The X-Factor is in its tenth season, but does anyone care anymore? Lina Katwala gives you some reasons why you should
The X Factor. It’s like Marmite, either you love it or you hate it. Most years I have the same feelings towards it as I do towards Marmite: pure hatred.
Nicholas McDonald, one of this year’s favourites Image Credit: ITV
However this year, unfortunately, me and my housemates have become completely obsessed with it. For those of you who don’t watch the current season, we’ve passed the stage where delusional folk who think they can sing travel across the country just to be ridiculed on national television, instead, our Saturday nights now consist of a cocktail mixing: live performances by the finalists, public voting and cameos by artists in the charts at the moment (whose album adverts suspiciously appear in the commercial breaks just after they’ve been on). You get the drill.
There are six remaining acts, and the favourites to win are soulful-voiced Sam Bailey and sweet sixteen-year-old Nicolas, however my personal preference is Luke Friend, a college student with a gravelly voice from our very own Devon (yay!)
Others include group Rough Copy, the gorgeous Tamera Foster, and Hannah, who despite having an incredible voice has been placed in the bottom two (the two acts who receive the least votes) twice, possibly due to her incessant sobbing in the first few weeks.
Devon’s own, Luke Friend. although apparently he’s cut his hair, travesty! Image Credit: ITV
There are a few reasons why the X Factor hasn’t quite scored top marks: the fact that it’s essentially a popularity contest, the unnecessary stage garnishing, Nicole Sherzinger making up words (such as sha-mazing), and the judges using the same or very similar phrases when describing performances – you may recognise: ‘110%’, ‘the best performer (insert county name) has ever seen’ and ‘you’re like a young (insert singer name)’, but these just mean you can turn watching the X Factor into a drinking game
So overall, yes I will admit it’s got me hooked. If you don’t fancy the Lemmy one Saturday between now and the final (14th December) then I would definitely recommend having a watch.
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With the weekend almost here, and in the wake of Columnist William Cafferky’s article slating talent shows, which you can read here, Georgia Franks delves deeper into the world of talent television, discussing just how dreadful The X-Factor really is.
So already, it is that time of year again. As the sun begins to set just that little bit too early and it becomes just that little bit too chilly to sit outside in the evenings, barbeques are stowed safely in garden sheds, summer sandals are pushed to the back of wardrobes across the country, and as the first leaves of autumn begin to fall we retreat back into our living rooms to bask in front of the warm glow of the television screen. And as we do so, we are heralded in by the booming crescendo of what can only be the unmistakably melodramatic voice of the X-Factor man announcing that, yes, The X-Factor has returned to our screens and that this time it will be bigger and better than ever. Well isn’t it always.
This year is the programme’s tenth anniversary, and what a long decade it has been. The X-Factor, like its fellow reality-show counter-parts, has the unique quality of making one believe that it is on all of the time. Similarly to Big Brother, I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here! and Britain’s Got Talent! – a claim I have begun to seriously question – The X-Factor is like a machine gone into overdrive, perpetually spewing out countless identikit ‘artists’, all of whom are over-produced, over-styled, over-managed and over-promoted. In fact, the only area that such artists fail to over-achieve in is talent.
Originally, The X-Factor’s main purpose was to provide family-friendly entertainment on a Saturday night whilst propelling one talented contestant to national – and occasionally international – stardom. Unfortunately for the past winners of The X-Factor, the concept of ‘one lucky contestant’ does not feature in Simon Cowell’s vocabulary. Indeed, the more recording artists that can be squeezed out of each series, the better for business (and of course, the better for Mr. Cowell’s colossal yacht). Those that finish in second, third and even fourth place are, more often than not, more successful than the winners themselves. Much to my chagrin, whilst it is easy to list now-famous X-Factor graduates that did not win – One Direction, Little Mix, JLS and Cher Lloyd to name a few – I actually had to google the names of previous winners. With Leona Lewis being the exception to this rule, I can only assume that you would have to be an X-Factor super-fan if you can remember the names of previous winners Steve Brookstein (2004), Shane Ward (2005), Leon Jackson (2007), Joe McElderry (2009) or Matt Cardle (2010).
