Life felt desperate to the Upolu tribe last Wednesday on Survivor. Upolu had just endured another wrenching, disorienting visit to tribal council, this time having lost a big lead when it couldn't use a massive slingshot to fire coconuts at oversized wooden masks accurately enough. At the subsequent reckoning, the usual melodrama engulfed its members. Jeff Probst, as only he can, asked questions that purposely tore at the seams holding the blue tribe together, and the governing inner circle did its best to advance an agenda and manipulate the vote. Some of the answers were honest and, accordingly, disarming. Others were so clumsy that the contrived attempts at projecting control were hilarious. (Sitting at tribal council noticeably holding back a grin has earned its place in a diagnostic manual for stupidity.) Crying for no good reason and deploying ever more of his evangelical malapropisms, Brandon was characteristically unstable and chilling.
When a few pounds of flesh had been extracted, Upolu discarded Mikayla, the physically capable lingerie-football player whose clipped sentences, taciturn demeanor, and awesome rack had alientated, respectively, me, a majority of her tribe, and Brandon (who suspected she was the Whore of Babylon after arousing his lust). Edna, a frail and bland gal who perpetuates the archetype of the submissive Asian woman, survived for at least another week. But Edna received a sizable plurality of votes, and Upolu was left to stumble around in the dark as it sought an explanation for its voting rift and a strategy to beat an opposing Savaii tribe that was suddenly stronger and more cohesive. As you might expect, in this darkest of hours, Upolu turned to God.
Convening his weary, disspirited tribe on the camp beach the next morning, "Coach" Ben Wade, Upolu's putative leader, stipulated that Upolu would search for an immunity idol hidden around camp. (Yes, only one person may use such a totem to stave off elimination, but that was of no consequence. Inexplicably, a misguided subculture that posits it can be a tool of group power has developed around the idol.) Coach believed that running through the jungle with a common goal would reignite tribal loyalty and boost morale. Before embarking on the journey--one that, we should note, was a fool's errand since Coach already had the idol hidden in his possession--Coach barked that everyone had to huddle up. There, with his tribemates grasping each other arm over arm, Coach began to pray, carrying the group with him. Coach did not rely on scripture or something traditional. His prayer was far more literal and immediate, the sort that athletes often invoke. "God," said Coach, "help us find this immunity idol. We do it in your name and we will give you all the glory should we succeed, but don't leave us hanging. Whatever you're doing, put that aside, focus on Survivor, and help us find the immunity idol."
It was a solemn moment for Coach, and it went on for a while. A repetitive prayer, Coach asked God again and again to intervene on Upolu's behalf as it searched for something he considered so critical, the idol. Coach was completely serious, and not at all embarrassed, neither for being dishonest, for being so vulgar, nor for being didactic. If at any moment Coach had been hesitant to draft God's good will into the service of something actually so silly, or if he ever were uncertain about how his tribemates would feel, we never saw it.
Therein lied a subtle masterstroke that demonstrated the sustained brilliance behind Survivor. Unquestionably, the series has remained compelling because its central premise draws from the inexhaustible well of social competition. But so did Joe Millionaire and any number of competition-driven reality shows that came and went after spending their initial capital. Survivor has become a historic television brand because it is exceptionally well crafted--well crafted enough to consistently inject religious zealotry and an attendant humor into staid primetime culture without offending anyone. No small feat.
Conspicuous piety rests comfortably and reliably on Survivor's periphery, never central to the show but always within view. Commonly, a contestant will act like Coach and pray aloud for good fortune, or kiss a cross that dangles around his or her neck. Almost always propitiating God, Lord Jesus, or Christ, a contestant beseeches the divine for intervention in a small matter--victory in a race to ignite fire, haste in a dash to assemble a puzzle and unfurl a flag, good luck when chores around camp are assigned. Over the years, God has uncovered hidden idols and delivered rewards. God's gaze has helped contestants craft strategy based on whom else has seemed like "a Christian" or, presumably better, "a good Christian." Bonds have been forged between "prayer warriors." Deception, selfishness, cruelty, delusion--all wiped away thanks to God's unyielding interest in Survivor outcomes.
The non-religious viewer can't help but scoff, if not laugh. I know because I am one. I have tuned into Survivor on a weekly basis for the better part of a decade, and still, in Season 23, I remain quick to text my sister or email my friends with a joke when one of our folks starts explaining that the Christians will get to eat the conconuts or visit the natural water slide. Infusing something so prosaic and ultimately meaningless with hefty religious ideology is absurd to the point of hilarity. And producer Mark Burnett knows it, because Survivor is, if nothing else, sublimely edited. With cameras rolling at all hours for six weeks, Survivor's producers have no shortage of content to whittle down into the narratives that carry a season and confessionals that make the audience care about the contestants. Yet, without fail, the show lingers on religious moments, winking at viewers by granting greater latitude as the juxtaposition between the import of religion and the insignificance of the Survivor context is amplified. Survivor understands how a viewer like me watches the program, and it encourages my incredulity.
Survivor goes on to eat its cake, too, not settling to merely have it. Viewers like me regard Coach's religiosity as obscene--it is neither merited by the stakes nor welcomed on an inoffensive network reality hour. Other viewers, religious viewers, surely look on approvingly. I don't have hard evidence, but two things: First, America is a Christian nation, so there's that. Second, Survivor is famously responsive to its audience. The producers tinker with the format from season to season when fans howl about flaws. Host Jeff Probst, who deserves a spot on reality television's Mount Rushmore, is as accessible a public figure as there could be, with the blog posts, behind-the-scenes videos, and twitter responses to prove it. And after eleven years, the show remains a staple of the primtime lineup for the most-watched network on television. Survivor would not continue to enjoy its rarefied position in the cultural landscape were it alienating its audience year after year with contestants who, in some cases, are best defined by their public devoutness. The obvious displays of piety are received well by enough people to keep them coming.
The show pulls off this dichotomy--wry joke facilitator and earnest opiate peddler--because it has cultivated a culture of respect for the contestants. While Probst needles the aspiring survivors each week and then extends the laughter on season-ending reunion shows by dwelling on eccentricities, he also intuits where the line demarcating disrespectful falls, and he never crosses it. Probst's humanity sets the tone for the universe that orbits Survivor. Periodically taking detours to lead thoughtful racial dialogue or to compassionately wonder about a contestant's emotional frailty, he signals that the show gladly accepts its participants for whom they are, even if he reserves the right to have some fun. In turn, contestants fly their colors and the audience appreciates that nothing untoward is taking place.
Lesser network programs probably cannot dare swim in such murky waters. A perennial favorite, The Amazing Race, is the reality analog of a crime procedural, going through the motions of its competition. On Amazing Race, stories are basic and there is little digression into anything meaningful or risky. Many other network reality shows do not even attempted to incorporate daring subjects, opting instead for the low-hanging fruit of basic questions like what, exactly, people will do for money. That is how Survivor started, in a sense, but the similarities often end there, just as it is not fair to say that Janet Malcolm and Andrew Ross Sorkin are the same because they are both reporters. And to be certain, Survivor is not Frontline in a bathing suit. However, Survivor manages to hint at the serious and provide a platform for further thought without alienating its audience or debasing its contestants. That distinguishes Survivor from many of its supposed peers, and it is a fitting reminder of why the show should rightly be regarded as innovative and unrivaled.
