That old lecher of grand literature, DH Lawrence, said it best: “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, but the women are my favourite vessels of wrath.” How could one not recall those words during the final episode of that mother of all goldfish-bowl entertainment, Survivor, on SABC3 on December 26?
The latest United States fad to hit our screens, it has taken the portrayal of the ugly side of human nature to an entirely new level. The doyen of I-slept-with-my-transvestite-half-sister-who-is-also-a-nun talk shows, Jerry Springer, must have been beaming. The likes of Springer have built empires by exposing the exhibitionist in all of us and Survivor was no different.
What appears more interesting is that the human subjects — at least those who provide the best entertainment are nearly always the women. The tale of 16 castaways marooned on an island in the South China Sea to get their hands on a million bucks was bound to degenerate. The knives that were out during the grand finale made the competition to build the best raft all but irrelevant. Instead, the ousted contestants returned to sit in judgement of the two finalists.
Things were looking good, with some constructive criticism, especially from the male contestants — until a hatchet-faced former contestant, coincidentally female, did a well-prepared hatchet job on the one finalist, also, coincidentally, female.
The delusion of female camaraderie, or an equally elusive “sistuh-hood”, was never a defining feature of the contest. The girls, outmanoeuvring each other where they could, took on their roles with gusto and stoicism — not only failing to flee at the sight of a rodent, which, we know, women are inclined to do; but chewing on those very rodents without so much as batting an eyelid.
Without exception, none rose earlier than the rest on the island to apply make-up, or to fashion rudimentary curlers from conifers lying around. None was “a typical woman” until it came to their fellow woman contestants. Male contestants’ criticisms of each other tended to be of a technical, constructive nature. “He just wasn’t fast enough to drag that raft to shore,” one would say. “I didn’t think he tied that rope properly,” another would complain.
But, with few exceptions, laments from the female of the species included some kind of adjective that sounded more like they had caught a philandering husband. During the show the all-girl boarding school-style epithets came fast and furious. “Backstabber!” shrieked one. “Two-faced,” ranted another. And, of course, no bitching session would be complete without this one: “I thought you were a true friend.”
It would be easy to dismiss the startling, now infamous oratory delivered at the final meeting as sour grapes. The female finalist sat stony-faced as she was described by her “former friend” as everything from a schemer to a failure in life. When the mews had died down, the two women coquettishly assured whistling and cheering audiences that they had kissed and made up — hard to believe from their waxen smiles.
But, given the size of the saucer of cream involved, it is easy to understand why these women would be counting their 30 pieces of silver. On the other hand, the maids and matrons who write in to become guests on shows like Ricki Lake’s are not getting a penny for their humiliation of themselves and others.
On any given week through the studios pass daughters-in-law calling their mothers-in-law “bitches” or women sleeping with the same man trying to pull each other’s hair extensions out across the sofa nothing is too bizarre or barred. When and if there is a man involved, he usually sits between the women, speaks little and nearly always has a smile playing across his lips when a fight breaks out.
Nearly all the shows employ burly, suited men to step in when things get a bit too heated, but the audiences love it when the bouncers only move when there have been at least a few scratches or some foul words hurled across the airwaves. In most cases, the women are well-coiffed, acutely aware of the camera and go out of their way to try and squeeze out a tear or two.
These shows are hailed as cathartic. One show, in which some scarcely good-looking men were finally given the chance to call their thunder- thighed wives “pigs” and tell the nation how they felt like puking when they had to be intimate, had the women reduced to tears on air. But the women dutifully promised never to look at a Mars bar again.
Whatever do they do when the cameras are no longer there? Do they leave in the same car? Do their relationships change? One thing is certain. They become instant celebrities. And for the women whose dream it is to tell all on talk television, this is the ultimate prize: fame, even if it is that of court jester.