by Leah Wilson, Jennifer Barnes, Mary Borsellino, Sarah Brennan
First, there are the truths presented by the Reality TV participants themselves to the viewer, to their editors, and to the other contestants, all of which may be different. Many Reality TV stars understand that there’s a level of narrative construction necessary for strategic game play, both in terms of manipulating their fellow contestants and in terms of manipulating the ultimate viewer. In Survivor: Pearl Islands (the show’s seventh season), for example, one of the castaways convinced the other members of his tribe that his grandmother had died so that they would give him the challenge reward. The castaway knew that by garnering sympathy, he could gain an advantage in the game, which worked. Not even the producers realized the castaway was lying until they called his home to offer their condolences, only to have the “deceased” grandmother answer the phone.
Lying about misfortune to garner sympathy is a tactic employed often in Reality TV, but the opposite is true as well: contestants regularly underplay skills or hide details about their personal lives if they feel it will give them an advantage (such as one housemate on Big Brother 12 not admitting to being a doctor so that other contestants wouldn’t feel like he didn’t need the money). Katniss herself employed this tactic effectively in the original Hunger Games, concealing her skill with bow and arrow from the other contestants while using it to dazzle the judges.
Whatever the motivation, creating a compelling narrative is a sound strategy in winning a Reality TV show, especially one in which the recipients of that narrative—the viewers—can influence the game, whether through votes or by driving ratings. This has led to the ever-popular Reality TV romance—coined “showmance” by followers of the genre—which is compelling on-screen but evaporates as soon as the cameras turn off (one need only look to any of the bountiful subgenre of celebrity dating shows, and the fact that the same celebrities keep turning up for multiple seasons, to understand this). “Showmance” is at the heart of the Hunger Games, when Katniss and Peeta pretend to be a couple in order to influence the viewers’ perception of them. As Haymitch explains after Katniss protests Peeta’s declaration of love during the interview before the Games:
Who cares? It’s all a big show. It’s all how you’re perceived. The most I could say about you after your interview was that you were nice enough, although that in itself was a small miracle. Now I can say you’re a heartbreaker. Oh, oh, oh, how the boys back home fall lovingly at your feet. Which do you think will get you more sponsors?” (The Hunger Games)
More important than the complicated truth of Katniss and Peeta’s relationship is the idea that they could be in love. This creates a story that viewers crave and that they reward while the two tributes are fighting in the arena (and which readers rewarded by donning Team Peeta or Team Gale shirts while awaiting the conclusion to the trilogy to determine which bachelor Katniss would choose). This also made possible the ultimate act of rebellion: Katniss bargaining for both her and Peeta’s life. Because viewers believe in and root for their love, the Gamemakers are able to save their reputation in the face of Katniss’ rebellion.
This demonstrates a second break between reality and truth in Reality TV, perhaps even more manipulative than the first: how the editors and producers choose to present events. We like to believe that cameras do not lie, that what we see must be real because we have seen it. But contestants in Reality TV are often filmed a majority, if not all, of the day, which leads to thousands of hours of tape being edited down into a weekly show that may top out at twenty hours total over its full run. How editors choose to cut those tapes can change everything: they can choose to air only those few moments a day when contestants are complaining and make it look like that’s all they do, or they can fail to air moments of contestants pitching in and make them appear lazy. Often, editors will craft a narrative stereotype of each contestant and show footage that backs up said stereotype: the loudmouth, the priss, the schemer, the layabout, the negotiator, etc.
And because many of the contracts between contestants and reality television shows explicitly allow the producers to have a hand in crafting the narrative, such interference is arguably within the bounds of what’s acceptable and expected (in one extreme instance a former contestant on Survivor sued the show, claiming that they’d told other castaways how to vote; however, many Reality TV shows air a disclaimer that the producers have the right to consult on making decisions regarding eliminations). The post–reality show trauma ward is littered with former contestants who now say they actually got along quite well with the other contestant portrayed to the world as their nemesis.
Ultimately, editors and producers have not only the most power but also the most motivation to shape a narrative to bolster particular storylines. Sure, on some level perhaps these storylines start out as organic truths, but reality is messy and complicated, and does not fit easily into preconceived archetypes or twenty-two episode seasons. Messy is hard to sell, so the editors give it a push, and ultimately these organic realities are twisted and enhanced to force them in the direction the editor believes will create the most compelling story.
For example, the truth of Katniss’ threat to the Gamemakers when she and Peeta raise the poisoned berries at the end of the Seventy-Fourth Games is that she’s revolting against their rules and taking control of herself away from those who would use her. However, President Snow, as the ultimate producer of the Games, twists this to show not a rebel, but a “love-crazed schoolgirl” (Catching Fire). As Katniss realizes after the Games:
Funny, in the arena, when I poured out all those berries, I was only thinking of outsmarting the Gamemakers, not how my actions would reflect on the Capitol. But the Hunger Games are their own weapon and you are not supposed to be able to defeat it. So now the Capitol will act as if they’ve been in control the whole time. As if they orchestrated the whole event, right down to the double suicide. (The Hunger Games)
The narrative constructed as strategy by Peeta and Haymitch becomes a sort of reality in and of itself, as Katniss begins to buy into it and President Snow capitalizes on it for his own ends.
