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I Confess!
Netty C. Gross
 VILLAGE SQUARE: Meni Pe'er says he's against pushing a story just to get high ratings; Iris Kol concedes that a family quarrel makes for good ratings, but insists she's doing nothing cruel |
It's 6 o'clock one evening in late February. A middle-aged woman named Navah Shragai appears on television to discuss a vexing personal problem: Should she sue her building contractor or save the legal bills and just live with the wreck of the apartment he�s left her?
The venue is Channel 2�s "Jude Luck," one of a rash of new confessional programs dominating Israeli TV these days. The format is similar to U.S. talk shows: Ordinary people come forward to discuss their personal problems or relate their stories. But unlike "Ricki Lake," to say nothing of "Jerry Springer" (both of which are also broadcast here), Israeli shows are designed to respond to a local audience that demands happy endings: The more maudlin and therapeutic, the higher the ratings. If the show�s budget allows, the beleaguered participant might find him- or herself suddenly saved from deportation, flown across the world for medical treatment or reunited with a long lost sibling or friend.
But "Jude Luck" has its own gimmick: two astrologers each clad in cherry-red outfits and clutching various charts and crystals who actually predict what will happen to the participant. The host is Judy Nir- Mozes-Shalom, who, like others working in this genre of television, started her career at the helm of a late-night confessional radio show. (Not that her own life has lacked drama. Today in her mid-40s, Nir-Mozes-Shalom, an heiress to the Yediot Aharonot media empire, was widowed from government arms-for-hostages trader Amiram Nir, who died in a mysterious 1988 plane crash in Mexico, and she is currently married to Likud Knesset Member Silvan Shalom.) With green eyes full of empathy, Nir-Mozes-Shalom asks the astrologers what they think Shragai should do. Both women agree: with her moons in Jupiter and her house descending in Mars, Shragai must sue.
The next guest is Doron, a man in his late 20s, his face concealed by a peaked gold mask in the shape of a boar�s head. Doron doesn�t have a problem but he qualifies for a spot on the show because he�s willing to talk about his business: orgy management.
Nir-Mozes-Shalom is beside herself with excitement. "I understand that each weekend you run an orgy out of a large private villa in the Tel Aviv area where couples swap partners," she gushes.
"That�s correct," confirms Doron laconically, as though his job were selling insurance. "Guests check in on Friday afternoon. Everyone changes into towels and gathers in the living room. There�s a snack bar and alcoholic drinks. No drugs. Women can come unaccompanied but men must bring a female partner, otherwise we land up with too many men. It�s four hundred shekels a couple."
"But what happens? I mean, you know?"
"The mood is kind of erotic," continues the passionless Doron. "Things just flow. There�s dancing, music. Things happen. There are rooms for people who want privacy."
"Who comes to these events? Any politicians?" the hostess asks mock cringingly.
"Models, hairdressers, beauty queens. All sorts. But nobody over 40."
Nir-Mozes-Shalom assures the viewing audience that the masked Doron is "really, really cute," and reads off his phone number -- for "those of you interested."
THOUGH ON THE FACE OF IT, ALL Israeli TV shows may appear to be copied from American formats, Israelis, says Dr. Amit Schechter, who teaches media studies at Tel Aviv University, favor talk shows featuring a mix of celebrities and unknowns sitting on a couch and gabbing about their intimate lives and problems. " The on-screen presence of unknowns alongside famous people gives the viewer access. Israelis at home watch and imagine these people in their own living rooms."
A recent segment of Channel 2�s "Rafi Reshef," for example, had Rolando Maimoni, a working-class father of seven from Beit She�an who�d recently won 1.3 million shekels in the Toto sports lottery, sandwiched onstage between Yossi Kuchik, director general of Prime Minister Ehud Barak�s office, comedienne Orli Weinerman and Boaz Bismuth, a journalist who talked about his travels to Libya, Syria and other Arab countries. "Now we have air-conditioning in the house, a new car and better food," Maimoni informed his fellow panelists. He himself seemed ready to enter retirement, "but my wife will continue her job as a housekeeper."
But the new-formula talk shows like "Jude Luck" have practically no celebrities on board, concentrating instead almost exclusively on baring the souls of working-class participants. These shows, says Tamar Katriel, professor of communications at Haifa University, emanate from the country�s rich tradition of confessional radio. "Israelis, particularly of the working class, have been using the radio therapeutically for years now," says Katriel. "They talk about the most intimate subjects, and the host acts as a kind of rabbi, advisor."
