Dead Voices, page 8
This wasn’t your ordinary game show with its lowbrow humour, Larry told the audience. Things could get quite elevated with erudite exchanges. And today’s show was extra special since they were expecting a mystery guest challenger. Anyone who didn’t know what erudite meant, for one, would be at a disadvantage. But not to worry. They’d get help from the monitors on the difficult words. First he had to prep the audience, however, by going through the top ten list of what any historically-minded person should know.
A couple of boom cameras were panning over the audience, showing reactions on the overhanging monitors.
In spite of Larry’s easy charm with the audience, Wes felt his stomach tightening up. The show was a big hit and into its third year. With the success, however, came the added pressure of staying at the top. Everyone said he came across as super cool, dapper and smooth, little knowing the price he had to pay for such an exterior display.
By the time Larry had finished and the theme music came on, he was ready. They taped the show live to be aired a half hour later.
“And here to moderate Prime Time Challenge,” the announcer said, “is Wesley O’Hara-Byrne, a man who doesn’t need an air conditioner on the hottest days.”
In his best dark-blue suit, he strode to his desk in his signature jaunty manner while the studio audience gave him a nice hand. At the front of the desk were two large clocks. One was the Play Clock set for the minutes the panel had to identify the challenger. The other was the Prime Time Clock, more like a pie chart, dividing world history into seven ages, from the start of civilization in Mesopotamia and Egypt, through ancient Greece and Rome, to present time.
Sitting at his desk, he took a quick glance at the monitor to see if every piece of the persona was in place. He saw the smooth and lean features, clear blue eyes, short dark hair parted at the side, and the dazzling smile. All intensified by the bright studio lights. Sometimes he felt the image was cut and polished in stone, buffed to a high gloss, and stuck inside a monitor.
“Welcome to the show, ladies and gentlemen,” Wes said, quickly adjusting the notes. “Thanks for the intro, Bruce, although my AC works just fine, thank you.”
After the smattering of laughs, he got down to business. “Today we have something a little special for you folks at home and in the studio audience. Something that’ll create a few sparks, I’m sure. But let me introduce the panel first.”
The red light on his camera went out. As he spoke he kept his eye on the teleprompter, sometimes paying heed and sometimes not. At this stage, he knew the panellists well enough to give them their due.
“First we have that sartorial sage who knows how to dress as well as he knows every thread of modern history. Walter Gordon.”
With the prompting from the electric board, the studio audience gave Walter a nice hand. Walter smiled at the camera. He was wearing an elegant conservative suit, with his red bowtie. A tall slim guy, with a full head of white hair, he generated an impression of avuncular reserve that hid the wit of a surgical blade.
“Our next panellist, though she is an award-winning scholar in ancient history and religions, and highly knowledgeable in ancient languages, is as fresh and lovely as a rose in full bloom. Ellen Plimpton.”
Ellen was in a striking crimson top, frilly at the bustline, highlighting her pert blond bob. The show had searched high and low in academia for the likes of Ellen Plimpton, he well knew. The producers had emphasized looks, of course, but what they had come up with had far exceeded expectations. Ellen, in her early forties, hardly looked bookish or scholarly. She had a surface elfin beauty that hid a steel-trap mind. And she knew exactly how to trade her looks for advantage at the poker table. When Ellen spoke, everyone listened. In knowing Greek and Hebrew and Latin, she was an authority on the ancient world and the Scriptures.
The guest panellist this week was Marcel Taylor, who had carved a niche for himself in the history of ideas. Of British and French parentage, he had taught at universities in Paris and England and Germany, before settling down in Canada. Always a dandy in his dress, he was in a mauve velvet vest over a blue shirt. With his shiny bald pate, he wore wire-thin glasses on his gaunt face, making him stick out in any crowd.
Rounding out the panel was their mainstay, the guy who had written over fifteen books on European history. Jacob Solomon. In his early fifties, Jake had pepper and salt short hair and beard, with dark penetrating eyes and a slim build. He was in a conservative charcoal grey suit and a striking red tie, looking composed and ready for combat.
It had taken a while to get the right mix and chemistry for the panel. The try-outs, including time as a guest panellist, had been especially revealing. Some academic historians were too specialized in their chosen field. Some wilted on camera. Others became as thick as boards. Some didn’t have the right voice. Some didn’t have a sense of humour. Some couldn’t hide their distaste for the medium. Dave, their exec producer, claimed that the camera never lied.
Wes had his own problems in front of the camera in his early years. Serving as moderator and henchman on various afternoon game shows, he had made his gaffs and earned his chops, developing the right mixture of aplomb and nonchalance on the outside, what someone had called sprezzatura, to get this big gig in prime time. It didn’t hurt, of course, that he had a degree in history along with the cutting sarcasm to keep the panel in check.
“You all know the premise of the show, of course,” Wes spoke into the camera. “We tell you folks in the studio and you at home about a great figure who changed the course of human history, then bring out a well-known celebrity to play the part. He or she stands hidden behind the panel and answers the questions on his or her own, or lets Plutarch, our super-computer, help out with the answers. Plutarch, who understands spoken language, has been fed all the relevant information — facts, theories, interpretations — on the historical person and the times. As soon as we start the questions, the Play Clock starts as well for the panellists to uncover the identity of the great historical figure, our challenger.”
