PANEM ET CIRCENSES
The Myth of the Real in Reality TV
CARRIE RYAN
We’ve tuned in to a lot of reality shows in the
last decade or so, from the relatively harmless (Dancing with
the Stars, The Amazing Race) to the somewhat more
shameful (Temptation Island, Jersey Shore). We’ve
watched, rapt, as contestants struggled to succeed and as
relationships formed and fell apart. We’ve hung on every success,
failure, and humiliation. But all of that is still a far cry from
the Hunger Games ... right? Carrie Ryan makes some troubling
connections between reality television and the Hunger Games, and
highlights just how fine the line between reality and fiction
really is.
In the Hunger Games trilogy, Suzanne
Collins takes our obsession with Reality TV and extends it to the
most horrifying ends: a society that views kids killing kids as
entertainment. It’s easy to find this an uncomfortable premise—to
turn our noses up and say that while we may enjoy Survivor
or Big Brother every now and again, we’d never let society
slip to such levels. However, there’s also a deeper, more difficult
message in the Hunger Games series: the extent to which media can
be manipulated as a means of controlling the populace and how we as
viewers have abdicated any agency in the process.
This then leads to an even more troubling aspect of
the trilogy: our complicity in said message. But for the viewers’
participation, the Hunger Games would not exist in the same way
that, but for our tuning in, Reality TV wouldn’t exist. By
watching, we increase the ratings, and as our interest wanes the
shows must become “more” to recapture our attention—more
compelling, more extreme, more dangerous. And the only difference
between us and the viewers in the Capitol is that we have agency to
turn off the television at any time; we just choose not to. As
Suzanne Collins shows us, the obsession with ratings, which is
driven by our desire for more and more compelling narratives, can
turn ugly when such a lens is applied to news reporting—especially
that of war—rather than so-called Reality TV.
Ratings, Not Reality
With any television show, what matters are the
ratings; getting enough people to tune in to make it economically
worthwhile for the sponsors to pay for advertisements, which in
turn feeds the ability of the show to keep filming. Reality TV is
no exception. After 51.69 million viewers tuned in to watch the
finale of the first season of Survivor in August 2000, the
television industry realized that Reality TV could bring in ratings
and turn a profit for a fraction of the cost of a fully scripted
television show filled with professional actors. This started a
trend that turned into a landslide, making the first decade of the
twenty-first century one dominated by Reality TV. By the 2009–2010
television season, nine of the top twenty shows among young viewers
were Reality shows.
For all its marketing advantages, though, Reality
TV has to comply with some of the other basic rules of
entertainment: to hold on to these viewers, the producers have to
make each season fresh and new. In the absence of a script or
predetermined plot, viewers would quickly get bored with simply
watching a new group of people (or, in some cases, the same group
of people) tossed into the same situation over and over again.
Dealing with this problem largely translates into a perpetual
upping of the ante, a constant raise of the stakes so viewers won’t
get bored.
Survivor is a key example. In the earlier
seasons of the show, contestants brought a selection of clothes to
the filming location, and the producers then chose what they could
ultimately wear (camera-friendly colors, variety so not everyone
wore the same thing, no logos). They were also sometimes allowed to
bring a luxury item (such as when Colby brought a large Texas flag
that he later used to help build a shelter), and the show provided
necessities such as clean water, rice, and tools to build a
fire.
Compare that to later seasons, where contestants
were sent into the game wearing the clothes on their backs (whether
that was a business suit or a sundress), weren’t allowed any luxury
items, had to hunt for their own water, and weren’t provided
food or any tools to make fire (though there were opportunities
for teams to win these items at challenges—effectively inserting
another level of competition for the base level resources that used
to be a given). As the show grew and struggled to retain its
dominance among the viewership, it became less about watching
people live and scheme in a difficult environment and instead
became about actual survival—the struggle of finding food, shelter,
and water. In essence, the show became more brutal, and the driving
force behind it all was the viewers—us.
The Hunger Games function the same way. Year after
year, the Gamemakers struggle to make the Games appear fresh and
new, crafting new arenas and devising new, increasingly sadistic
challenges. What might one year be dense forests could in another
be a vast arctic wasteland or a picturesque landscape filled with
carnivorous squirrels or a dam that bursts, drowning half the
tributes. The only criterion is that each year’s arena has to outdo
the one from the year before.
