Dan's Papers - January 18, 2008

I was asked to play the role of a Roman Senator in a movie to be shown on the Sci-Fi Channel this November. It's a small role with just a two-word speaking part. I sit in the stands of the coliseum, watching gladiators fighting with one another. And at one point, I hold up my thumb, then grinning evilly, slowly and sadistically, turn the thumb down to indicate my desire to see yet another gladiator put to death. People cheer.

Long ago, in real life, in one of the most democratic and respected civilizations ever known to man, that happened. How did they come to that?

Well, with Guantanamo and phone tapping and water boarding, some people today say America is heading in that direction. But now something new has happened to send us further along the path to destruction. Last week, at the urging of my college-aged son who seemed enthusiastically interested in this, I watched a new TV game show called "Solitary." Two people sit in individual cells while we watch from overhead cameras and listen to an unseen woman talk to them soothingly from a loud speaker. She tells them to do things that will, over time, either injure or possibly kill them. But if they stay doing this for longer than their opponent in the other cell, who they cannot see, they will win $50,000.

In the episode I watched, the two competitors, both young men, lay face up on a stainless steel chain held parallel to the ground three feet up by big hooks anchored into the opposite walls of the cell. The competitors, who wear only shorts, are then told it's a matter, after a few hours up on the chain, of balance, blood, welts and pain, so try to relax.

Finally, when one finally allows himself to fall to the floor - this took four and a half hours - he has to then get up and crawl over to a big red button on the wall and announce he is quitting by pressing it.

A man's voice, whispering to the viewer over the PA, announces the end this way.

"On your left, you see Felix of San Francisco, now our winner, continuing on. We could stop him now and tell him. But the rule is that only he can push that red button. So we will just have to wait. Heh, heh."

One bloody hour later, he gives up, presses the button, and is then told of his triumph. He falls to his knees and screams and cries with joy.

"I knew I could do it," he shouts through his tears. A trap door on the wall opens and he gets a prize. It's not money. It's food.

In another segment, two people sit in their cells alone and are told to remain awake for the next 34 hours. Both contestants do, with great difficulty, and then they are told they can sleep for the next four hours. Twenty minutes later, they are woken up and told they just slept for four hours. So it's time to go on staying awake some more.

Of course, the viewers don't have to sit through everything. Oh no. That would be hard. A digital clock on the bottom jumps ahead to whenever something interesting happens. It's like a fast-forward. It's all over in an hour.

Four years ago, there was a show on the air called "The Chair" into which contestants were strapped, and then asked a question. Tennis star John McEnroe hosted it. If you answered wrong, you were scalded with steam, frozen with ice, spun around and, if I remember correctly, given an electric shock.

It got pulled off the air after just a few episodes because of poor ratings and TV viewing revulsion.

"Solitary," however, is a hit.

The difference is, I think, the writer's strike. Begun three months ago, it has knocked all comics, dramas and sitcoms off the air, because, apparently in real life, Jay Leno, Dave Letterman and the other comedians are just boring bumps on a log when they don't have a script or video prompter. So the networks have resorted to reality shows, which do not require writers, and now it has come to this - torture for money, if you win.

People watch TV, on average, five and a half hours a day. It's a major influence in our lives. I hope the writer's strike ends soon before we descend any further into sadomasochistic hell.

I wave an arm impatiently and shout "come on" at the master of ceremonies who's busy introducing the upcoming proceedings. We've heard enough of you, let's get to the gore.