Though the show was based on the format of an old and popular news show, not to mention the gimmick of pitting a super-computer against human panellists, it had been picking up significant ratings the last two years, once they had locked into the present panellists. Celebrities and A-list actors were lining up to impersonate their favourite historical figures. It was fun for the most part, though things could get dicey in the Q & A afterwards, especially if the panellists came against worthy challengers who knew their roles well. They could have some fun with the impersonators and the computer at the same time, knowing full well that Plutarch had suspect ethical wiring. Wes had once overheard them joking about the whole thing as Plutarch-bashing.
“So, if we’re all ready to start,” Wes said, “let’s give you the story and the challenger.”
While the TV audience was being fed the story in “live” time, the folks in the studio audience were looking at the overhanging monitors with their own earphones and waiting in anticipation for the appearance of the mystery celebrity who’d impersonate the historical figure. Wes could recall a few of notable and incongruous ones in the past. In one show a female pop icon, known for her bawdy concerts, had come out as Mother Teresa, down to the stoop and the white habit. Though the complaints had far outweighed the compliments, the ratings had sky-rocketed.
Another time, a pretty-boy and popular actor who was in town for the film festival had come on as Socrates. The make-up people had done a great job in transforming him into the ugly middle-aged Greek. And then there was the time the Prime Minister, a guy who was Teflon in looks and personality, had come on doing John A. Mac-Donald, with the wavy hair, the side-whiskers, and the alcoholic lilt in his voice. It was so campy the audience ate it up. The show had garnered a reputation, he knew, of being serious theatre with a good mix of scholarly integrity and playful histrionics, able to blow the reality and game shows out of the water.
Wes looked at his monitor and listened through his earphone. He had already received a heads-up on the identity of the historical figure and anticipated a few problems.
His mom at the nursing home, for one, would be watching, and she was as pious as they came. They had spent years reciting the rosary as a family after supper in front of the statuette of the Blessed Virgin in the living room. When he was twelve, however, his father had suddenly abandoned them for his life of drink, a traumatic event that had thrown the family into a tailspin. Only the faith of his mom, which was combined with a determined will, had saved them from the catastrophe. Already having had a controlling hand in family affairs, she had devoted herself to her children, with an outer-worldly smile that had withstood all their financial problems.
A lot of her faith and devotion had rubbed off him. And like the good Irish son he was, he had gone into the seminary, hoping to forgive his dad. After studying the theology and the history of the Church, however, his faith had been shaken. There was too much of a disparity between the original words and the dogma. And the theatre of the ritual could no longer compensate for the weakness of his flesh. His mother had been sorely disappointed when he had left the seminary, kicked around a bit, and finally settled into the television business, with its own theatrical ritual. Though she had forgiven him for going against her wishes, there were things about his private life he could never reveal to her.
Adding to the contentious historical figure was the mystery actor taking on the role, the identity of whom was only known to him and Dave. Wes knew the actor for his extreme makeovers and his Method training. For one movie he had gained forty pounds, shaved off his hair, and blacked out his teeth. For another he had lost fifty pounds, totally believable as a stick figure in a concentration camp. On an interview show on the art of acting, he had confided that it wasn’t enough to act a role: one had to make oneself disappear into the character. The past four years, however, he had gone to the other side of the camera and directed two highly controversial religious movies that had created a storm of protest.
Wes braced himself for his own challenge ahead. As the moderator he was the pilot of the show, acting as an arbitrator between the panel and the guest, as well keeping a keen eye on the audience and impending storm clouds. And even though the show had its scholarly creds, it could go into uncharted waters at times. Every so often Dave liked to shake things up in order to avoid complacency. They were in show biz, after all, Dave was fond of saying. They could take history out of the textbooks, air it out, play with it, and present it to the audience in a more engaging format. The average TV viewer could be reawakened to its impact. And from Dave’s experience as a teacher in the classroom, the kids, in their slavery to the tech age, were ever widening the disconnect between the present and the past. It was the mandate of the national network not only to connect the disparate parts of their large country, but to connect the diverse peoples in the nation with their heritage and their culture.
Dave liked to give them a little pep talk every so often, unfazed by the academic standards of their esteemed panellists. They were great historians, sure, but they were doing TV, he said. They were dealing with the objective facts of history and also staging a what-if scenario. What if they could bring certain historical figures back to life and question them with the aid of a powerful computer? What if they could re-examine the past with twentytwenty hindsight in the light of the modern perspective? What if they could shake the past out of its doldrums in an interesting format for the adults and kids? And get them back into the fold?
They wouldn’t dumb things down. They’d dial them up. They’d mix their fun with historical integrity and educate the audience in the process. They’d make the new by remembering the old. TV would be their real classroom, like it or not. In order to stay on air, however, they had to take care of ratings.
During this show, Dave would be in the control room along with the regular producer, overseeing operations.
