I was 13 when the first Big Brother show was aired in the UK, but in Wales you’d have to stay up pretty late to get the Channel 4 broadcasts. So it was around BB3 that the show hit my radar. I watched it, but not religiously, not wanting to give up the summer to watch people move half an inch in real-time. Its ‘stars’ filled the magazines I read and while it was cheap, exploitive and obvious, it was addictive. Helen, the hairdresser from Newport had an audience of millions; not singing or dancing, in fact not for any reason except for us to view her behaviour. And that’s exactly what was fascinating: seeing how other people act could help us piece together how we ourselves are perceived. Is it normal for girls to snore? Do boys bitch? Does anyone else eat squirty cream from the can? To be able to observe people in their moments of fear, happiness, emotional weakness and fatigue was raw and voyeuristic; but over 10 years 38 million people watched Big Brother. In a house narrated by a computer, hooked up with cameras and a garden warded by metal fences – we were drawn to the program its pure humanness.
Of course it went too far – TV producers had found a formula for success and we were given enough reality TV to drown in: Pop Idol, Castaway, Popstars, Popstars the Rivals, Fame Academy, I’m a Celebrity, The X Factor, The Apprentice, America’s Next Top Model, Wife Swap and Shattered (and this list is not exhaustive; if you’ll forgive the pun). The concept was totally laboured by BB5, and I continued to be astounded that Channel 4 rolled it out for a further 5 years. Central to its irony is the fact that most of the housemates didn’t realise that the show’s name was from George Orwell’s 1984.
As a social experiment it had some interesting results: relationships compounded and imploded under the pressure and the minutiae became major. Which bed you chose could lead to tantrums, tension or romance and the omission of Fanta from the week’s shopping list could reduce adults to tears. Housemates also had a confusing relationship with ‘Big Brother’ – for most, the diary room was a place of release, refuge and truth – they trusted in and befriended their captor.
The show was a vehicle for fame. Most of the 267 people who featured in one of the 11 series went out and got it. Fame without talent. The show became a go-to solution for ‘celebrities’ past their peak. As envisaged by Warhol, everyone got their 15 minutes. I remember my school friend used to say she would go on the show after leaving school – the chance to mingle with 14 other young adults in an apartment for the Summer and get famous in the process seemed alluring. Luckily she changed her mind. No one can go through 9 weeks in a house with glass walls and come out with their dignity.
I always used to think Orwell would be disgusted with the show, but now that it has ended I’m drawing a new conclusion. The show was intrusive, heavily manipulated and seemed to never end – much like Orwell’s oppressive and indoctrinated society. Housemates enjoyed being watched and played up their lives in front of the cameras. The grungy ‘heroin chic’ trend of the 90’s was reinvented into the warts-and-all television of the noughties. It has even been said that the show has made us feel that surveillance of our lives is normal.
But unlike Orwell’s Big Brother, the TV series was a mutual exploitation – for giving us their lives, secrets, hopes and fears, Big Brother gave housemates fame and money, and for a few it even gave them a leg-up in their chosen industry. As a cultural phenomenon it has certainly been interesting, but with the noughties over it’s time for the Big Brother eye to close.
Lots of chocolate biscuits 