Ostensibly these machinations are intended to prove
the power of the Capitol; however, a single, simple gladiatorial
arena would have been sufficient to accomplish that. But while the
Hunger Games are viewed as a punishment to those living in the
Districts, in the Capitol they are entertainment and, as with any
other reality show, the Capitol is concerned with ratings. Not for
dollars, as in our world, but for something far more important:
societal domination. The Games are symbolic of the Capitol’s power
and dominance: a boring game means the Capitol may appear weak and
shy of resources in the eyes of its own citizens, who might then
start to reconsider their allegiance to the Capitol they perceive
as all-powerful.
Ultimately, as Plutarch points out in
Mockingjay, the Capitol’s main concern with the Hunger Games
is providing panem
et circenses: bread and circuses to keep the populace
entertained enough that they won’t consider rebellion. To do this,
the Capitol continues to up the stakes, game after game. As Katniss
realizes when the rules of the game shift again to pit her against
Peeta at the end of the first Hunger Games, “They never intended to
let us both live. This has all been devised by the Gamemakers to
guarantee the most dramatic showdown in history” (The Hunger
Games). Put another way: it’s all about the ratings, and
exploiting that very drive is what allows Katniss and Peeta to
survive.
As Katniss and the leaders of the rebellion learn,
if they want the citizens to revolt, they have to become Gamemakers
themselves, appealing to those same sensibilities according to the
same terms: presenting a compelling and entertaining narrative, not
the truth.
Narrative, Not Truth
There’s a famous line from the movie The Usual
Suspects, where the narrator, Verbal, says of the enigmatic
Keyser Soze, “The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was
convincing the world he didn’t exist.” To a certain extent the same
quote, slightly modified, works for Reality TV: “the greatest trick
Reality TV producers ever pulled was convincing the world what it’s
watching is real.” Even the term Reality TV itself is part of the
trick: it presumes Reality TV is an accurate representation of
reality, when in actuality there is a difference between what is
presented in these shows as reality and what most people would
consider to be objective truth, which operates on several levels.
(In recognition of this, there is a drive
among some factions to change this to the somewhat more accurate
“unscripted television.”)
First, there are the truths presented by the
Reality TV participants themselves to the viewer, to their editors,
and to the other contestants, all of which may be different. Many
Reality TV stars understand that there’s a level of narrative
construction necessary for strategic game play, both in terms of
manipulating their fellow contestants and in terms of manipulating
the ultimate viewer. In Survivor: Pearl Islands (the show’s
seventh season), for example, one of the castaways convinced the
other members of his tribe that his grandmother had died so that
they would give him the challenge reward. The castaway knew that by
garnering sympathy, he could gain an advantage in the game, which
worked. Not even the producers realized the castaway was lying
until they called his home to offer their condolences, only to have
the “deceased” grandmother answer the phone.
Lying about misfortune to garner sympathy is a
tactic employed often in Reality TV, but the opposite is true as
well: contestants regularly underplay skills or hide details about
their personal lives if they feel it will give them an advantage
(such as one housemate on Big Brother 12 not admitting to
being a doctor so that other contestants wouldn’t feel like he
didn’t need the money). Katniss herself employed this tactic
effectively in the original Hunger Games, concealing her skill with
bow and arrow from the other contestants while using it to dazzle
the judges.
Whatever the motivation, creating a compelling
narrative is a sound strategy in winning a Reality TV show,
especially one in which the recipients of that narrative—the
viewers—can influence the game, whether through votes or by driving
ratings. This has led to the ever-popular Reality TV romance—coined
“showmance” by followers of the genre—which is compelling on-screen
but evaporates as soon as the cameras turn off (one need
only look to any of the bountiful subgenre of celebrity dating
shows, and the fact that the same celebrities keep turning up for
multiple seasons, to understand this). “Showmance” is at the heart
of the Hunger Games, when Katniss and Peeta pretend to be a couple
in order to influence the viewers’ perception of them. As Haymitch
explains after Katniss protests Peeta’s declaration of love during
the interview before the Games:
Who cares? It’s all a big show. It’s all how
you’re perceived. The most I could say about you after your
interview was that you were nice enough, although that in itself
was a small miracle. Now I can say you’re a heartbreaker. Oh, oh,
oh, how the boys back home fall lovingly at your feet. Which do you
think will get you more sponsors?” (The Hunger Games)
More important than the complicated truth of
Katniss and Peeta’s relationship is the idea that they could be in
love. This creates a story that viewers crave and that they reward
while the two tributes are fighting in the arena (and which readers
rewarded by donning Team Peeta or Team Gale shirts while awaiting
the conclusion to the trilogy to determine which bachelor Katniss
would choose). This also made possible the ultimate act of
rebellion: Katniss bargaining for both her and Peeta’s life.
Because viewers believe in and root for their love, the Gamemakers
are able to save their reputation in the face of Katniss’
rebellion.
