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Michael Murray, The Ottawa Citizen
For a long time, I’ve ridiculed both the Wheel of Fortune and those who count themselves among its fans.
Some have claimed that I did so because I had a deep-rooted fear of wheels, but this is not the case. The truth is that I wanted people to think that I considered Wheel of Fortune just a lowbrow cousin to its more refined and sophisticated game-show cousin, Jeopardy.
Jeopardy was for gifted students, Wheel for the remedial.
At the start of Wheel, amidst a tumult of sound and fury, we watch as the wheel, as if designed to hypnotize us into some consumer trance, spins. Like zombies, people in the crowd slowly shout out, like they’re parsing a sentence: Wheel. Of. Fortune. I swear, it sounds like they’re just learning how to read. On the other hand, Jeopardy is erudite and mannered. People don’t jump up and down and go bananas at the sight of a glittering wheel and a few well-positioned trinkets. No, they keep their heads, make clever wagers and then answer questions about marine life.
Regardless, both shows, in one form or another, have been around forever. Jeopardy started in 1964, with Wheel of Fortune following in 1975. They’re not merely television institutions, but cultural ones too. You’d be hard-pressed to find somebody who didn’t grow up, if not watching the shows, then at least making fun of them.
When you sit down and think about the imprint these shows have made on popular culture, it’s utterly mind-blowing. Believe it or not, there was a time back in the ’80s when something called “Vannamania” was in full force.
Vanna White, host Pat Sajak’s letter-turning robot on Wheel of Fortune, was a huge celebrity. I always thought that this was in large part ironic, as she really didn’t do anything, but it hardly matters. She had a best-selling autobiography and was the subject of a Weird Al Yankovic song. However, all this hysteria receded after her truly appalling turn in the made-for-TV movie Goddess of Love, which forced her to retreat back to her role as a toothy American television icon.
Perhaps it’s always been my dark secret, but I think the truth is that I always preferred Wheel of Fortune to Jeopardy. I wanted people to think that I related to the cerebral quiz show, but in fact I was a sucker for the visceral rush of Wheel. As trashy and exciting as a day at the Ex, Wheel featured an unbelievably garish set, insanely amplified crowd sounds and the sort of cruise-ship music you might imagine your grandparents dancing to. Contestants said things like “M as in Mary” to clarify the letters they chose, and whenever they guessed wrong, were subject to the loud, grating buzz of failure. Not only that, but there was a huge, spinning wheel, too!
Back before 1987, when they changed the format so that the winners received money, Wheel of Fortune was famous for contestants having to buy with their winnings the “fabulous and exciting merchandise” that was spread out on the stage. With the contestants disembodied head floating above the prizes on our television screen, we listened as they breathlessly, as if running out of time, pointed out everything they wanted to purchase.
This segment was like a vivid illustration of a consumer culture skidding out of control. The prizes were never anything you’d actually want or need, but were mostly just clutter. This didn’t matter, however, and in a blind panic of spending, the winner would inevitably buy a set of ceramic Dalmatians and a brass cocktail table, with the money left over being put on a gift certificate, usually at the mysterious Service Merchandise.
Wheel also has the added bonus of allowing the viewer to feel superior to the people on the show. Often, the answer to a puzzle is glaringly obvious, but to the poor contestant, who’s not standing up well to the pressure of television, it remains a mystery, and they end up guessing The Great Ball of China, rather than The Great Wall of China.
Merciless Jeopardy offers no such solace for the viewer. We’re never superior to the contestants, and watching juggernauts like Ken Jennings tear through the competition was demoralizing rather than entertaining. Alex Trebek is about as likable as a high school vice-principal. Stiff and far from friendly, he always seems to take altogether too much pleasure in the artificial authority the show bestows upon him. Growing up, I watched him every night after dinner, shouting out the answers — in question form — hoping to impress my father with my encyclopedic knowledge.
CBC, which is home to the familiar for most of us, has secured the broadcast rights to both Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, and began airing them this week. Although the corporation lost the theme song to Hockey Night in Canada, it has brought on board two iconic programs with a history that sometimes feels like it predates television. Now, we can watch Wheel before dinner, the CBC news at dinner, and Jeopardy after dinner. Who knows — maybe this will become just as Canadian as hockey on a Saturday night?
Of course, at this point, the appeal of these shows isn’t that they’re particularly entertaining or even fun to play along with, but that they’re familiar. They’re part of the landscape that we’ve grown up in, and as such they’re easy, in all their kitschy glory, to take for granted. They’re comfort food, like pot roast and mashed potatoes.
It feels kind of corny to admit, but I always associate these game shows with my family, remembering the easy, indirect way we’d communicate through them. I rarely watch the shows now, but every once in a while I find myself subconsciously drifting toward them. I think that I do this when I’m homesick, when I want to return to a safe time and place, and, just like after my parents prepared a home-cooked meal for me, be a child once again, and hang out with them in the living room.