Propaganda, Not Reporting
Collins, just like the Gamemakers in her books, raises the stakes to a new level in the third book of the trilogy, Mockingjay , when she takes the various themes of ratings and narrative and applies it to the way we approach reporting on wars. After all, it’s not unexpected that the same viewership that craves an increase in drama from season to season of a Reality TV show would want the same out of war coverage. And it’s not unsurprising to think that, in order to increase ratings, a television station or other news outlet might be tempted to construct narratives to corroborate the storyline they think will garner the most ratings. War coverage suffers from the same time constraints as reality television: every military front can’t be shown at all times, and not even everything filmed can make it to air, which means things will always end up being left out. The result can be a story that, even if it’s meant to be objective and accurate, is anything but. What gets chosen to be aired and what gets cut can have an enormous impact on the public’s impression of war.
And sometimes editors determine what to cut and what to print in order to further their own agendas. For example, several historians have claimed that through his propensity for cherrypicking and sensationalizing details and publishing theory as fact, William Randolph Hearst and his New York Journal helped instigate the country’s willingness to enter into the Spanish-American war in 1898. Behind the scenes of Hearst’s reporting was a circulation battle he’d entered into with Joseph Pulitzer of New York World, and both recognized that the more sensational the headline, the higher the sales. Thus, much of their reporting wasn’t about the reality of the events (it’s acknowledged that most of their reporting came from biased third-hand information), but about what would increase circulation or ratings. Hearst and Pulitzer understood the truth that a well-crafted narrative can be beneficial for the bottom line, whether that bottom line is selling more newspapers, garnering more advertisers, o
r perpetuating a specific ideology.
This is never so evident as it is in Mockingjay, where Katniss is the symbol of the revolution, not through her actions, but through the carefully constructed and edited perceptions of those actions through propaganda. Even those moments that are based in truth, such as Katniss walking through the field hospital in District 8, are later molded into narratives. Shortly after visiting those same hospitals, Katniss and Gale engage in a battle with Capitol planes, after which Katniss becomes aware of the television cameras and shouts for the district to join the rebellion, essentially turning the moment into a commercial by taking that raw event and crafting it into a compelling bit of narrative about the war.
Katniss is always aware of the message her story sends and how those around her would like to control it for their own ends. As she explains: “They have a whole team of people to make me over, dress me, write my speeches, orchestrate my appearances ... and all I have to do is play my part” (Mockingjay).
At each point, Katniss and the rebels are acutely aware of how their narrative will inspire the rebellion and how to take advantage of this fact. Cressida edits together moments from the Hunger Games and from Katniss’ life as a series of propos designed to garner sympathy and loyalty for the Mockingjay, while Fulvia creates a series of We Remember propos about tributes lost to the brutality of the Capitol in previous Games. The Capitol engages in similar propaganda, having Peeta, once a symbol of the rebellion next to Katniss, publicly beg for a ceasefire in an attempt to temper the resistance. Both the rebels and the Capitol are engaged in a battle not just of soldiers but of narratives: editing moments together to elicit the desired response from viewers.
All of this culminates in the most dramatic and monstrous event in the book: the bombing of the children in front of the president’s mansion in the Capitol’s City Circle. It doesn’t matter what the reality is behind the bombing, who conceived of it or ordered it, only how it is edited to shape the mindset of the people to finally end the war in favor of the rebels. And because this narrative fits into what we know of the Capitol already—that it is brutal and willing to kill twenty-three of its own children in the Hunger Games each year—we are willing to accept this atrocity as truth, regardless of who precipitated it. What matters is that the action is presented as truth and feels like truth. For many people, that’s enough.
Real, Not Real
In his short story How to Tell a True War Story, Tim O’Brien writes that “a thing may happen and be a total lie; another thing may not happen and be truer than the truth.” Sometimes a lie can get to the heart of a matter better than the truth, and sometimes a strict retelling of the truth cannot adequately capture reality. In this way, a trilogy like The Hunger Games, though it is fiction, can get to the truth of our obsession not just with Reality TV but with our willingness to abdicate our own responsibility in the face of what we’re told is real.
Put simply: reality can be a lie. Narrators, producers, and editors can all manipulate those snippets of reality we watch, which can twist our perception of it in order to induce us to want more. And of course, if there’s one thing we feel we can take as truth in these books it’s Katniss and her narrative. But we should ask ourselves whether even this should be above suspicion. Like all first-person narrators, Katniss is her own editor with her own biases: she chooses how to present herself and those around her. Katniss has a stake in the story she’s telling and what that stake is changes how she portrays the events and her emotional reaction to them.
Too often we accept what is labeled “reality” as truth rather than trying to understand what narrative the source might be promoting (whether that narrative is a quest for ratings or an attempt to promote a desired outcome). The Hunger Games trilogy demonstrates how an entire nation can be spurred into a rebellion through the use of propaganda and cleverly crafted narrative presented as reality. It shows how a culture’s obsession with the dramatic, even if it is false, can lead to a complete abdication of personal responsibility in exchange for continued entertainment. We are responsible, as citizens, to look beyond bread and circuses and not to accept information as it is handed to us but to search for a deeper truth.