Katriel points out, though, that the television format creates a barrier. "The minute you get on TV, you�ve lost your anonymity."
Which explains perhaps why the new confessional TV shows require gimmicks to offset participants� woodenness. So, for example, the prime-time, big-budget "Avraham and Ya�akov" has a tear-jerky "Queen for a Day"-type format where hosts Avri Gilad and Koby Meidan fulfill the wishes of their down-and-out participants.
In a recent show the pair invited the family of a young child with epilepsy who required lifesaving surgery to the studio and appealed to the home-viewing audience for $100,000. Elite, the candy manufacturer, declared Gilad, waving a Chocolate Chuck candy bar in the air, was opening the drive with a 24,000-shekel donation. Ha�aretz TV critic Rogel Alpher thought the show in poor taste. "Is it possible that Elite and Tel-Ad [the show�s production company] don�t have $100,000 to give to this unfortunate child? If Elite would donate $50,000 and Tel-Ad the other $50,000," Alpher wrote, "there would be no need to turn to the public. But then the ratings would plummet because the home audience�s participation is part of the gimmick. The act of charity is secondary to the ratings." Alpher also pointed out that 24,000 shekels ($6,000) was the equivalent of purchasing a commercial.
"There�s nothing wrong in helping people via TV, however I�m against pushing a story just to get high ratings," remarks Meni Pe�er, a longtime Channel 1 host, whose latest show, "With Meni," airs Monday nights. "The Israeli talk show is like a village square," adds Pe�er. "People come to tell their stories. Others listen. It�s an important outlet. And the host�s job is to act as a kind of magician and miracle worker." Pe�er recently intervened, for example -- on air of course -- to help stop a deportation action against a Yugoslavian evangelist living in Israel for the past 11 years.
Prof. Tamar Leibes, of the Hebrew University communications department, says the genre, a growing phenomenon, is a very mixed bag. "There�s a need on these shows to create a phony community, usually grouped around a sentimental theme," parses out Leibes. "There�s no bad guy here. Not the government or policy-makers. It�s all about fate. And that absolves everyone of responsibility and creates a phony consolation." But she also believes there are positive elements. "There is a sense of wanting to �share the pain,� something that Oprah Winfrey pioneered. And watching other Israelis grapple with problems gives people a chance to try the problem on for size."
IRIS KOL IS TALL AND MODEL-thin and favors fitted black leather slacks and dark sweaters. A radio show talk host for the past year and a half, she branched into TV just several months ago. Kol is rankled by critics� comparison of her show, also on Channel 2, to "Ricki Lake,"
which often encourages studio audiences to judge between -- and sometimes gang up on one of -- two guests who are in a personal dispute. Kol also tries to ignore those who say her show transforms participants into "human garbage." "There�s nothing mean or cruel taking place here," she told me. "On the contrary, we are talking about serious subjects that rarely come up in public debate. And people want to talk. Critics and viewers have totally separate needs."
Yet Kol concedes that personal dramas make for good ratings. By her telling, a warring mother and daughter-in-law willing to quarrel on air "does extremely well -- that�s the best" in terms of ratings.
A recent segment featured a haggard-looking couple in their mid-40s, both clad in sweatsuits. As a title flashed on the screen, "SAYS HIS WIFE NEGLECTS HER LOOKS," the husband declared that his wife -- who had a demented grin on her face -- "looks like a wreck. Just look at her now. You should see her in the morning."
The audience booed.
"When�s the last time you told her that you loved her?" quizzed Kol�s resident sexologist, Ruth Chotzner.
"Turn to her and tell her right now that you love her!" commanded Kol.
"I love you," the husband obeyed, looking stunned at the outburst.
Another Kol segment involved Aharon, a middle-aged man embroiled, by his own telling, in a bitter divorce from his wife. His complaint however, is against Hani, his girlfriend of four years, whose obsessive belief that he�s cheating on her has led her to stalk him in the supermarket. "SAYS GIRLFRIEND DOESN�T LET HIM GO SHOPPING FOR FOOD ALONE!" screamed the flashing headline.
"She calls me at work about 15 times a day," Aharon charged. "She refuses to allow me to go to soccer matches. She pressures me, drives me nuts."
Hani, an attractive redhead, cut in. "I love him and want to be part of his life. Why can�t he include me?"
"Do you trust him?" Kol wanted to know.
"No," retorted Chani. "Frankly, I don�t."
"Habibi, break up with her," hollered a young man with shiny hair from the audience. "I know the type. It�s bad."
Piped up an older man in a checkered shirt: "Can�t you just call him twice a day?"
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