If I had the power, I'd change how TV works.
One person, behind a reasonable-looking desk, would read the news. (Nowadays, Reader One begins reading the teleprompter; then a partner carries on when differently colored letters scroll by. Often the first reader manages only two sentences before Reader Two interrupts. It's an excess of bodies for a paucity of info.)
National news desks have mostly vanished. Stage sets are enormous, blindingly colorful and ever-changing, in the ceaseless competition for viewers. One hyped-up anchor, clutching notes, dashes from a vast "reporting" area to another huge room crammed with countless floor-to-ceiling monitors, each dangling a different "story." His voice rises; voluminous verbal diarrhea overwhelms viewers ... bizarre. I'd eliminate this guy's caffeine intake and suggest meditation.
Lovely anchorwomen on national TV wear low-cut blouses and skimpy skirts. They must stand, teetering on spiky heels, perch on uncomfortable stools, or manage large sofas in vast, multi-colored arenas, surreptitiously tugging at their clothing. Less revealing clothes? Not allowed. (Ratings.)
All CSI female stars -- even the "coroners," are, er, hanging out.
When was the last time you heard silence? Doesn't happen. Muzak-scream, frantic drum-bumps and outrageous visual shenanigans make words spoken by newsreaders, or advert announcers, practically impossible to discern. I honestly don't think narrators could function if the accompanying background rhythm-bump vanished. They'd feel naked, and lost.
Most news isn't. Three percent of the hour offers factual information; the rest is opinion, gossip and speculation. With TV running 24/7, rubbish rules.
That advert guy, Billy Mays, screams his product's charms. Shepard Smith, when narrating, for example, "Around the world in 80 seconds," must compete with incredible background booms. And every few seconds there are loud 'whizzing' sounds as some new logo zips next to, or underneath, the main frame. Pop-ups of teeny people, making absurd gestures, distract, rather than attract. Wired producers must be exhausted, trying to think up new ways of pouncing on ears and eyes. I'm exhausted, as I wade through the noise toward the rarity of clarity.
Grammatical errors make many adverts absurd, but no one cares. One guy begins his sales pitch by asking, "Are you limited by your mobility?" Er, what? Two years later, that sentence hasn't changed. The product, a nifty motorized chair, seems useful, but the fellow touting it desperately needs grammatical help.
Viewers are directed how to feel. A deep, sustained bass fiddle note is supposed to summon sadness or apprehensiveness; super-rapid bangs and clatters mean murder and mayhem is mille-seconds away. Naturally, orchestral violins indicate mush is afoot. (Kissing is open-mouthed; one actor lunches on the other.)
Ads begin seamlessly, with no break from storylines (which are becoming afterthoughts). Ten long, boring "messages" preclude each bit of story. I've counted. And these run over and over. An actor says a product's name three times, or, three different actors say the name; I feel hammered. And how desperate must actors be to dress as grapes, electricity or a pepperoni pizza?
Why such LOUD noise? Perhaps aging producers once worked with rock bands; their ears, damaged by high-decibel sounds, don't hear what's happening.
Are viewers so jaded that these assaults are necessary to hold our interest? I dunno. But my mute button is worn out. Catching up on substantive news is difficult, now. I get thump-jumpy, and "abandon ship." Enough is enough. During laundry-folding time I hunt for a program like "The Twilight Zone," which is thump-free and straightforward. The relative quiet is shocking.
Better yet, I'll indulge in a crisp apple and a good book, punctuated by the sound of silence. Bliss.
Visit www.deeblair.com for recent columns, garden pictures and music.
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