As the story was being fed to the monitors, the historical figure quietly stepped onto his perch behind the panel, catching the attention of the studio audience. Wes could see that they didn’t recognize the mystery actor-director playing the role. Indeed, his facial features had been modified beyond recognition. The person facing the audience, slight and slender to begin with, had thinning hair on top of scraggily long hair at the sides, a fair-sized beard, a gaunt face with rough skin as if baked by the desert heat. He looked to be in his middle fifties and wore a long off-white tunic fringed in blue and tied at the waist. In the close-up, he regarded the camera with a mixture of severity and sadness, not to mention an outer-worldly detachment that immediately set the mood.
Suitably impressed, Wes was confused by the odd choice of colours for the attire when his cue came on.
“Now that the folks at home and in the studio audience have been informed about our challenger,” he said, smiling into the camera, “we’ll start the questioning with Walter.”
The monitor switched to Walter Gordon.
“Did this story happen in a continent beginning and ending with the letter A?” Walter said, opening with his usual question.
“Yes,” the challenger said.
“Is the continent east of the Atlantic?”
“Yes.”
“Is it Asia?”
“ . . . Yes.”
“I’ll have to modify that a bit,” Wes interrupted. “I’m sure our guest will agree that, while the story started in Asia, it didn’t end there.”
“Did it end in Europe?” Walter said.
“Yes.”
“If the story wasn’t located in one area, was there some travelling involved?”
“Yes.”
“From Asia to Europe?”
“Yes.”
“Are you Attila the Hun?” Walter said.
The audience gave out a few laughs.
“OK,” Walter said with a wry grin. “I’ll turn it over to you, Ellen. At least I got the geography down for you.”
Ellen smiled into the camera the same way she had smiled at him once upon a time, like a siren luring him into the rocks.
“Well,” she said, measuring her words, “we’ve established two things so far. One, the challenger seems to be answering the questions without the aid of Plutarch. And, two, we know he’s not a blood-thirsty eastern invader who struck fear into the hearts of Europe.”
The audience’s reaction was amused but muted. The panellists, as usual, knew how to play the audience to their advantage.
“Let’s go for the time period,” Ellen said. “Did this story happen in the Common Era?”
“Yes.”
“Did it happen after the Middle Ages?”
“No.”
“Before 600 CE?”
“Yes.”
“Before 100?”
“Yes.”
“Were you a Roman citizen?”
“Yes.”
“There you go, Marcel,” Ellen turned to him. “He can’t be a Caesar, since most of them were as blood-crazed as the Huns.”
“Were you a member of the military at all?” Marcel said.
“No.”
“Were you a member of the government?”
“No.”
“Were you an artist in any way? A writer? A philosopher? A playwright or poet?”
“Which one?” the challenger said.
“A writer.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have to interrupt again,” Wes said. “We’d be leading the panel very astray here. While our guest was a writer, so to speak, he wasn’t a writer in the usual meaning of the term.”
“I’m confused even more now,” Marcel said, scratching his bald pate. “I’ll turn it over to you, Jacob.”
Jake took charge immediately in his sharp incisive voice.
“Did you write anything?”
“Yes and no,” the challenger said, with a coy smile.
The camera light went on again. “I think we’re getting bogged in semantics,” Wes said. “The challenger is answering truthfully but ambiguously. While he himself didn’t actually write most of the words, he was responsible for the words.”
“Ah,” Jake said. “You dictated the words?”
“Yes.”
“And did your words have a great effect on the Roman Empire?”
“I like to think so. Yes, eventually, I suppose.”
“Hmm . . . did you dictate in Latin?”
“No.”
“In Greek?”
“Yes and no.”
“OK, in a variant of Attic Greek? Koine?”
“Yes.”
“If you travelled from Asia to Europe, were you a citizen of a different country as well? Let me rephrase that: Were you native to a different region?”
“Yes.”
“If you weren’t a military man or a politician or a statesman, were you religious?”
“Yes.”
“Ellen,” Jake said, “we’ll leave it up to you.”
After a few more questions, Ellen identified the mystery guest to the applause of the audience. Wes broke for a commercial.
While they waited, the challenger came down from his perch and sat on the swivel chair in between the panellists and the moderator’s desk. Under his tunic, everyone could see he was in bare legs and sandals, with black socks, which caused a ripple of laughter in the studio audience. Even the panellists were amused, as they consulted their laptops.
But Wes could sense a general unease as well. A religious challenger tended to bring out the worst in the panellists. He could recall the time they had Martin Luther on and Jake had raked him for his anti-Semitism. Another show they had Gandhi on, and even he wasn’t spared. Walter had seriously questioned him on his penchant for sleeping with young girls in his old age. What the hell was that? Walter said, as if he were the moral compass of the panel.
As historians, the panellists were into the facts of history, but also unsparing in questioning the interpretation of those facts. It was their mandate to challenge the guests, attack the sore spots, dramatize the weaknesses, churn the ante up and make it TV. If they stepped on a few toes, so much the better, Dave said. And he was in the control room today, a sure sign of possible trouble.
