It's Greek To Me: The Paternity Test

November 17, 2006

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In an age of manipulated, polished reality television where even the most boring folk seem positively witty, and the most benign situations appear action packed, I long for the old days. The simplicity of unfettered, unedited emotion, the kind that can't be doctored in post-production.

These days I can only find drama like that in one place: in the pure horror of the Paternity Test a la "Maury Povich." It is gruesome, and yet I cannot resist. Call it television rubbernecking.

It's a modern day Greek tragedy in two minute segments, complete with the wronged ladies splaying themselves on the ground in a pool of tears -- microphone packs be damned -- as the blood-thirsty spectators cheer from the amphitheater seats.

Our friends at Maury Povich (among many many others) have preempted their guests' futile attempts to escape the arena when the game goes awry (and let's be honest, when do they go well?). Talk show set designers are no fools, they’ve built elaborate backstage labyrinths without an escape, fully lit for the cameras and furnished just enough so that the wronged party (or parties) can fling themselves onto a couch.

The props masters on these shows have clearly been careful to remove anything from these areas, so that nothing can be flung at the baby-daddy. Or newly cleared non-baby-daddy. Or the new fiance of the baby-daddy. Or the best man of the wedding-that-will-never-be-now-that-the-baby-isn't-his-daddy.

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