TV, TV on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?

JAKARTA (JP): The singer, mini-skirted and heavily made-up, was basking in the on-screen attention. Her duet partner crooned sweetly to her, and she responded with a sexy shake of her hips. But when the camera encircled her, her glamorous image melted. The sheerness of her blouse revealed a dangling price tag underneath.

A hundred and fifty years after the printing press revolutionized the world's consciousness, electronic media are redefining the concept of identity. This is true everywhere viewers are captivated by the black box, but especially in Indonesia, where private television stations are only a decade old. In this golden age of television, a time when it is the nation's dominant source of information and entertainment, being on-screen is akin to the American Dream: a gateway of opportunities, a way of finding fame and fortune. But only if you look the part.

On television, to ignore differences between image and reality is as easy as switching the channel. Few care what you have to say, as long as you look good saying it.

The media industry says broadcast journalism is 80 percent appearance and the rest good luck, although the publicity machine tries to hide the truth. Indonesian media often express amazement that the nation's beauty pageant winners want to work in broadcast journalism. It's their surprise that's amazing: broadcast journalism needs beauty queens to keep up ratings.

As for the assumption that television reporting is child's play, that was obviously made by those ignorant of satellite up- linking. It is definitely hard work chugging down coffee in order to meet deadlines while preventing the sleepless nights from giving you acne and raccoon eyes.

The rewards of television, however, fall short of its promise -- again, just like the American Dream. Teen pin-ups hosting video shows smile smugly at being hip icons, but the novelty of superficial attention is short-lived. You are given instant celebrity status, not instant respect. Strangers are fascinated by the manufactured image, but they are often quick to notice how little substance lies behind the veneer.

Then there are viewers who think the opposite, who project onto the television personality all their hopes and dreams. They are not just consumed by the on-screen artifice, they intensify the fantasy. They imaginatively imbue great meaning into the public figure, elevating the person into superior status.

This illusory perception fuels the cult of celebrity, but the celebrities making millions off the fan-made chimera can hardly complain. Only an idolizing "them" allows "us" to demand ever increasing salaries. The distance the soft-focus camera provides perpetuates the lucrative fan-celebrity relationship. Television is not a democracy, it's a kingdom ruled by the well-coiffed.

And the well-dressed, or at least outlandishly-dressed. Ever been dumbfounded by the crazy clothes people wear on television? The stars wearing the clothes often feel the same. Ever been disappointed when a television star looks like the ugly cousin of their on-screen persona? Blame the art director -- an industry of specialists primp television personalities into what we want them to be, or what they think we want them to be. Stars aren't born, they're created by a team of professionals.

As professional as they claim to be, however, sometimes their work is messy. Which brings me back to the singer and her visible price tag. If, on television, image is all, then show producers should never let on that the image is on loan from the nearest department store. If the clothes were borrowed, at least get rid of the price tag.

Perhaps the carelessness was intentional, a reminder to the singer that she's a manufactured commodity, vulnerable to market forces. Her television identity is lent, not permanent, and her expiry date arrives the moment the audience finds someone with more selling power.

The singer with the borrowed clothes may not care either way. Because during her proverbial 15 minutes of fame, she has had her chance to be somebody bigger, better and different. Television, and the image it told her to play, momentarily made her queen of an idol-hungry public. That is, until she returns to the dressing room, takes off her stage outfit, puts on her ordinary clothes, and becomes, once again, herself: individual, real, dignified, but ultimately, once off the television, the same as the rest of us.

-- Comer Well