Phocus Insights - thoughts from Rodney Collins

A Trip to Westfield

I did the unthinkable.  It's the day after Christmas, and I decided to brave the biggest shopping mall in Europe in order to take advantage of the great sales that have been advertised.  To say the place was mobbed would be an understatement.

As I walked into the mall, my foot was run over by a mother pushing a pram with her toddler inside.  "So sorry", she said to me in a voice laced with an accent that sound vaguely Russian.  "No problem," I responded.  I continued on as I searched for a suitable hat to wear to replace the ski hat I've been donning since losing my hunter's cap three weeks ago.  "Are the hats part of the sale too?",  I asked the salesperson in front of me.  'Yes, of course. Everything in the store.", she replied with an accent showing a possibly German heritage, maybe Scandanavian.

I continued on into Pal Zileri.  It's a men's store with stylish clothing that is often a bit garish, but when they get it right they really get it right.  I was being pursued endlessly by a zealous salesperson who encouraged me to try on everything I touched.  "The sizes are European," he divulged in a manner slightly annoying for stating the obvious.  Given that it's an Italian label, I had assumed that the salesperson's dark manicured look was of Southern Italian or Sicilian extraction. However, his accent made me think that he might be middle-eastern in origin.  I left the store with nothing wondering if I would come back for a slightly over-styled sweater.  Of course, I didn't go back for it.

Finally, I went to the top of the mall to take a look at the cinema for future reference.  'Can I help you with anything?", asked the attendant who looked like she might have been from China or Indonesia but who spoke with a decidedly Southeast London accent.  "Just looking," I explained a bit embarrassed about being in a cinema without really wanting to see a film. 

I had gone shopping in West London but ended up taking a trip around the world.

London, I love you.

Clybourne Park: a review

Think of it as a variation on a theme.  In Bruce Norris's play, Clybourne Park, the dramatic plot begins with a stock portrayal of oft-glorified 1950's suburban America.  A white middle class family is packing to move house.  The family is cheerful to the point of nausea. Their black maid and her husband are going above and beyond to help.  All is well in the Park to begin with but then things begin to unravel. We learn that the family is moving to escape a recent trauma.  Neighbours and the local pastor arrive to express their concern for the family and their discomfort with the fact that their house is being purchased by a black family - the neighbourhood's second showing the beginning of a trend.  The black maid and her husband express their discomfort with being dragged into the middle of an ensuing argument. Clybourne Park hurriedly becomes the prelude to 1960's Watts in Los Angeles or 1980's Brixton in London.  The strife is both intra- and interracial.

What makes Clybourne Park different is that it follows the racial life cycle of the house from white to black to white again.  The second act begins with a housing association meeting being run by middle class black leaders who are interviewing a white middle class couple wanting to purchase the very same house decades later.  Clever, but is it too clever to sustain an audience for 2 hours?

I think Norris is onto something here but not because of his recognisable portrayal of inner city transformations.  The true genius is in how he deftly demonstrates the overlapping nature of social 'isms'.  In the second act, initial charges of racism lead quickly to accusations of sexism, homophobia, and expressions of religious intolerance belying the truth that goes unspoken in the play but that manages to come through loudly and clearly. 

Racism, sexism, homophobia and religious intolerance are merely symptoms of unsuccessful attempts to bury the anxiety produced by the vulnerability that we all share in being human.  It's the 1950's family's failure to process their trauma that forces them to sell the house and results in neighbour being pitted against neighbour.  It's the white-on-black, black-on-white fear of losing one's way of life that causes each to lash out against one another.  It's a white character's discomfort with interacting with his future black neighbour that leads to his poorly-timed racially-tinged joke.  It's the decades of repressed anger that causes a black woman character to unabashedly and callously forgo an offer to unite over gender and instead attack her white female neighbour-to-be.  The message is clear. Because we don't express our anxieties and process them on a day-to-day basis, we're doomed to find others on whom to project them.

If I were to criticise the play at all, it would be in its failure to attack the veracity of categories we use to divide ourselves.  Nowadays, it seems a bit dated for white and black to attack one another with such little appreciation for shared ground.  Also, Norris, a white-American playwright, could have been a bit more balanced in his portrayal of bigotry.  Blacks came across largely as victimised beings with reactive anger.  I think there's much about black anger that isn't reactive but instead an expression of individual existential crisis.  Blacks are people too that struggle and make mistakes like anyone would. However, overall this was an enjoyable and edifying night at the theatre.