We can rail against the dominance of Reality TV shows, but so long as viewers continue to watch them, advertisers will continue to sponsor them and they’ll keep being produced. This is the true nature of the industry. In the end, if there is one truth that can be taken away from the Hunger Games it is this: we, the reader, tuned in and boosted its rating. Even while Katniss rails against the Games as disgusting and barbaric, we the readers turn the pages in order to watch them. We become the citizens in the Capitol, glued to the television, ensuring there will be another Game the following year. Thanks to us, the ratings are just too high to cancel the show.
CARRIE RYAN is the New York Times bestselling author of several critically acclaimed novels, including The Forest of Hands and Teeth, The Dead Tossed Waves, and The Dark and Hollow Places. Her first novel was chosen as a Best Books for Young Adults by the American Library Association, named to the 2010 New York Public Library Stuff for the Teen Age List, and selected as a Best of the Best Books by the Chicago Public Library. A former litigator, Carrie now writes full-time and lives with her husband, two fat cats, and one large dog in Charlotte, North Carolina. You can find her online at www.carrieryan.com.
NOT SO WEIRD SCIENCE
Why Tracker Jackers and Other Mutts Might Be Coming Soon to a Lab Near You
CARA LOCKWOOD
Part of the pleasure of reading the Hunger Games is how alien its world is: the names, the food, the way people live. However dark the story becomes, reading about Panem is always laced with the excitement of discovery. Even mutts, some of Suzanne Collins’ scariest creations, seem thrilling just because they’re so strange. But as with all the best science fiction, Katniss’ world has more in common with ours than we might initially think. Real-world scientists aren’t far from being able to create mutts of their own. Here, Cara Lockwood explores genetic splicing, the dangers of technology in both worlds, and the responsibility that comes with creation.
I will admit right now that I am entirely too critical of most sci-fi. I’m the one sitting in the movie theater grumbling, “that could never happen.” Or, more concisely, I’ll just say: “Seriously?”
Could there be some crazy disease somewhere in a lab that would turn the entire planet into brain-eating zombies or sunlight-fearing vampires? No way. Beefing up shark brains to make them super-smart predators? I don’t think so. Crazed prehistoric-sized piranhas that will devour anybody with an inflatable floatie and a cooler? Please. They want us to believe this stuff?
Like take the insane DNA-spliced mutant monsters that make terrifying cameos throughout the Hunger Games. I’m supposed to believe that one day we could be ripped apart by mutant wolves with tribute eyes? Stung by poisonous and relentless tracker jackers? Or get devoured by giant lizard men?
Seriously?
As it turns out ... maybe so.
Not only do muttations—“mutts” for short—already exist in our world, but the stuff real scientists are doing is far wackier and sometimes scarier than what we see in the Hunger Games—if you can imagine that.
In this essay, you’ll read about some of the movie-worthy stuff going on in labs right now that makes jabberjays seem quaint. We’ll talk about why real-life sci-fi is way scarier than anything you might find in the Hunger Games, and about the lesson we can learn from Panem about not playing God and using science wisely.
But first: let’s talk about the science that makes mutts possible: genetic engineering.
Could Tracker Jackers Exist?
In the real world, genetic engineering—the science of altering DNA by adding or subtracting genes in order to create a different kind of creature, or in some cases the science of cloning an existing one—isn’t new. In 1997, scientists in the United Kingdom reproduced the first genetically cloned sheep, named Polly. The first incarnation
of Polly was simply a duplication of a sheep’s embryo—a clone—implanted into a different sheep and brought to term like a normal sheep.
You may have heard of Polly, but did you know that another sheep was actually genetically engineered with some human genes fused into the DNA of the sheep? CNN reported the news in 1997 shortly after Polly was born and before many countries passed laws banning experiments using human DNA. So, yes, technically, we’ve already had a human-sheep hybrid. Of course, we aren’t talking about an unusually furry guy named Bob who can produce the wool to make his own argyle sweaters. While a human-sheep hybrid sounds pretty creepy, these post-Polly hybrids looked like sheep; they only had a few human genes among tens of thousands.
And we didn’t stop with sheep.
In 2001, American scientists genetically spliced a jellyfish gene into a moth, making a new moth designed to kill the pink bollworm—a pest that destroys cotton crops. Jellyfish and moths? It sounds exactly like something you’d find in the Games.
But genetic engineering gets weirder.
Scientists have been working on genetically engineering silkworms that could spin silk strong enough to repel bullets by splicing silkworms and spiders. By weight, spider-silk could be stronger than steel and tougher than man-made fibers used in a soldier’s body armor.
Gene splicing is pretty much what it sounds like. You cut into the DNA of a gene to add some new stuff—except you don’t use a knife. You use chemicals—certain enzymes that will “cut” into the DNA strand. Then scientists add in new DNA and glue it all back together with another enzyme. Since DNA is what makes a cell a cell and determines its function, the splice in DNA causes changes—like the production of extra-strong spider silk or pink bollworm poison. And, there you have it, the beginning of our very own mutts
