Merv, Tony Soprano, and the Real World

TV is All Pucked Up

by

Scott Patrick Wagner

A game show called Merv Griffin’s Crosswords premiered a few weeks ago. Let’s hypothetically say that I may or may not have taped an episode of it. (I signed a confidentiality agreement, so if I spill any beans my winnings could be rescinded. But since all I walked away with was grief, they’re welcome to it.) What makes this program so interesting — and I don’t think I’m giving away anything “secret” now that the series has premiered — is how absolutely terrible it is. And I don’t blame Merv.

The late Mr. Griffin is previously responsible for creating Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune. Whatever you may think of one or the other, they are both classic game-show premises with mostly skill and a little bit of luck determining who gets to win. And we get to root for them, and celebrate ability, effort and achievement. From what I’ve (hypothetically) heard, Merv created his new Crosswords show in the same mold of good natured competition. And then some real wise guys came in and “tweaked” the concept. So now, instead of three contestants at podiums each accruing money toward one deserving winner, you have two podiums and five contestants, all playing a lurid game of musical podia until one person — usually someone who has been deaf-dumb-and-blind through most of the game — happens to answer one correct question near the end and steals everything. Gee. What fun.

After a long, demoralizing day in the studio — in which none of the best players won anything except the official Merv-Griffin’s-Crosswords-consolation-prize watch — we all left feeling like we had been treated with complete disrespect. Not just for ourselves, but for a genre that never did anybody any harm.

Once upon a time, there was born a reality show called The Real World. And there was conflict. And a fellow named Puck came on during one season, and perfected the art of reality-show contentiousness. He became iconic in his mastery of premeditated — did I say premeditated? I meant spontaneous — conflict. And this style was given a name; it was called “good television.”

The producers of Merv Griffin’s Crosswords are trying to make “good television.” The contentious demeanor of reality TV is being bled into an altogether different genre, in a desperate attempt to make money (as if offering the contestants a top prize of about $2000 wasn’t cost-efficient enough). It was suggested to us that we “good-naturedly” scrap it up with one another if someone stole our moneyed podium. Most of us were having none of it. I decided to go in another direction, and responded to a four-letter clue about something you look for in an airport with the word “sphincter” (I wasn’t just being a brat; there was erstwhile strategy involved.) We had to retape the sequence; they didn’t think it was appropriate. (Now that we know about Senator Craig’s airport layovers, I defy anyone to tell me “sphincter” isn’t a good answer.)

So where does Tony Soprano fit into all this? I’ll tell ya, since nobody I’ve read has explained the now-famous “blackout” ending of The Sopranos in a way that worked for me.

This extraordinary series has always been about the conflict between the “quick rush” of the mob activity and the quieter satisfactions of home and family. Within each episode we have been invited to go into one or two adrenaline rushes, as luridly accelerating events lead us to murder and mayhem. And then we are invited to explore the more thoughtful nature of the human condition, in wickedly ironic contrast to the rubbing-out from which we just got our drama-junkie jollies.

The last few minutes of the very last episode of The Sopranos was building up to just such a looming, dreadful bloodbath. Or was it? Just as the music, the quick cuts, and the ominous choreography of shady characters was about to take us past the point of an innocent resolution — the screen went suddenly black. And we were left to feel a sudden sense of deprivation, a withholding of the bloodlust we were primed for. Even if it was to be perpetrated upon the family we had to admit we loved. To my mind, creator David Chase was asking us what we really wanted. Drama and cheap thrills at any cost, no matter what the sacrifice? Or did we want to write a different resolution out of that thundering blackout, a quieter one in which people we cared about just lived on?

This is the central question I wonder if anyone else is wondering. If given the choice between a thoughtful and “boring” resolution, or Godvilla vs. Jerry Springer, would anyone choose the former? Does Puck fuel the collective imagination more than Jane Austen? And can a game show be attractive just being a game show, or does it have to be pucked around with?