Kudos to Dominic Cooke, director of the play and Artistic Director of the Royal Court Theatre.  Cooke created a highly synchronised and well-cast piece to be remembered.  

I did it

Taking responsibility is an absolute.  It's an act that can't really be apportioned.  It can't really be shared. More than one person may be responsible, but each must accept his or her role without limitation in order to make it through whole. Attempts to limit responsibility's reach work against the spirit of this noble act and tend to doom the accused. 

The half-repentant dooms himself by squandering an opportunity to redress current wrongs; he's also doomed by the likelihood that the avoided emotional consequences of the mistake will resurface without full emotional processing of its effects. The emotional guilt, sorrow, and shame attached to the act are likely to resurface in any number of ways.  The Freudian slip, the misplaced burst of anger, the sleepless night all tell the accused that his work is not done; he becomes a walking time bomb, seemingly in control, but held captive by the dormant and unresolved internal conflict waiting to break through.

Sure, blaming the other guy helps to get through the pain of the day.  If the pain is great enough, scapegoating is understandable.  If the immediate pain is minimal, we often deride the scapegoater - immature, laughable, disappointing come to mind. But, maybe we should be a bit more understanding of the casual scapegoater, as well. Sure, the instant case may be minimal in its offence and consequences, but the casual scapegoater carries with him the pain of numerous other acts of scapegoating that can make for an emotionally crippling load.  Let's not forget, as well, that the serial scapegoating started for a reason.  Somehwere along the line the perpetrator was damaged seriously enough to invoke this, one of the most basic forms of psychological defence, with debilitating frequency. Sympathy might be appropriate. Supportive counsel about the problematic behaviour certainly is in order to break the cycle  - because taking responsibility is an absolute.

Most are capable. Some are not, yet.  But, if it's to be done, It has to be done all the way.  It's best for the scapegoater's would-be target.  It's best for all involved.

Death in Numbers

The area's MP, Jamie Reed, said: "Things like this don't happen around here." Visibly shaken, he added: "What is happening is completely beyond our experience." 

Excerpt from article regarding the Bradford prostitute killings

 - Andrew Hough, Telegraph.co.uk; May 27, 2010

For those of you that haven't noticed, 2010 is a year that will go down in British history as one of the worst ever for spree killings.  First, there was the capture of Stephen Griffiths who allegedly killed up to six prostitutes in Bradford. Then, Derrick Bird apparently committed suicide after killing 12 people in the naturally wondrous Lake District.  Finally, Roaul Moat also decided to take his own life after killing his former partner, her new partner, and a police officer.  Even harder to believe is  that these events all came to a head within a period of shortly more than a month.

Has the world gone mad?  Is there any way to gauge when this will happen again and who will be the next perpetrator, the next victim?  The short answer to these questions is no.  Although I don't believe life is as random as many make out, being able to call when a troubled individual is at the tipping point - one traffic ticket, one insult, one infidelity away from mass homicide - is a difficult task.  Several noteworthy points have emerged from these terrible tragedies, however.

First, it seems apparent that these men could not contain their inner turmoil any longer and felt compelled to project it onto the rest of the world.  Bird's dissatisfaction with a family will and Moat's anguish over his ex-partner's new relationship were probably final straws placed on lives built on brittle identities that couldn't withstand another let down. In the end, the world had to be turned into a uniformly blank screen on which to project their furore.  The innocent, the unknown became the guilty with lightning speed because the external world had to be modified to form an appropriate canvas on which to paint the ugliness that smouldered within the men's bodies and minds.  Even Bird, who ostensibly targeted his victims, seemed to conflate all past transgressions into one capital category of resolution.  One could easily dismiss this behaviour as the domain of the criminally insane, but the same process underlies the homophobia, racism, classism, and sexism of daily life.  I don't think any of us escape its use.  So, in this way, I think the MP in the quote above is wrong.  Violent serial murder may not be an everyday occurrence, but the mechanism which underlies it certainly is.

Secondly, it's not lost on me that each of the three people discussed is male.  It makes me wonder.  Are men biologically determined to react to extreme stress with aggression?  Or, is it the social construction of manhood, and its internalisation with little thought, that is responsible for murderous rampage?  A third possibility - the answer is a combination of both biology and the social definition of masculinity.  I don't know the answer.  I just think it's time to start learning from these horrible displays of manhood and to begin to create a new masculinity which is more sensitive to the pains of the suffering bruiser and nebbish loner alike.

