America’s superpower status is the flip side of its massive inferiority complex
‘You’re bringing a book?’ That was the reaction of Tom Colicchio, one of my fellow judges on an American reality show, when I clambered into the limousine taking us to the Emmys last Sunday. The programme in question, Top Chef, had been nominated for six of these awards and I had been flown to Los Angeles in case we won. My reason for taking a book is that I didn’t think I could muster enough interest in the ceremony to stave off boredom for its three-hour running time.
In fact, the telecast turned out to be quite entertaining, mainly because the people presenting the awards kept making jokes about how awful it was. Is that a paradox? Best joke of the evening was delivered by Ricky Gervais, who has carved out a career for himself in America largely on the strength of his ability to enliven tedious awards ceremonies by pointing out just how tedious they are. He began by making rather a complicated joke about the creative accounting practices used by American television networks to cheat writers and producers out of their just rewards. ‘That’s a joke aimed at the 5,000 people in this auditorium rather than the 5,000 people watching,’ he said. It brought the house down.
For programmes like Top Chef, being nominated for an Emmy is a big deal because the ‘reality’ genre is the bastard child of American television, desperately hankering for respectability. This was the third year in a row we’d been nominated and the main preoccupation of the Top Chef contingent was whether any significance could be attached to the fact that we were seated near the front. Had the organisers deliberately placed us within easy reach of the podium? Just before the winners were announced in our category there was a general buzz of anticipation and I tucked my book away under my seat. I didn’t want to get up on stage clutching a copy of Hold Tight by Harlan Coben.
In fact, we lost to another reality show called The Amazing Race. A clip was shown in which a deaf contestant told the host that being on The Amazing Race meant the world to him because it proved that deaf people could achieve their dreams too. This proved to be such an emotional moment that both the deaf man and the host broke down in tears. Cue rapturous applause in the Emmy auditorium. In the bar afterwards, I told Tom that if we wanted to stand a chance next year we’d have to get some contestants with disabilities. ‘That’s why we hired you, Toby,’ he said.
There may be a grain of truth in that — my ham-fisted attempts to be ‘witty’ on the show do come across as vaguely autistic — but being a Brit helps, too. Ten years ago, no Hollywood movie was complete without a British villain and today the same applies to reality shows. Whether it’s Simon Cowell on American Idol or Piers Morgan on America’s Got Talent, the snarky British judge has become an essential part of the mix. Part of the reason is that we’re not nearly as inhibited as our American counterparts when it comes to letting rip. We give it to the contestants with both barrels, which satisfies the viewers’ blood lust.
But more importantly, the audience seems to get a frisson of pleasure from seeing one of their countrymen being dressed down by a hoity-toity Englishman. It’s a welcome reminder of why they threw us out back in 1776. It flatters the self-image of Americans as plucky little underdogs ready to stand up to imperialist bullies — which is preferable to seeing themselves as imperialist bullies. When I lived in New York, I was constantly struck by how quick Americans were to take offence at mildly critical remarks about their country. It was as if the War of Independence had been fought the previous week and they were only just emerging from the yoke of colonial oppression.
This is something that people who’ve never lived in America don’t understand. The entire country is in the grip of a massive inferiority complex. This seems at odds with America’s status as the world’s only superpower, but after spending five years there I realised that the country’s success is intimately bound up with its acute status anxiety. The desire to prove themselves is where the people’s extraordinary dynamism and energy comes from. Supercilious British judges on reality shows help keep this flame alive.
Toby Young is associate editor of The Spectator.
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