This demonstrates a second break between reality
and truth in Reality TV, perhaps even more manipulative than the
first: how the editors and producers choose to present events. We
like to believe that cameras do not lie, that what we see must be
real because we have seen it. But contestants in Reality TV are
often filmed a majority, if not all, of the day, which leads to
thousands of hours of tape being edited down into a weekly show
that may
top out at twenty hours total over its full run. How editors
choose to cut those tapes can change everything: they can choose to
air only those few moments a day when contestants are complaining
and make it look like that’s all they do, or they can fail to air
moments of contestants pitching in and make them appear lazy.
Often, editors will craft a narrative stereotype of each contestant
and show footage that backs up said stereotype: the loudmouth, the
priss, the schemer, the layabout, the negotiator, etc.
And because many of the contracts between
contestants and reality television shows explicitly allow the
producers to have a hand in crafting the narrative, such
interference is arguably within the bounds of what’s acceptable and
expected (in one extreme instance a former contestant on
Survivor sued the show, claiming that they’d told other
castaways how to vote; however, many Reality TV shows air a
disclaimer that the producers have the right to consult on making
decisions regarding eliminations). The post–reality show trauma
ward is littered with former contestants who now say they actually
got along quite well with the other contestant portrayed to the
world as their nemesis.
Ultimately, editors and producers have not only the
most power but also the most motivation to shape a narrative to
bolster particular storylines. Sure, on some level perhaps these
storylines start out as organic truths, but reality is messy and
complicated, and does not fit easily into preconceived archetypes
or twenty-two episode seasons. Messy is hard to sell, so the
editors give it a push, and ultimately these organic realities are
twisted and enhanced to force them in the direction the editor
believes will create the most compelling story.
For example, the truth of Katniss’ threat to the
Gamemakers when she and Peeta raise the poisoned berries at the end
of the
Seventy-Fourth Games is that she’s revolting against their rules
and taking control of herself away from those who would use her.
However, President Snow, as the ultimate producer of the Games,
twists this to show not a rebel, but a “love-crazed schoolgirl”
(Catching Fire). As Katniss realizes after the Games:
Funny, in the arena, when I poured out all those
berries, I was only thinking of outsmarting the Gamemakers, not how
my actions would reflect on the Capitol. But the Hunger Games are
their own weapon and you are not supposed to be able to defeat it.
So now the Capitol will act as if they’ve been in control the whole
time. As if they orchestrated the whole event, right down to the
double suicide. (The Hunger Games)
The narrative constructed as strategy by Peeta and
Haymitch becomes a sort of reality in and of itself, as Katniss
begins to buy into it and President Snow capitalizes on it for his
own ends.
Propaganda, Not Reporting
Collins, just like the Gamemakers in her books,
raises the stakes to a new level in the third book of the trilogy,
Mockingjay , when she takes the various themes of ratings
and narrative and applies it to the way we approach reporting on
wars. After all, it’s not unexpected that the same viewership that
craves an increase in drama from season to season of a Reality TV
show would want the same out of war coverage. And it’s not
unsurprising to think that, in order to increase ratings, a
television station or other news outlet might be tempted to
construct narratives to corroborate the storyline they think
will garner the most ratings. War coverage suffers from the same
time constraints as reality television: every military front can’t
be shown at all times, and not even everything filmed can make it
to air, which means things will always end up being left out. The
result can be a story that, even if it’s meant to be objective and
accurate, is anything but. What gets chosen to be aired and what
gets cut can have an enormous impact on the public’s impression of
war.
And sometimes editors determine what to cut and
what to print in order to further their own agendas. For example,
several historians have claimed that through his propensity for
cherrypicking and sensationalizing details and publishing theory as
fact, William Randolph Hearst and his New York Journal
helped instigate the country’s willingness to enter into the
Spanish-American war in 1898. Behind the scenes of Hearst’s
reporting was a circulation battle he’d entered into with Joseph
Pulitzer of New York World, and both recognized that the
more sensational the headline, the higher the sales. Thus, much of
their reporting wasn’t about the reality of the events (it’s
acknowledged that most of their reporting came from biased
third-hand information), but about what would increase circulation
or ratings. Hearst and Pulitzer understood the truth that a
well-crafted narrative can be beneficial for the bottom line,
whether that bottom line is selling more newspapers, garnering more
advertisers, or perpetuating a specific ideology.
This is never so evident as it is in
Mockingjay, where Katniss is the symbol of the revolution,
not through her actions, but through the carefully constructed and
edited perceptions of those actions through propaganda. Even those
moments that are based in truth, such as Katniss walking through
the field hospital in District 8, are later molded into narratives.