Finally, the compressed time period in which the events occurred makes me wonder if there's something special about the past months or year which has concentrated the violence.  Can we implicate the economy's decline, the shift in political landscape to the right in the UK, or some other factor of note?  My gut says no.  If such a factor does exist, it's simply a catalyst and not the cause of this year's terrible violence.  Even so, there may be lessons to be learned.  There's clearly an unmet demand for psychological services in Britain that seems unlikely to be met anytime soon given the nation's debt crisis.'  Perhaps, there's also a need for us to collectively take greater stock in the warning signs that our loved ones, friends, and neighbours may be displaying when they're struggling.

Yes. Ultimately, it's noticing and addressing the difficulties of others in our communities that has the best chance of preventing social violence.  It's within our power.  It's in our best interest.

Summer Time

It always seems to creep up on me.  Sometimes, I don’t discover its existence for a full day.  It makes me aware of the advance of time, of the vulnerability of the universe to human manipulation, and of the truth that the darkest days of life are finite in number.

This year I became aware of British Summer Time when someone warned me not to be late for a Sunday appointment as the clocks were to be moved forward.  Last year, I had been ill in bed on the day of the time change, so the following Monday was comprised of one challenge after another as I struggled to figure out why I was out of sync with the rest of the world.   Television programmes weren’t on when expected. There seemed to be more activity on the streets than usual when I started my early morning sojourn, and people I would see everyday looked at me with puzzlement as I dared to vary my routine without offering an explanation.

The moment of revelation brings about mixed emotions.  There’s the embarrassment of being so out of touch with what everyone else on the continent seemed to take in stride. There’s the joy of realising that bright summer evenings are just around the corner.  There’s also the hope that the winter chill will soon leave the air.  But to be honest, there’s a frustration over the decision of ‘the powers that be’ to meddle with the universe and, in the process, place my equilibrium at risk.

Yes, yes.  I’m aware that the time change saves energy by requiring less artificial light and has economic benefits for some industries able to capitalise on the increased evening sun.  But, it also seems to me that whatever is gained in the spring and summer is taken back in the autumn and winter when we return to British Standard Time. And deep down, there seems to be this gnawing feeling in me that we’re tinkering with something so basic that it’s probably not a very good idea.  Ok, the sky won’t fall, but it might just cloud up more often just to spite us. 

But as I think about it, I’m probably overreacting.  Thinking of the year as this inevitable and static pattern of light and dark fails to honour the ability that human beings have to impact the world around them in a mutually beneficial way.  Global warming may be our eventual undoing, but the bright ideas our ancestors had to turn wooden branches into clarinets, to irrigate dry land with diverted streams for subsistence agriculture, and to create national parks to limit the damage of uncontrolled human sprawl seem to be worth the meddling.

One has to choose when to go it alone and when to follow the herd – staying on Standard time when everyone else is on Summer time makes no sense.  One has to decide when the natural should be tinkered with and when it should be left alone – the benefits of Summer Time seem to outweigh the inconvenience of physically moving the clocks twice per year.  One must be sufficiently in touch with the world to know when change is necessary and be forgiving enough of self when one lags behind.  After all, getting in sync with the world again sometimes takes only a moment's revelation.

 

Venables

'I don't think we went wrong as parents at all. He has had more love and attention than a lot of children I know. He has been educated. He has never really been what you would call a sagger off school (a truant). He has had his holidays like everyone else. He has had Christmas presents…Contrary to what the papers will tell you, he is not a little urchin boy. He is far from it. He has had security with loving parents and a loving brother and sister.'

Mr Venables said that the two boys had played truant together four times before, adding that he caught them twice. On one occasion, he said, Robert ran off down the street laughing, 'You can't catch me'.

‘He is easily led. He didn't want to hurt James. He was fearful of the other boy. He was fearful, he was weak and he was provoked.’

Mrs Venables said: 'I think it was because the class group was too big for them to go in . . . so they were put in a lower year.  I think my son's concentration wasn't the way it should have been, but he wasn't slow. He's quite bright and clever. He's a good reader if he's interested in it.’

'He tends to be a bit hyperactive so his concentration did go a bit, but apart from that he is quite bright, no worries.'

