Hazel Friedman Love is on the air and hearts are aflame as Eugene (pronounced Oogeen) clutches a cheap engagement ring and kneels before the object of his obvious adoration. “Marry me, Pumpkin,” he pleads. The giggling, haute-coiffured, coutured, Pumpkin (her real name) seems equally smitten.
“Sure Eugene, honey [giggle], but first I have something to tell you. I’m really a man [giggle] and you’re not the only love of my life.” It’s one of those “made for the movies” moments: an air-slicing silence followed by a whirlpool of fists, fur and furniture as the proverbial shit hits the not-so- proverbial fans. “How could ya do this to me, Pumpkin, live and on national TV?” cries Eugene, between delivering punches to Pumpkin’s, er, patch. As the bouncers step in the jeering audience reaches a crescendo that would do an Olympic-size crowd proud:”Jerry, Jerry, Jerreeeeeee,” they cheer. You got it, folks. It’s just another “how low can you go” night on The Jerry Springer Show – the United States TV talk show that confers celebrity status on trailer-park trash and turns emotional effluent into top-ratings television entertainment. The show is in a lower class all of its own. First launched in 1991, its programme titles include “I stole my 12-year-old’s boyfriend” and “I married a horse”. Predicated on the principle of “let it all hang out, tits, zits ‘n all” Springer has actually outdone Oprah in terms of ratings. Taped in Chicago, the programme is syndicated to 190 stations in the US and to 40 other countries. In South Africa it can be seen both on the satellite Series Channel and on M-Net. Advertising revenue is said to be in the region of $370-million a year. Which means that a lot of people are suckers for Springer and his no-holds- barred on-screen fights, demonstrations of sadomasochistic rituals, impromptu strip shows, even simulated sex. Only the language is censored. Which means that the average sentence will go something like this: “You bleep, bleep, bleeping ho. I will bleep you so bad that your own bleeping father will not bleep you!”
Each show ends with the on-screen homily about the need to nurture loving, respectful relationships. Springer then earnestly entreats the viewers to: “Take care of yourselves. And each other.” Unfortunately some haven’t taken his advice. In July this year, merely hours after she had stormed off the show in tears of humiliation, one of Springer’s guests was battered to death by her ex-husband and his new wife – also guests on his show. It was a perverse parody of life and death imitating television. His response: “Tell them to come on my show with their therapists to talk about it. That’s the bottom line. If it’s gonna sell, then tell.”
Springer was born in London in 1944, where his family had emigrated from Eastern Europe to escape the holocaust. Later his family emigrated to the US. He’s much more than the proverbial tinker/tailor man. An unashamed serial self-reinventor, he has a law degree, was mayor of Cincinatti at the age of 33 and is also a sports commentator. Rumour has it that, like Colonel Saunders of Kentucky Fried Chicken fame, Springer is also about to launch a new hamburger called Springer’s Zinger. He even does Elvis impersonations – although his prowess as a rock’n’roll singer is questionable. But his journalistic prowess is not. A highly esteemed political reporter, he has won seven Emmy awards. He has confessed a desire to be like Walter Kronkite. Instead, in 1991 he became the Ringmaster – Lionel Abramson’s film about the show in which Springer acted and which he produced. In this unashamedly cynical, self-congratulatory piece, Springer defends his show on the grounds that its subject matter is the kind of smut that also stains the lives of the rich and famous. But we admire them for it. We even aspire towards their lifestyles. We only feel contempt for his guests because they are poor. “The poor also have a right to express their pain,” he says. He has a point. Except that in the movie, he too seems to feel little more than contempt for his guests. In short, the name of the Springer game is not empathy, therapy, respect or reconciliation. It’s simply showtime, even though some of the stars have never ventured beyond the confines of their trailer parks. They clamour to appear on The Jerry Springer Show, eager to sell their souls and sacrifice their dignity for a free air ticket, a hotel bed and a ride in a limousine. For a few minutes under a cheap spotlight they become circus animals, performing their achy-breaky hearts out to the crack of the ringmaster’s whip. The Jerry Springer Show is on M-Net Thursdays at 10.20pm