Zapping through channels, one can see how television today has distanced itself from reality, which makes it difficult for viewers to associate with the medium. The Internet, however, is permitting the golden age of TV to make a rerun through the portrayal of extraordinarily ordinary people.
The television set has always been a mirror for its audiences and that’s the reason we like it so much. It’s a portal into the very lives of the people watching, and a way to monitor ourselves and our neighbors. The content that has graced the small screen has always reflected our own stories, but over the last 20 years the essence of that content has been altered by programs that claim to be documental, but are actually the fabrications of head writers and producers gathered around a table; they don’t want to represent people as they are, but instead want to sell a product wrapped in loud, obnoxious, fame-seeking puppets. Programming has deviated from portraying everyday people to constructing false depictions. Recently, however, these artificial shows are being combated by a type of show that has always attracted more demanding viewers: the docudrama. This redirection toward portraying the genuine, honest and normal is driven by new media, namely by the Internet, and it finally has spectators tuning in to the right channel.
The Spanish television series “Vivir Cada Día” is an example of the genre of programming that television was meant for. The show was developed in the late ‘70s by public channel TVE, the oldest television station in the country, and ran for a decade. It was directed by journalist José Luis Rodríguez Puértolas and was a half-hour reflection of everyday life highlighting Spaniards, often nameless, to accentuate the fact that each person represented exists exponentially. The series profiled everyone from gas station attendants to people with kidney problems. A short narration to synthesize the goal of the episode was presented, often by a reporter, but the rest was left to the protagonists — real people leading real lives, not actors.
The episode entitled “¿A quién le vendo la suerte?” (Who’d like to purchase luck from me), which first premiered in 1980, characterizes lottery stand number 108 in Madrid. The first protagonist introduced has been widowed for six years and has two children. Her father’s inheritance wasn’t enough for her and her family, so she started selling lottery tickets. She’s now in charge and manages two other women; both of them are also widows. They try to please the customers on the other side of the glass by searching for ticket numbers that end in zero, add up to 13 or start and end in prime numbers, while discussing what they would do if they were to get lucky. “It can be any one of us,” one of them says.
This same episode also interviews Iginio García, doorman for an apartment building in Madrid, and a winner of 10 million pesetas, which to him doesn’t seem like a lot. “It’s a small sum that I’m getting because half of it is going to my children and then the other half will be mine,” he says. Despite his new fortune, Don Iginio continues working for the residents of number 5 Saavedra Fajardo Street, answering the phone, receiving packages and doing the upkeep for the building. “Everyone’s happy with me here. That’s why I’m staying with them,” he says.
In another episode that originally aired in 1982, the northern autonomous community of Galicia is profiled in a segment entitled “¿Qué fue de Pueblanueva?” (What ever happened to Pueblanueva?). This episode explores coastal towns and how the sea is the defining factor in their lifestyle. Sailors gathered in a bar with drinks in one hand and cigarettes in the other talk about the philosophy of what makes them who they are. “A man from the sea can’t ever forget about the sea. She remains in him with such a force, there’s an extremely strong attraction, and he can’t do without her,” one of them says. He then takes a long sip of his drink. Later in the episode, while on a boat, fishermen discuss the roles of the women they leave on land when they sometimes leave for 30 days at a time. “The women on land suffer maybe even more than the very fishermen due to being unaware of their situation until their return, and certain periods of time a year they are the ones that have to maintain the income when there is an inability to fish,” one sailor says. They’re real people discussing real issues. And that was more than 20 years ago.
Earlier this year, television station la Sexta premiered a docudrama entitled “Princesas de barrio.” As described in a press release by the station, the show profiles regular women from the same neighborhood who are ordinary, unrestrained, daring and very social, from the streets but with careers and aspirations.
The first episode introduces all the protagonists. Jessica, 22, is proud of her cosmetic surgery and satisfied to have never traveled outside of Torrejón de la Calzada, Madrid. She works for a company that makes aerosols and claims to have never read a book but does enjoy gossip magazines. Her favorite hobby is to take pictures of herself, while her dream is to earn 1,000 euros a month. Her counterparts are not much different. Iratxe, 25, is an unemployed stay-at-home mom who claims that her self esteem increased when she increased her breast size. She describes herself as unpleasant when threatened, and her hobbies include going out to clubs and surfing the Web. Her dream is to achieve immediate fame or become a cover girl for a magazine. The youngest one in the group is 19-year-old Marta, a go-go dancer, looking to earn enough money to pay for a second cosmetic surgery. She has no regard for her mother, which doesn’t bother her at all, and she likes to hang out in parking lots with her friends. Aside from the surreal manner in which these women behave, the aesthetic of the show is overbearing. Computer graphics appear onscreen every so often to accompany one of the points made in a previous scene, and tacky music plays on a continuous loop in the background. These women and this show fail to make a valid representation of society as a collective. They warp the ordinary into something unrealistic, fit more for a silver screen than for the small one.
There is an uprising against this kind of deceit, however. The rise of new technology is allowing viewers to return to the essential human nature of television. The Internet is revolutionizing and democratizing TV, allowing for the production of programs reminiscent of “Vivir Cada Día.”
An example of this evolution is a short documentary entitled “Superheroes de Barrio,” which profiled the weekly open-air market of Seville. The group who produced it, Intervenciones en Jueves, highlighted the everyday people that they consider heroes. The episode emphasizes the dynamics of the market and the characteristics that make it special. The segment shows Feria Street covered with anxious buyers and wandering eyes that make their way to the clothes, books, handbags and figurines. Then, a red and blue costumed superhero, Serafín Zapico, interviews Señor Manuel, 83, who has sold tools at the market for many years; a superhero talking to a real life hero. This documentary gives visibility to neighborhood idols that network with each other, reinventing daily life without the need of additives. It is a celebration of the truly ordinary, as every production should be.
The future format of television is uncertain. What is certain, however, is that because of new technology, we can expect a restoration to content that focuses on showcasing our actual personas, rather than those that were designed by a TV station. Naturally, what we want reflected in the stories we are told is the human nature we possess, and the one we expect others to possess as well. Shows that wear the docudrama mask will continue to exist until the medium evolves out of the slump it’s in. We are all ordinary, and that is always a good thing to remember.
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