The couple, who also have a 13- year-old son, who has learning difficulties…

Above excerpts taken from :The Bulger Murder: Jon was 'fearful, weak, and he was provoked': In interviews with the Press Association, the parents of Jon Venables and Robert Thompson talk about their sons, The Independent UK,Thursday, 25 November 1993

 

Some see him as a monster.  His parents see him as just another kid.  Jon Venables, now 27, was the vicious killer of toddler, James Bulger, when Venables himself was only ten.  Venables has caught public attention once again because of his re-arrest for reasons unknown and an apparent disregard for the sanctity of his new identity.  I’m interested in the above comments of Jon Venables’ parents for two reasons.  First is the everlasting debate over whether our identities are formed due to nature or nurture, i.e., are we predetermined biologically with respect to characteristics like personality, or does personality form as a result of the environment in which we’re reared?  The second reason relates to the manner in which childhood has been constructed in the modern era.

The above quotes give two clues to the potential role of nature in Venable's demise.  First, there is the mention of hyperactivity.  Many feel that hyperactivity disorders have a biological component that children can do little to control on their own and that responds well to specific stimulant medication.  Such hyperactivity may include a difficulty to curb impulses that makes one more prone to violent outburst.  The above quotes hint at a lack of attention and concentration more than impulsivity, however: ‘He’s a good reader if he’s interested.’   The second clue for a biological role stems from the older brother of Venables with learning difficulties.  One simply cannot say that one child with learning difficulties means that a second child is likely to have them, as well.  However, the question remains whether one brother with learning difficulties increases the likelihood that the second will have difficulties for biological reasons.

 

Nurture is represented in abundance within the parents’ statements.   The Venables discuss their love for their son, the support of his siblings, and the boy's attainment of education.  There is little reason to doubt this love.  Less clear is the nature and magnitude of the expression of the love, as well as the quality of the education received.  Love and education are very relative things.  Within the span of one interview the Venables contradict themselves with respect to the truancy of Jon – never having been a ‘sagger’ but also having missed school on four noted occasions with his accomplice in the crime, Robert Thompson.   It’s understandable that the pain of being the parent of such a high profile criminal would be so great that some element of denial would be invoked as a psychologically protective mechanism.  But, one may also wonder if such mixed messages were a common occurrence that added to the confusion of Jon Venables’ young mind.  Equally confusing is the explanation given for Venables being placed in a lower grade than usual.  Demotion due to a lack of space in Venable’s age appropriate class seems somewhat implausible, or if true, evidences limited action by the parents to safeguard their child’s education and social identity.  Add to this potential confusion the fearful social environment the parents describe and a picture begins to develop in which the young Venables probably lacked the security and consistency so crucial to the cohesive development of a self in children.  The chances are good that the Venables, like most parents would, presented a relatively rosy picture of their son's life.  A more comprehensive review of his youth might uncover even more environmental deficits of importance.  This brings us to our final area of discussion:  how is that we as a society have defined childhood, and how rigid is that definition?

 

It is generally regarded amongst sociologists that childhood, as we know it today, was fashioned after the Industrial Revolution in response to the abuses of childhood labour that marked the period.  Reactively, childhood became a safe-space where children were to be protected by family first and society where family fails.  Limited working hours, mandatory schooling minimums, and protections from emotional and physical abuse are all a part of the revised construct.  But this new-fangled definition seems to have its critics.  Some argue that youths as violent as Venables do not deserve the protections of modern childhood with its presumption of innocence and tolerance for the errors of youth.  When do we diverge from the liberality of modern childhood, if ever?

 

Wherever one stands on the issue, it seems clear that the response must be based on newly fashioned incarnations of the nature-nurture debate.  Epigenetics, for example, provides an alternative to this rigid dichotomy by examining whether biology and the environment interact to produce the individual.  In essence, epigenetics argues that the environment is able to impact biological structure by activating and deactivating genetic predispositions for traits like personality.   We are neither this nor that but, instead, are this and that.  Venables is a murderer because of who he is and who we are.  If he is to blame, we are to blame.   If so, it begs the question.   If he went to trial, should we have gone too?

The Mirror that is Facebook

Here’s one to place in the better late than never category. I joined Facebook this month, and life will never be the same. Don’t get the wrong idea.  This big event hasn’t been an unmitigated success.  I’ve spent much too much time playing on the website.  I’ve had to painfully condense about 25 years of life into predetermined categories that don’t do the trick, and I’ve also had to ponder which of the many faces of Rodney were to be shown in the photo section.  My only solace has been that others have had to play by the same annoyingly reductive rules. 

