Monday, January 12, 1998
TV generation: one woman exposes her own obsession
COLUMN: The boob tube is frivolous entertainment but promotes
the fine arts
Packing to go home for the break, I carefully folded my staple
little black dress and put it optimistically in my bag. Nylons:
check. Coat: check. Shoes with heels chunky enough to walk in but
dressy enough to augment staple little black dress: check. I had
everything I needed for a midwinter’s trip to the theater.
As it turned out, the ensemble most appropriate to my holiday
entertainment would be a pair of green sweats I’ve owned since my
junior year in high school and any one of a number of $1.50
t-shirts sporting slogans I at one point found amusing while
peeling my way through a thrift store bin.
And the TV remote. Does that count as an article of clothing? I
certainly wore it with style, reveling in its universality, trying
each of its stylish buttons, keeping up on the latest trends; what
are trashy teens wearing these days? Do wives really allow their
husbands’ mistresses to move into their homes? Jenny and Sally
Jesse have the answers.
In the spirit of any self-respecting snob, I have a generally
low opinion of television. When I do watch, when school’s in
session, I select viewing fare with precision that is both
nostalgic and ruthless. Loveable yet vulnerable characters: check.
Witty and insightful writing: check. Something to say about society
that doesn’t exhaust the bleep machine: check.
"Ally McBeal" passes the test. So does "The Simpsons" and, if
homework is light, "ER." I am a woman on a limited budget of time
and I want my hour’s worth.
But when I handed in my last five-to-seven-pager on Dec. 12, I
got rich and my standards fell as low as a trashy teen’s neckline.
And I realized a painful truth about myself. As much as I claim to
be a theater person, a book person, a fan of the finer things, I am
a TV person. We all are. At least this is what I’m telling myself
to justify a column which will justify a month in which my closest
friends were Jerry Springer and Rosie O’Donnell.
That’s pretty much the spectrum right there. Jerry and Rosie are
different breeds, quite possibly different species, but they both
got screen time in the house without cable. I adore Rosie’s
every-woman charm and tendency to break into song. And I’ve
interviewed at least one theatrical director/choreographer who
attributes her with having revived public interest in musical
theater.
That’s a big accomplishment and as much as I melt with jealousy
every time the cast of a Broadway show I won’t see till grad school
graces her stage, I thank her for it. She’s done for theater what
Oprah did for books.
Let’s talk about that book club for a minute. Toni Morrison has
occupied my own personal Favorite Author spot since I read the
first lush, magical paragraph of "Song of Solomon" in high school.
She’s had a nobel prize since 1993. But "Song of Solomon" didn’t
top the best-seller lists until Oprah sang its praises on national
television.
It deserved to be on the best seller list. The language
saturates every page, the mystery pulls you through centuries and
back roads and creaking houses, the characters make you cry –
twice, if you’re me. But how tragic is it that it took a talk show
host to blow dust off the cover and revive the 1977 novel?
This may be TV at its most noble, but why does everything else
need the tube’s charity? It’s the same feeling I get when I watch a
play and think, "Wow, he’s really good. Someone should cast him in
a movie." I want to slap myself. If an actor is really good,
shouldn’t he (and I) be happy that he is working in a high quality,
exhilarating medium?
But when I stumble across a treasure, I want to share it, so
Rosie and Oprah – I hear you girls. Keep up the good work. Because,
let’s face it, a nationally syndicated television show is probably
the quickest way to share.
Being a little camera shy myself, I decided to simply give my
parents tickets to the Geffen Playhouse’s "Peter and Wendy" for
Christmas. And after spending an evening in a twinkling, ethereal
version of Neverland that made Disney’s look like, well,
Disneyland, I introduced them to Jerry Springer.
Actually, it was several nights later. And no, I do not consider
Jerry Springer a treasure in the traditional sense, but bear with
me.
Christmas Eve was deliciously cold and my parents, sister and I
crowded around the heater vent after returning from an early bird
midnight mass. It was a weird night on several counts. To start
with, we’d gone to church for the first time in two years. I’d felt
vaguely hypocritical since I don’t consider myself particularly
religious. But seeing the congregation’s candles reflected like a
hundred precarious stars on the glass ceiling of the Wayfarers
Chapel in Palos Verdes gave me a rush of spirituality.
Which made it all the weirder to go home and turn on the TV
(reflex as it has become) and see the Ku Klux Klan heckling a
lesbian wedding. The topic was something like "Past Guests Confront
Other Past Guests" – the talk show to end all talk shows.
My parents, who usually stick to the shooting gallery that is
the evening news and anything with a laugh track, were suitably
horrified. So this was what was on after 11 p.m.?
My sister and I clapped gleefully. This was sadly familiar
territory for us. In an especially epic moment, one previous guest
declared that she thought a woman she’d seen on another episode was
a slut and a homewrecker. Guess what? The slut was conveniently
backstage and the minute she walked on, the previous guest landed a
punch firmly in her jaw.
Jerry asked a pair of cousins (originally on the show because
one stole the other’s man) about the status of the feud. They both
shrugged and conceded, rather undramatically, that the man was out
of the picture and since they were family, they were stuck with
each other.
"So why are you here?" Jerry asked.
Now a light went on in both cousins’ eyes. "We want to confront
the Klan!"
The Klan came on. Obscenities were bleeped. Chairs were thrown.
Jerry Springer had abandoned the "talk" in talk show long ago.
Jerry Springer thinks he thrives on controversy, but the truth
is, there’s not much controversy surrounding the Klan. Hatred for a
few trailer trash lunatics dressed like Halloween ghosts is the
only thing his chanting audience can agree on. And for spouting the
great insight, "racism is bad," Jerry Springer gets to be the
hero.
And recognizing Jerry Springer as bad TV is probably an equally
uncontroversial insight among critics or anyone who doesn’t use
"ain’t" on a regular basis. If I were doing my so-called job, I
would be the Times writer who deconstructs what others have
praised, who discovers the genius in the crevices of the
underground and challenges established artists to prove themselves
again.
But in a world where I so frequently find myself able to see
both sides of things, caught between mediocre and pretty good, it’s
refreshing to revel in the extremes. I can read "Song of Solomon"
over and over and entrench myself in its perfection. Oddly enough,
I find a similar joy when I can hate something with equal passion.
Jerry hates the Klan. I hate the Klan and Jerry.
As I write this, I’m thinking I should go buy books for classes
which will undoubtedly redefine the philosophies my fall quarter
classes established. I should RSVP for plays which will comment on
the fabric of society and evoke passion and doubt and laughter and
require a versatile black dress to get past the box office.
Sometimes, though, you have to give your brain a break. And in
eight minutes, Sally’s going to do "Terrible Teen Updates." I’m out
of here.
Klein is a third year American literature and culture
student.
Cheryl Klein