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

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