There’s also the complexity of re-engaging with those to whom you haven’t spoken in decades.  One sometimes wonders if old friends cringe when your new request to become ‘electronic friends’ is received.  And,  I imagine one cringes, as well, as the person  one did one’s best to avoid decades ago sends a message with an offer to reconnect.  But, without a doubt, a missing piece to the puzzle of my identity has been located.  In the process, I’ve both rediscovered and rewritten my childhood.  It seems that the good in individuals lingers in memory and whatever difficulties existed previously have become trivial.  Prior relationship infidelities, betrayals of trust, and the pain of hardbound cliques give way to a realisation that perspectives have changed, more important priorities exist, and good friendships, like those of youth, are hard to come by as an adult and should be respected.  But, hanging on to past links is sometimes easier said than done.

Those living far away from where they grew up might be aware of the ambivalent feelings attached to the periodic return ‘home’ – be it in person or via the web.  The joy of re-connecting with friends is real, but so is the realisation that you’ve slipped back into your old place in the youth social structure despite years ‘abroad’ doing everything possible to move away from it.  There’s also the realisation that recreating the past doesn’t work.  Longing for the closeness that once made early friendships great, you also dismay at the emotional and intellectual realization that the lives of your friends and you have developed along irreconcilable paths.   Children, money, educational attainment, geography have become wedges that pry apart those who were once almost social clones.

Let’s not forget the apprehension of the unknown:

How are your parents? (Ooops, are they still alive?)  How’s your partner that I met at the reunion? (Hmm. I hope they’re still married.)  You were such a great writer. What are you doing now? (What have I said? Didn’t someone tell me she became an engineer?)

The apprehension felt in delivering an inappropriate question belies our unease with the slate of innocent queries that could dismantle our own house of glass cards.  Divorces, career difficulties, financial difficulties, all become fair game for those that are unknowing about who we have become. 

Facebook has given me back my youth, but it has also exposed me to the vulnerabilities of my present.  My present is largely mine to shape…as long as it fits into the Facebook template.  Our lives are never solely how we view them.  There’s always a filter through which others view who we have become. 

How do we become at ease with the multiple valid perspectives on our identity that exist? Or, actually, should we even care?

'Up in the Air'

What can I say? If George Clooney is in the film, I make sure to give it a go.  And after his performance in 'Up in the Air', I'll be certain to continue going to see him.  In the film, Clooney plays a character so isolated and rife with contradiction that he encapsulates well the dilemmas of the life of the present day travelling professional, and by extension, many of us in the 21st century.

Clooney's character, Bingham, is a hatchet man for hire who's responsible for making personnel redundant at any one of his various corporate clients.  He's an outsider who sweeps in, delivers a questionably sincere 'goodbye and thank you for your services' message and flies off to his next assignment with little time for reflection.  The film is powerful, not so much because of the view we get of corporate firings, but because of the insight we get into the price Bingham pays for severing his ties to other people so that he may do his work with so little discomfort.  But, to be honest, when we see Bingham within the context of his sibling relationships, it is clear that his isolated approach to life pre-dated his job.  Bingham chooses a career that allows him to rely on few, have 'romantic' relationships by diary in cities across the country, and spend as little time as possible in the office with others because it suits who he is.

It's a funny thing though.  It all begins to unravel when Bingham chooses to re-engage with his siblings for his sister's wedding.  In the process, he ironically saves the day with his professionally-honed counsel when the groom gets the obligatory cold feet.  Bingham also gets a glimpse into what he has been missing in life as he witnesses their heart-rending reconciliation.

We can run, but we can't avoid connections with other human beings.  The randomness of life - weddings, deaths, accidents, job losses - ensures that our perfectly constructed defences against intimacy and the risks it imposes will crack at some point.  And the pain that follows when the defences fail is a boon, as well as an uncomfortable consequence.  Pain's upside is the alert we receive that change on some level is necessary.  A job loss means immediate financial worries, but it also invites an opportunity to change career paths or upgrade to a better position.  The marriage of someone close reminds us of our solitude, but the event also affirms that our presence has meaning to others and should not be taken for granted.

