In Xarabank’s obituaries I keep reading that the greatest pity is how it suddenly left us – axed after Robert Abela, as Labour leadership candidate, put the black spot on its forehead. But the obituarists hasten to assure us that while the political murder is regretted, the victim will not be missed. We’re told Xarabank contributed greatly to the dumbing down of public discourse.
Dumbing down? Down? From which high point? The steeple where, 60 years ago, bells were rung to drown out the speeches of political opponents? The buses, 40 years ago, carrying partisan vandals to torch their opponents’ clubs?
Are we just referring to broadcasting? Perhaps, then, the critics are nostalgic for the critical thinking displayed in the learned TV values programme, in 1978, with the panel of sages faced with the puzzle of a pope who died after a mere 33 days in office. What could it mean? Never tongue-tied before God’s mysterious ways, here they truly were nonplussed – until, as the credits were rolling, the Capuchin friar had a eureka moment and exclaimed that the late sainted pope’s divine function had been to show that God wanted a pope just like him.
In that period, a thoughtful centre-left politician could write an opinion piece justifying why the husband had to be the unique head of household – and think highly enough of that column to reproduce it in his book collection some time later.
Only two decades later were women made co-heads. By then, public broadcasting was reformed, there were better programmes, but you could still have a prime time discussion programme where one panellist, a venerable academic, could opine that homosexuals should be jailed.
Times had changed enough for the presenter and a fellow panellist to turn on him incredulously. But it took Xarabank, only 20 years ago, to fill an auditorium with gay men, unmasked and vocal. (It was still a time when only one lesbian agreed to appear – not coincidentally, raised abroad.)
Yes, that was the programme in which a retired chief justice was sometimes drowned out by the audience. Boos are not Socratic dialogue. But they are eloquent and they’re not necessarily dumb.
They are not dumb in a literal sense. For the first time, gay men could talk back publicly as a group. Pundits had to face and respond to the people whose experience they purported to sum up.
Xarabank tried to represent the full range of opinions on an issue- Ranier Fsadni
Acquiring a voice is the first step in developing consciousness. Being able to put things into words for the first time, to represent yourself in a way that seems more faithful to your experience, is a dramatic moment in anyone’s life.
No wonder that so many people were changed by a Xarabank programme. Not just gay men who stopped hating themselves. There are also the people who, after watching the programme on mental illness last year, flooded the Richmond Foundation with requests, multiple times over their average.
And, in the years in between, so many other categories of people have been changed. The smokers who phoned a clinic the day after the programme. The people whose doubts about EU membership were dissolved. The donors to Puttinu Cares (Xarabank can take credit for the majority of flats bought) and the house for ALS sufferers.
The frequent comparison to The Jerry Springer Show isn’t just unfair. It’s idiotic – even after you take into account the Xarabank programmes about the devil, sexual foibles and, inevitably, Ġiġa.
Jerry Springer took stories of vicious family feuds and showcased them as garish private tragicomedies, where the only outlet was violence, walk outs and taunts from the audience.
Xarabank took private troubles and explored their public dimension. The people subjected to the ordeal were authorities whose policies were questioned. Could divorce or a law permitting an official change of gender make a difference? Why not?
Xarabank’s reputation for dumbing down in part stems from the ability of its iconic presenter, Peppi Azzopardi, to sound like a four-year-old, forever asking why. But Peppi’s studied naivety obliged authorities to put into words what they hoped we could let go without saying – because their policy was either based on brutal assessments, or didn’t match the facts, or the result of blind loyalty.
The dumbing down is also attributed to the audience members standing up to say their piece. The critics say that this made all opinions sound equal. Not exactly.
Xarabank tried to represent the full range of opinions on an issue, irrespective of how popular it was. That was, if anything, dumbing up. It assaulted the notion that any issue could be translated into the party political divide. It opened up new possibilities.
It was dumbing up in a second sense. In the early years, audience members rambled, telling stories, rather than giving opinions or asking pointed questions. As time passed, however, one could see a difference.
People still told stories – but then added their reflection on how their experience was more general. Others learnt how to transform a story into an argument. You did not need to think much of an argument to see it was of public interest.
The numbers confirm it. At its height, Xarabank could draw an audience of almost half the population on a Friday night. The stratospheric figures were due to its ability to be compulsive even for people who considered it a horror show. It adapted to changing generations and survived the decline of TV as medium, with some of its Facebook features racking up over 100,000 views. Unlike many discussion programmes, it could move people into action.
Let this be its epitaph. Xarabank: it dumbed nothing down but its critics.