ENOUGH TO MAKE A GROWN MAN LEAP

Should you ever be in these parts and happen upon a desperate soul on the parapet of a bridge or a high building intent on plunging to an untidy end, possibly the phrase least likely to dissuade them from seeing it through would be something along the lines of, “Think about all the great television you’ll miss, like Big Brother Brasil…” Yes, against all the precepts of rationality, and as proof that civilization as we know it is truly on the ebb, Big Brother Brasil is back in January for its eighth series, and I for one shall be neither tuning in, nor switching on, but dropping out.

I must admit to having watched the program on occasions, when it still had some vestige of interest as a psychological experiment. The first British series was intriguingly puritanical, with participants being forbidden to discuss the voting and having to complete tasks in order to receive food - now that’s a show. The Brazilian version is so watered down and stacked full of product placements and unrestrained, mindless hedonism as to be almost obscene, especially for the class D and E viewers (the vast majority), who huddle around their flickering TV sets in dank favelas watching a bunch of self-absorbed rich folk talking drivel and playing out their narcissistic personal dramas for weeks on end until most of the audience are practically vomiting with boredom. Then we have the accompanying nightly interviews with passers-by encouraged to give their considered opinion on who should be voted out of the “Biggy Broder” (sic) house, whilst their views on the deeply entrenched, institutionalized corruption that cripples the nation, for instance, are deemed unworthy of being expressed or aired. Is it just me, or is something deeply wrong?

To its credit, the broadcaster, Globo, did strike upon a fabulous twist to the mundane malarkey in several previous series when it decided to raffle off the last two places in the house through a magazine. This gave the opportunity for average people, and not perfectly-shaped bimbos or perpetually sunglassed Chippendales with adult-movie-star abs, to compete for the, not inconsiderable, one million real prize money. Reflecting the tendency for Brazilians to show an estimable solidarity towards the less fortunate, on both occasions one of the poorest competitors won, much to the chagrin of their middle-class contemporaries, who simply couldn’t compete with the earthy probity of the pauper, and one by one bid a tearful farewell to the casa, and to the one million big ones it had once promised. Unfortunately, Globo decided that this was against the spirit of the show (and probably deeply upsetting to sponsoring companies eager to use the Photoshopped participants’ images for future marketing bacchanalia), and they resorted to choosing participants according to their likely potential for TV commercials and/or Brazilian Playboy (see photo).

Unlike the Spartan British house, the Brazilian mansion is the scene of non-stop whoopee-making. Themed parties are de rigeur, representing the only time contestants slip out of swimwear, only to don fancy dress, and the challenges are not conceived to decide whether the participants are fed or not, but rather to determine who wins a brand new Fiat, or who gets to ride on a float at the Rio Carnival. Pop stars even visit the house to give concerts, albeit pop stars with tax problems trying to make a comeback after twenty years in the wilderness.

What is worse is that there is no ban on discussing the voting, so whenever you happen to tune in you will invariably see some bikinied bimbo draped around some beachwear model (within seconds of the show starting, they start pairing up), saying, “If A votes for C, then B’s going to vote for D. E said she won’t vote for you, if you vote for F…” They then cut to another couple, who’s going through similar permutations. It’s mind-numbing stuff, unless you’re a dedicated fan of algebra. After some time watching this, you find you’ve been dribbling all down your front, and you haven’t even noticed. Or maybe that’s just me.

What has to be seen to be believed, however, are the histrionics that accompany the expulsions from the house. It’s hard to remember that they’ve only been in the place for a matter of weeks, such are the hysterical performances that they can only have been contractually obliged to give. The two candidates who are up for voting are shown live pictures on huge screens of their delirious families chanting their names, at which point they stand up and start frantically pointing and wailing. “There’s Mum! And Dad! And Grandma! And the neighbour, João! Lívia, my niece! The maid! Uncle Francisco!” They then burst into tears and fall to their knees, eventually curling up into a slobbering, simpering mess and murmuring softly from the safety of the fetal position.

It would be touching were they Nelson Mandela, and the house were located on Robben Island, circa 1990.

Have you ever been on Big Brother? Would you like to? What would you talk about, voting preferences, or would you open your heart and discuss inner bollocks?