Bingham's life falls apart in just about every way from the moment he takes a step back into the world of the emotionally alive. But, the beauty is that as the artificial structures he built over the years begin to fall away, he is left with a base that is badly battered but real and able to serve as a platform for a new life with relationships that are uncertain and unpredictable, yet meaningful and rewarding.  

Again, it all started with risking the pain of emotion.  For if we want the joy of life, we have to be willing to risk the pain. 

Alexander McQueen

It goes without saying that all deaths have profound meaning. A life that has ended leaves behind a hole in the social fabric felt by family, friends, and casual acquaintances alike.

When someone in the public eye dies, that hole stretches a bit wider.  More times than not, we all identify with notable figures in some way - sometimes peripherally, other times more meaningfully.  Add to the mix a death by apparent suicide of someone with rare talent and the hole becomes a jagged tear.

I knew very little about Alexander McQueen except for what I gleaned from the occasional glance at his shirts and suits as I shopped from time to time.  The words that come to mind are 'colourful', 'vivid', and 'stylishly cut' when I think of ways to describe his creations.  McQueen designed with a structured whimsy that was hard not to notice and was even harder not to appreciate.  I never thought once about buying any of his clothes.  They were too expensive and a bit too 'out there' for me.  But, I did enjoy those fleeting moments of examining his work on the rack.  He was expert at displaying the buried insides of men on the outside.

In reflecting on his death, two things come to mind.

First, the circumstances of his demise demonstrate that the notion of the self-contained individual is fantasy.  Each and every one of us is a part of a web of social contacts that help to contextualise and define us as human beings.  Although I don't know it for a fact, it is likely that McQueen was troubled by life before the death of his mother.  Her death, however, meant that a psychological pillar had been removed, and the associated pain was, perhaps, too much for him to bear.  In reality, the psychological pillar represented by his mother was still there in one form or another.  After loved ones die, their influence on our lives is still an internalised part of us capable of providing support and guidance through life's difficulties.  How many of us have recalled wise words offered by a grandparent, parent or significant person from our past who is no longer around when faced with a difficult situation?

The difficulty with bereavement is that the natural process of mourning takes an extended period of time and forces us to live with the immediate pain in the interim.  Depression intensifies this experience since it can envelop us and distort our sense of time in a way that extends the pain of the here-and-now into perpetuity.  The notion of riding out the pain succumbs to a need for immediate relief to quell its sharp edge.  Some in deep despair turn to alcohol, cocaine, and other substances.  Others, unfortunately, choose a more immediate and permanent response.

The second thought that McQueen's death inspires is that when it comes to personal happiness it's what we think about ourselves that matters and not what others think of us.  Few in his field were as revered, and McQueen still had decades ahead of him to place his imprint on fashion and contemporary culture.  However, in the end it wasn't enough. 

We owe it to ourselves to make sure that we work hard to value who we are, what we've done, and what our future may bring.

I extend to his family, friends, and colleagues my deepest sympathies.  We've all lost a truly gifted individual.

Go Dine with Them

I can’t for the life of me figure out why I’m so hooked on the TV programme, ‘Come Dance with Me.’  To begin with, it’s so completely staged.  Trust me.  Anything left in one’s wardrobe for the programme’s television cameras to see is either too dull to mention or a plant to show how cleverly eccentric one is.  It also makes no sense that television is used as a medium to watch others judge the quality of food.  We can’t taste it. We can’t smell it.  We can’t even evaluate whether those tasting it and smelling it are doing so accurately.  Or, can we?

I think this is the hook.  By examining the way others speak, the way they dress, the way they get along with strangers, we make assumptions about how accurately they assess the cuisine but, more importantly, who they are as people.  When we hear their profession and ogle the gaudy décor of their homes, we decide one way or another if they’re ‘one of us’.  Every pan of the camera provides another clue to help determine whom we favour. 

And, if there’s a bit of friction between contestants or a spark of potential romance, well, the voyeur in all of us doesn’t mind being fed as well.

The programme lays bare the basic group dynamics of life.  We observe firsthand the difficulties we all face in overcoming assumptions about strangers with whom we’re forced to share time and space.  We identify with the contestant who seems to be the odd person out and never manages to meld with the other contestants.  We’re roiled by the contestant who penalises our favourite competitor out of spite instead of merit.  We champion the contestant who wins despite initial scepticism.

We see ourselves in their glory and embarrassment and, at the end of the day, applaud them for being themselves –truly themselves - in front of a camera for the entire world to see.