Shortly after visiting those same hospitals, Katniss and Gale
engage in a
battle with Capitol planes, after which Katniss becomes aware of
the television cameras and shouts for the district to join the
rebellion, essentially turning the moment into a commercial by
taking that raw event and crafting it into a compelling bit of
narrative about the war.
Katniss is always aware of the message her story
sends and how those around her would like to control it for their
own ends. As she explains: “They have a whole team of people to
make me over, dress me, write my speeches, orchestrate my
appearances ... and all I have to do is play my part”
(Mockingjay).
At each point, Katniss and the rebels are acutely
aware of how their narrative will inspire the rebellion and how to
take advantage of this fact. Cressida edits together moments from
the Hunger Games and from Katniss’ life as a series of propos
designed to garner sympathy and loyalty for the Mockingjay, while
Fulvia creates a series of We Remember propos about tributes
lost to the brutality of the Capitol in previous Games. The Capitol
engages in similar propaganda, having Peeta, once a symbol of the
rebellion next to Katniss, publicly beg for a ceasefire in an
attempt to temper the resistance. Both the rebels and the Capitol
are engaged in a battle not just of soldiers but of narratives:
editing moments together to elicit the desired response from
viewers.
All of this culminates in the most dramatic and
monstrous event in the book: the bombing of the children in front
of the president’s mansion in the Capitol’s City Circle. It doesn’t
matter what the reality is behind the bombing, who conceived of it
or ordered it, only how it is edited to shape the mindset of the
people to finally end the war in favor of the rebels. And because
this narrative fits into what we know of the Capitol already—that
it is brutal and willing to kill twenty-three of its own children
in the Hunger Games each year—we are willing
to accept this atrocity as truth, regardless of who precipitated
it. What matters is that the action is presented as truth and feels
like truth. For many people, that’s enough.
Real, Not Real
In his short story How to Tell a True War
Story, Tim O’Brien writes that “a thing may happen and be a
total lie; another thing may not happen and be truer than the
truth.” Sometimes a lie can get to the heart of a matter better
than the truth, and sometimes a strict retelling of the truth
cannot adequately capture reality. In this way, a trilogy like The
Hunger Games, though it is fiction, can get to the truth of our
obsession not just with Reality TV but with our willingness to
abdicate our own responsibility in the face of what we’re told is
real.
Put simply: reality can be a lie. Narrators,
producers, and editors can all manipulate those snippets of reality
we watch, which can twist our perception of it in order to induce
us to want more. And of course, if there’s one thing we feel we can
take as truth in these books it’s Katniss and her narrative. But we
should ask ourselves whether even this should be above suspicion.
Like all first-person narrators, Katniss is her own editor with her
own biases: she chooses how to present herself and those around
her. Katniss has a stake in the story she’s telling and what that
stake is changes how she portrays the events and her emotional
reaction to them.
Too often we accept what is labeled “reality” as
truth rather than trying to understand what narrative the source
might be promoting (whether that narrative is a quest for ratings
or an attempt to promote a desired outcome). The Hunger Games
trilogy demonstrates how an entire nation can be spurred into a
rebellion through the use of propaganda and cleverly crafted
narrative presented as reality. It shows how a culture’s obsession
with the dramatic, even if it is false, can lead to a complete
abdication of personal responsibility in exchange for continued
entertainment. We are responsible, as citizens, to look beyond
bread and circuses and not to accept information as it is
handed to us but to search for a deeper truth.
We can rail against the dominance of Reality TV
shows, but so long as viewers continue to watch them, advertisers
will continue to sponsor them and they’ll keep being produced. This
is the true nature of the industry. In the end, if there is one
truth that can be taken away from the Hunger Games it is this: we,
the reader, tuned in and boosted its rating. Even while Katniss
rails against the Games as disgusting and barbaric, we the readers
turn the pages in order to watch them. We become the citizens in
the Capitol, glued to the television, ensuring there will be
another Game the following year. Thanks to us, the ratings are just
too high to cancel the show.
CARRIE RYAN is the New York Times
bestselling author of several critically acclaimed novels,
including The Forest of Hands and Teeth, The Dead Tossed
Waves, and The Dark and Hollow Places. Her first novel
was chosen as a Best Books for Young Adults by the American Library
Association, named to the 2010 New York Public Library Stuff for
the Teen Age List, and selected as a Best of the Best Books by the
Chicago Public Library. A former litigator, Carrie now writes
full-time and lives with her husband, two fat cats, and one large
dog in Charlotte, North Carolina. You can find her online at
www.carrieryan.com.