By Victoria Smurfit
Help. I am struggling with a relationship. I was promised laughter but have ended up robbed of my morals. I feel dirty. Even at work I spend all my time thinking about it. I am talking, of course, about Reality Television. As an actress, it is paramount that I spit on it. Oh, but sometimes I don’t. How cheap I feel when I flick past a wildlife documentary and rest on Island-dwelling Ice-dancing Dustmen. It sucks me in like a second bottle of wine. I know it says terrible things about who I am, but sometimes I just have to do it.
Producers love it. It’s cheap to make and the participants are grateful to be chosen – tantrums are held over for when they become famous. As a genre, has it justified luck over hard graft? Or is it a forum for a rare, talented individual to showcase raw brilliance? Lab rats are treated with more respect, and they have a better chance at a good life after the experiment ends. Look at Jade Goody (those of you with self esteem will be saying ‘Who?’ right now). Is she the rat or the experiment? Either way, she is rolling in it. She has made more money proving she’s not a natural blonde on live television than every classically-trained actor I know.
The acting community rightly supported the American writers’ strike – it’s fantastic that they held their ground. However, with no writing and creativity available, a void emerged, and was filled by my filthy secret. Reality Television doesn’t need writers (or does it?). It’s simply real people doing real things. Apparently. I hope the actors haven’t screwed themselves. Even now, with the strike over, US audiences are still dining largely on Supernannies, jigging celebrities and unknowns surviving jungles, and they’re not complaining. Yet. I remember at the birth of Popstars, everyone sniggered at the idea that Reality Television would survive in the wilderness of programming. Like our Celtic Tiger, Reality TV was due to collapse many years ago.
Some of the shows are modern-day restoration comedy, designed to mock society, allowing us a giggle at our stupidity. Other shows are emotional snuff movies in which reputations are savaged. Paul Burrell squealing with horror as his hand slithers through some unknown insect nest is a basic comedy equation:
Pompous man + banana skin – dignity = joy for viewer.
This is all made purer by the fact that we, as voyeurs, believe we have given Burrell his reputation and character, so it’s ours to take away again, is it not?
I just don’t know.
I would love to know whose ‘reality’ involves eating kangaroo balls. Other than Mrs Kangaroo.
Yesterday, my reality found me pacing my Winnebago, learning lines. It was all going well until my retinae began to burn. Water poured from my eyes, nasal passages flared open. The stench. The ‘honey wagons’ (travel loos) were being pumped empty. Sixty-five people use these. Now it’s lock-down. Work will cease a moment. No assistant directors will brave the outdoor space between their truck and mine. The sulphur in the air stops smokers from sparking up. For 20 minutes, a long-haired 50-something with a waist-length beard will stand proud atop his truck. Resplendent in denim, hose in hand, he will suck our past away. The boys call him ZZ Plop.
The day improved as we were shooting a series of scenes set at a hotel. With black cloth tacked up over the windows, to us it was nighttime. We were to be sitting in a bar, discussing the killer while drinking a pint of black velvet. It is noon. Ah, a gravy day. Take one almost worked. Line fluff. Could you down the pint in the next take Victoria? Ho ho, of course. Calls of “She’s Irish!” Challenge is set and I am stubborn. Second take. Slug glug. Talk smile. Cut. The extra in the background looked down the lens, so we are going again. My stomach lurches. You see, it’s not Guinness and champagne, but a pint of super malt and fizzy lemon. Take five and I beg the background artist to get it right. She does, and it’s on to the next scene. As I stand, I slosh. Burping for Dublin, I waddle back to my trailer. One of the crew following me tells the boss I am ‘Ten-One’ (availing of the newly-cleaned facilities). Calling my best pal on set into the cubicle to hold my hair back, I lose it.
Well the show must go on.
My kids are coming in for lunch. Out with the playdough in preparation. Blue paper, pink glue, shiny bits and tissue paper in green. My Winnie is to become a crèche for a couple of hours and I love it. No matter how tough a scene I have come from with harrowed families, dead wives or vomit, it is all wiped to nothing when my heart and soul arrive. Usually dressed in a variety of pinks, my girls turn this emotionally-stunted cop to mush. Reality does a 360. Costume off and paints out, it’s playtime.
The fizz buzz of walkie-talkies on the other side of the door heralds work approaching. Dust the glitter from my hair, kiss my chickens and I strut back into character. What’s next? My three-year-old thinks mummy’s office is any service station or collection of cars she sees. I am about to pretend that I’m a famous face.
This is, I suppose, our Reality TV.
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