Hazardous Duty

When it comes to selecting a tough and dangerous occupation, there are plenty to choose from; snow plow driver in Alaska, nuclear plant safety inspector, and the salesclerk in charge of convincing size twenty-four women that a size eight dress won’t stretch that much no matter how long they hold their breath. There’s one risky job that tops them all, though … Reality TV Cameraman.

I’m not talking about the folks who work on competition-based shows like Project Runway, Top Chef, or Judge Judy. Those kinds of programs are rough, but at least they take place in controlled environments like a fake loft, fake restaurant, or fake court room. The really dangerous shows are in the genre of wow-you-actually-do-that-for-a-living and include programs like Storm Chasers, The Deadliest Catch and (most frighteningly of all) Bridezillas.

The creation of reality television is a relatively recent broadcasting innovation. Young people will probably think I’m making this up, but in the early days of television, producers believed that they actually had to have a script and actors if they wanted to make a show. By today’s standards, that’s as quaint an idea as the buggy whip, the A.M. Radio, or only giving mortgages to people who might conceivably be able to pay them back.

Today, thanks to the development of smaller, lighter video cameras, we know that all you really need for a TV show is footage of someone doing something really dangerous like; hunting down tornadoes, fishing for crabs, or getting married to a psychotic harpy. Even as I write this, TV research scientists are working on a way to meld all three of these elements into the reality TV equivalent of a doomsday weapon.
It all started with the series Cops. Some clever TV executive realized that policemen have a difficult and dangerous job and encounter drama everywhere they go. It was like somebody had just dumped a big old load of drama on the street that was just waiting for someone to come along with a camera. Since cameras were light and cheap and camera operators were expendable, why not put one in a police cruiser and see what happened.

After more than 700 episodes it’s safe to say that a “hit” happened. Without actors or writers or makeup artists or lighting designers or script consultants, the show didn’t have any of the pricey and unnecessary “add ons” normally associated with TV production. In terms of cost efficiency, Cops was the equivalent of a fine Italian restaurant serving canned spaghetti. Except, in the case of TV, nobody seemed to notice that the meal was just a reheat. The producers were insulated from feeling any guilt by the large stacks of money that constantly surrounded them.

TV producers are a lot like kids and when one of them has something nice — like a big pile of money — all of the rest want it too. Reality shows popped up like long-lost relatives at a probate hearing. Of course, every show tried to top the previous series by finding a more interesting and/or dangerous occupation to film. No matter what the subject, these shows have settled into a predictable formula.

The heart of the show is the conflict between the cautious, stable professional and the maverick.

The stable individual has years of experience and has seen it all and done it all and knows his limitations. He won’t take any unnecessary risks. In a word, he’s dull.
The maverick is the exact opposite. The producers love this guy (and it’s always a guy) because he delivers the drama. Tell him that something is dangerous and he’s drawn to it the way Paris Hilton is drawn to designer clothes. At least once an episode he’ll charge into danger, dragging the defenseless camera operator with him.

Sometimes, though, even the maverick’s wacky efforts to get himself killed aren’t dramatic enough. For that, the producers have to break down and actually hire one actor to carry the show. Ninety-eight-point-four percent of the time that actor is Mike Rowe. (The remaining one-point-six percent is on shows that didn’t make it past the first episode.) Mike is the narrator who lends drama to the shows with his hushed, golf-announcer delivery of comments like, “With time running out on the season, the crew of the Late Breakfast is pinning their hopes on catching the elusive five-hundred-pound Emperor crab” or “The next seconds will be crucial as the bride decides whether not to carry through with the wedding.”

What makes Mike so valuable is that he can make anything sound dramatic. For example, imagine that they decided to make a reality show in my office and they filmed my encounter with the copy machine.

For some reason — bad luck, evil spirits, or perhaps gross incompetence — every time I try to make a copy I end up with a paper jam that makes Manhattan gridlock look like the French Grand Prix. The technician who came to clear it last time swore he removed an entire ream of paper from the machine’s innards. Still, I’ve got to admit that clearing a paper jam isn’t exactly riveting TV.

That’s where Mike Rowe comes in. He wouldn’t just say there was a paper jam, he’d say something like, “With dozens of clients waiting for service, Kevin knows he has only seconds to get the machine working again or risk losing customers … possibly forever.”

When there’s real drama (and real danger) Mike is strangely quiet. Those are the times he leaves the show in the hands of the camera operator; that unsung hero who risks life and limb to get the perfect dramatic shot.

Come to think of it, what they do is pretty darned interesting and dramatic in itself. Maybe somebody should make a reality show called Reality TV Cameraman. Except … who would you get to film it?