The TV gig

I was 8 yrs old when TV arrived in our house.

It immediately became God, displacing the radiogram - the Archers, dads Tijuana Brass and Mantovani records.

We gave the box in the corner our full attention. I fell for it, mesmerized.

After a few years a colour one arrived, viewing intensified and it was dinner on a tray in the lounge. We talked less as a family.

There were new more important spokespeople in the room and they sported british and american accents. God and I were getting it on.

At high school I taught teenagers how to make TV, all the clever ways to frame the story.

Then one day I actually got to be with God, I got on telly. A bit of comic selfie-cam stuff led to a few slots in TV ads. In the money.

I realized I’d made it when I was recognized in Lynmall.

Then a bunch of us had a crack at playing God.

Pre-internet and my chums and I spent our savings on a TV transmitter, broadcasting video clips from the hills over Auckland. 

We were mobile, and it worked.

Student radio station bfm told their listeners, various tuned in and the authorities started tracking us. They got our transmitter but not us.

Our pirate TV exercise made the case - it didn’t need to be costly to make or transmit video. Lots could take part in storytelling. But no. NZ television offered 3 channels. No newbies allowed, case closed.

Then Youtube showed up and it became a moot point - Elvis was everywhere. 

And right on cue, reality TV emerged. Like fresh putty for the windows when the glass is cracked, the genre gave the platform just a little more rope.

“Will Wayne repo the car, has Sherie finally had it with Pete, and is she really pregnant to Graham …” , find out after the break.

Armchair voyeurism full of winners and losers. Watch those humans come unstuck.  Glad it’s not me. Pure schadenfreude. 

Souls got stolen down at NZonAir, the funding rolled in and production companies geared up to produce conflict and jeopardy, baselines for the new frame.

We all hopped to, crafting lab rat TV, making sport from the vulnerable and vain. Our truth-stretching voice overs fabricating story and tension.

Imported fare like Trump’s ‘Apprentice’ was rating through the roof. Apprentice my arse.  If you doubt the power of reality TV to soil the human fabric, well, there you go.

One of NZ’s early tabloid doyens of this genre was recently knighted.

Responsible for some king-hits, if she’d been voted off early in the piece, I daresay we’d all be the better for it.

But you know, when in Rome … obedience is a comfortable cloak to wear when you’re on the gravy train. The soul might not have fared so well, but working on that schlock helped feed the kids.

And now, The Kardashians etc.

Honorable mention must go to cooking shows like MasterChef - fucksake you’d think it’s Lord of the Rings. What’s with the Jaws music?

If we’re ramping up the drama then lets shoot the series outside the Sallies foodbank.  Surely be a righteous place to prime for a shark attack.

Foodie culture is great, but what’s really going on here ?

Those three indolent arbiters of taste, the big one with the cravat and his two mates - Hunger Games trippers deciding who’s is the best scone, decreeing half-baked power of attorney at whim.  

That power to dictate the narrative, it’s tone, it’s yay or nay.

You win. You lose. Now, cry on camera. Wow. Really ?

But catch that twist of lemon and nutmeg in the jus … inspired.

Primetime’s exhibit A must surely be the news. No it’s not.

It’s entertainment. Try saying it with a jocks voice - ‘The News’.

Who makes those editorial calls ?  … “Hey ! look over here, no over here … no over here now.”  At least the weather is an honest attempt.

The goggle box has until the advent of broadband, shaped my generation’s stories. We’ve hoovered it up.

It’s kept us of particular thought, given us our morality, encouraged us to consume, told us where to look and who to believe.

The reality genre ripped up the panorama a bit more, spreading division and fear.

Now the word ‘television’ is dated, going the way of ‘wireless radio’.

It’s morphed like a Fukushima octopus – a 100 odd tentacles, screens everywhere.

On the ‘casting front, the big TV machines are shifting their tools around the Cluedo Board in a competitive whodunit. Bye bye Sky, hello Netflix etc.

George, out you come one more time … it’s an Orwellian fire sale.

My kids take in the animations, some of the best social commentary and essential sedition to be found. Southpark, The Simpsons, Family Guy, Bob’s Burgers, American Dad, Duckman, Ren & Stimpy.  There’s heaps now, great indicators.

One of my sons said to me, about the time the modem became the # 1 household appliance, ‘Dad what use is a TV ? I can turn it on, off, change the channel, mute it, that’s about all.’

At the time he was deep into TopGear episodes online, blogging with fellow enthusiasts, adding to the narrative.

Back in the resthome, good stuff exists on old-school telly if you keep an eye out.

Anyone seen Westside, a kiwi production sequeling as a prequel to Outrageous Fortune ? – great kiwi storytelling. A few taxpayers $ to make but great cultural reflection.

On the budget side there’s top footsoldiers like kiwi doco maker Bryan Bruce.

Bryan builds honest kiwi stories, great tales from NZ’s mirror, stories depicting reality for many kiwis whose own MasterChef is down to what’s at the back of the cupboards, on special at Pak n’ Save or whatever they can beg/borrow/steal from family.

I rate Bryans stories hardbuzz for content, rivetting for revelation, and inspirational for possibility. Resistance and persistence – brave formula.

There’s people still holding the line. Thank You.

Me I’m just a reality TV director in recovery.

Please, shoes off, move slowly and be gentle.