My Big Fat Obnoxious Prank

The Lawless and Ever Expanding World of Hidden-Camera TV

Critics may mock hidden-camera shows as the lowest rung of reality schlock, but the daddy of them all—Allen Funt's Candid Camera—began with noble intentions. Funt believed that by secretly filming, he could reveal how average people respond to societal pressures and conflicts. "The worst thing, and I see it over and over, is how easily people can be led by any kind of authority figure," Funt once said. "We need to develop ways to teach our children how to resist unjust or ridiculous authority." According to NYU professor Anna McCarthy's essay on Candid Camera in the forthcoming anthology Reality TV: Remaking Television Culture, Funt's work was much admired by social scientists of the 1950s and '60s. One of his biggest fans was Stanley Milgram, engineer of the notorious "obedience" experiment, in which people were ordered to administer electric shocks to strangers. McCarthy notes that the film of Milgram's experiment often produced hysterical laughter in viewers, suggesting another similarity between those ethically tenuous experiments and today's hidden-camera shows.

Milgram's experiments triggered a change in the academic world: Universities developed institutional review boards designed to supervise experiments and defend the rights of participants. As McCarthy points out to me, "Networks have standards-and-practices offices to oversee things like swearing and sexuality and violence, but there's nothing comparable to the institutional review boards that looks at the ethics of these programs." It's left to the shows' producers to think about where to draw the line—or not.

Television has struggled with ethical quandaries before. In the 1950s, when sociologists were lavishing praise on Candid Camera, the TV world was convulsed by the game-show scandals depicted in Quiz Show, when it was revealed that a number of programs were fixed. Audiences were outraged by dishonest practices back then, but nowadays deception is a key component of reality TV, and it's spreading like a bad virus. Joe Millionaire's producers lied to their female contestants about everything from Evan Marriott's name to his bank account. Then there's the case of Matt Gould, who thought he was a contestant on a show called Lap of Luxury, when actually he was being framed as the unwitting star of the series Joe Schmo. All of his co-contestants were actors following a script outline, and all of the show's competitions were fixed. (Although he appeared somewhat shaken and betrayed after the ruse was revealed to him, Gould now claims to be happy about his inadvertent participation—perhaps sweetened by a $100,000 "prize" and a contract to appear on other shows on the Spike network.) And the poor suckers on Average Joe have the rug pulled out from under them nearly every week, as the producers lob an endless series of unexpected "twists" at them.

Be afraid, be very afraid: scare tactics tests the limits of hidden-camera ethics.
photo: Shulamit
Be afraid, be very afraid: scare tactics tests the limits of hidden-camera ethics.

My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancé takes one step further into moral cloudiness. Catholic-school teacher Randi Coy signed up for a reality dating show but found herself in another scenario altogether. She was offered half a million dollars to convince her close-knit family that she's fallen in love with a jackass. (Unbeknownst to her, the "fiancé" is an actor hired to behave as repulsively as possible.) With these kinds of shows, the justification—both for the producer and for the viewer—seems to be that the participants asked for humiliation by signing up for a reality show in the first place, so they deserve whatever they get. Once Coy agrees to the Faustian pact, she's fair game.

More scare tactics: never too tied up for his five seconds of celebrity
(Photo: Staci Schwartz)
In hidden-camera shows, though, the subjects don't put themselves forward. The really big mystery is why these victims of televisual ambush almost invariably agree after the event to let their reactions be televised. The producers of both Girls Behaving Badly and Scare Tactics assure me they have no problem getting people to sign release forms, even though most don't get paid. Hallock says that several victims from Scare Tactics' first season have even volunteered to pull hoaxes on other pals: "Being on our show is like a thrill ride, it's exhilarating. And once they step off the ride, they think, 'Man I want to do that again.' " It's also a chance to snag five seconds of celebrity—you can tell your friends you've been punk'd, just like Britney and Beyoncé.

Punk'd is the one hidden-camera show that really makes me laugh, and it's not hard to figure out why. It messes with celebrities who are utterly insulated from everyday hassles and thrusts them into impossible situations that they can't weasel out of with an autograph or a call to their agent. Punk'd pulls off the mask, flustering people who pride themselves on their cool (e.g. Halle Berry panicking when banned from her own movie premiere, or Justin Timberlake sobbing like an infant when the "IRS" repossesses all his worldly goods). And yet it's a win-win setup for the stars who allow their bits to be shown on TV: A nod from Ashton Kutcher confirms their place in the slippery pop pantheon, and lets them flaunt their good sportsmanship.

The other side of our obsession with celebrities is our desire to put ourselves in their place. If reality TV has proven anything, it's that a lot of Americans have exhibitionist tendencies and will happily subject themselves to demeaning situations if it gets them screen time. In a grotesque role-reversal, Punk'd makes stars into chumps, and the predatory hidden-camera shows turn chumps like you and me into stars for a day. That's TV for you: the great leveler.

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