When I initially heard CBS was creating the quasi-Orwellian reality program Big Brother, I was wildly enthusiastic. It sounded like a better version of The Real World, because the premise seemed to guarantee emotional confliction: Not only were they going to force total strangers to live together, but these poor chumps wouldn’t even be allowed to leave the room. I imagined it would be like jamming Puck and Pedro and Amaya and that drunk Hawaiian girl into Anne Frank’s annex and forcing them to emote at gunpoint. This would be perfect television.
However, Big Brother was a failed experiment, and I know why: They don’t use music. I never knew what was going on. During key moments on The Real World, we are always instructed how to feel; if two people are playing chess to Soundgarden’s “Black Hole Sun,” I know their relationship is doomed; if they’re playing along with Sheryl Crow’s “Everyday Is a Winding Road,” I know they are mending fences and exploring a new level of companionship. But on Big Brother, there is never a musical subtext; in this particular instance, we’d merely see two hollow stoics moving rooks and knights, wholly devoid of sentiment.
Without a soundtrack, human interaction is meaningless. I once spent an evening chatting about the complexity of modern relationships with a male acquaintance, his ex-girlfriend, and her roommate. When I went to bed that night, I thought our conversation had been wonderful. Twelve hours later, I was informed that the ex-girlfriend spent the entire evening “in a rage,” apparently because the other male in our foursome had been “brooding and surly,” creating a tension that subsequently made the ex-girlfriend’s roommate “completely uncomfortable” with the nature of our dialogue. I never noticed any of this. I never have any idea how other people feel; they always appear fine to me. But if somebody had pointedly played Pat Benatar’s “Love Is a Battlefield” that night, I’m sure I could have constructed some empathy.