Why are we this nosy? Do we not have any real friends?

Tssh, is all I can say. See it as the fun as it's supposed to be.

Where as I can smile at Britain's B.B. and cutain-twitching voyeuristic tendencies (and raise a quizzical eyebrow at the number of votes per eviction versus the figures for the recent election), I squirm terribly in the coming of age of the French into the same arena; this is supposed to be a game; even if it isn't, it's supposed to be real (in the sense that these people aren't related to the
camera man etc.); and even if it isn't that, then it's supposed to be fair and the rules are there to be adhered to.

When all is said and done, I enjoyed the snippets of B.B.1 I actually got to see (hey, it was that heinous Nick guy, and it made me laugh); I'm keeping up with the current edition via dooyoo as well (cheers, salgirl). I think I'll be even more interested when the people behind all of this actually manage to find a way to make this really reality; until then, I suffer the thoughts of another fully orchestrated assault by the French on my sensitive senses. God, I miss living in Britain...sometimes.

Oh, and Gerri Halliwell turned up for the lofters final party: She mimed and got cut off before the end of the song. Ha!

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