The X Factor is the King of TV talent contests and has been since its inception. It stands now as an evolved animal: earlier forms of its species have been forgotten, but deliciously and nostalgically remembered as markers of time. *Pop Idol flashback* to Ant and Dec looking slightly trimmer, their nineties hairstyles emblems of how far fashion has come and at the same time subtle warnings that serve to make us ominously aware of our self-presentation now. Everybody remembers who they voted for in the Will vs Gareth final and I find myself still angrily defending my choice despite not having bought a single copy of Will Young’s Evergreen. It’d seem that for many people like myself, who grew up in a house that idly endorsed rather than prohibited trashy Saturday night television, TV singing competitions have and remain, for lack of a less-used cliché, a ‘guilty pleasure’.
Despite my decreasing belief in the integrity of shows that sell and crush people’s dreams like manufactured goods for the sole purpose of increasing Simon Cowell’s bank balance, my stomach felt secure in the knowing that I was aware that what I was watching depleted brain-cells and I was aware that the judges had executive producers in their ears policing their every decision. As far as I was concerned, although the format and name had changed, the same show had been on our screens since the early noughties and we had willingly entered into a contract with ITV in which we accepted our status as deceived consumers on the condition that they 1) let us listen to some good singers and 2) provide people to root for and laugh at.
However, the introduction of the 6 chair challenge where contestants have to sing in order to gain a space in the competition marked a shift from a brutal but watchable declaration of defeat into a sadistic process of emotional uncertainty: dreams are literally given and then taken away from you in split seconds. People were swapped in and swapped out of the competition as mere items of clothing subject to deliberation behind the scenes of a fashion show. And as if this turmoil wasn’t enough, X Factor producers decided to be extra-creative this year and add in a live-show reveal of the Judges’ houses decisions. The nation watched on as acts sat on the stage, cruelly left in suspense, re-watching themselves on the big screen as the uninspired (and at times downright inept) pairing of Olly Murs and Caroline Flack encouraged the audience to chant their thoughts out in a blur of incoherent heckling that wouldn’t be out of place at a Christmas pantomime.
The new judge line-up of Rita Ora and Nick Grimshaw redeems the show only in adding (ironically!) a touch of youth and experience to what was an aged and out-of-touch panel last year. But the fact that they are current and have sage musical insights doesn’t redeem their readiness to buy into the process of humiliation now at the forefront of what was once a less exhibitionist show. Indeed, last Sunday, Rita Ora shamelessly defied her- up until that point, borderline religious endorsement of arguably the shows most interesting contestant, Sean Miley Moore- in favour of the less-gifted but more contentious Mason Noise. This sent the public vote to dead-lock, adding drama to what should have been a very simple musical decision.
It does not escape me that such tropes are expected of shows now, and the contestants are aware of these expectations when they enter the competition, but the boundaries between entertainment and what is just “too far” are being blurred to the point that I forget that I am watching a talent competition and instead feel as if I have been teleported back in time to the Gladiatorial Arena.