Image Credits: BBC/AFP
Clearly, the only requirement for X-Factor success is a willingness to allow oneself to be turned into a commercial product – with genuine musical talent to be considered only when it is established that said product is marketable. The entire concept of The X-Factor is a tired paradox, one where being original and unique is held as the highest accolade, yet such originality is artificially produced by the same industry that so desperately needs it. Indeed, whilst competing on The X-Factor, the individual members of One Direction and Little Mix were judged to be so mediocre and unmemorable, that they were forced to form groups in order to progress in the competition. In other words, these current super-stars were initially judged by industry experts to be of such an average level, that the only way they could possibly be successful would be to pool their resources and allow themselves to be moulded into the ‘original artists’ that the music industry thinks the public want. I imagine that Simon Cowell really identified with Dr. Frankenstein whilst he was creating these bands.
As for providing prime-time entertainment, after ten years there are only so many sob stories, over-enthusiastic ‘yes’s’ and men wanting to be the next Michael Jackson that one can endure. In the show’s defence, the audition stages of the competition are often must-see viewing. In the same way that we have a morbid fascination with road-kill or the farce that was Miley Cyrus’ VMA performance, the ninety per cent of deluded hopefuls that turn up to audition for TheX-Factor are tragically compelling to watch. Whilst I love to cringe at the toe-curling renditions of X-Factor favourites such as Adele’s ‘Someone Like You’ and Etta James’ ‘At Last’, it is obvious that the show – at times – exploits the vulnerable and impressionable in order to make what the producers deem to be an entertaining programme. Yet, I can’t help but wonder if broadcasting a person’s reality for national consumption and amusement, really counts as prime-time viewing.
Equally, the format of the X-Factor (much like its concept) is also tired and contrived. Each episode features about three of four hopefuls who manage to rise above the sea of the mediocre and downright appalling candidates, and are portrayed as serious contenders for the X-Factor title. It is at these points in the show that first-time viewers may be forgiven for thinking that they were watching scripted television. For in most cases, the contestant will have the golden ratio of being vulnerable, likeable and of competent vocal ability. And as if by magic, these contestants will receive four absolute-one-hundred-and-ten-per-cent-yes’s from a panel of interchangeable and questionably talented judges. Such a formulaic structure repeated week after week does not exactly constitute gripping television.
And so, it is with a heavy heart as The X-Factor continues its prime-time Saturday 7-9pm spot, where it triumphantly gloats over all other humble Saturday night shows which will fall under its all-encompassing shadow until December, when the programme shifts its attention to winning the Christmas number-one spot in the music charts, thus obliterating all other singles that dare get in its way. Do I wish that the television juggernaut that is The X-Factor would finally Rest in Peace? Absolutely. But at least it’s not The Voice.
Columnist William Cafferky discusses talent shows, drawing links between them and the Roman Gladiator era.
Long ago, in a time predating high-waisted trousers, TV tantrums, auto-tuned 12 year olds and teen-devastating boy bands, entertainment of the masses took a seemingly more rudimentary form. Slaves of the Roman Empire were pitted against one another in gladiatorial tournaments, forced to fight – often to the death – in front of thousands of everyday citizens. The training of gladiators was vicious business; they were marginalised from society for the duration of their contract – rigorously drilled in the art of combat, taught to face death with honour and without fear. Gladiators rarely lasted long, and for those who died with dignity, their bodies were respectfully removed from the arena with the pomp and ceremony befitting of their behavior. Those who showed cowardice were shown little mercy and humiliated for the entire arena to see. Once out of sight however, most gladiators faced the same relatively unceremonious disposal reflected by their segregation from society.
Image Credits- ITV, THAMES TV
Of course, this was long ago; society has evolved and, with all the power of hindsight, has dismissed such degrading forms of theatre as barbaric. It is often remarked, “good artists borrow, and great artists steal” and indeed it would seem the geniuses behind the talent show format took heed. Hidden beneath the piles of dead and disgraced gladiators the almighty Simon Cowell and his predecessors plucked an idea; the fruits of which lie before us in gossip mags and twitter accounts across the country. Swords have been swapped for microphones, amphitheaters for stages, and emperors for fake teeth and fake personalities. The everyday citizens remain, ever eager to watch the quivering combatants crash and burn. Should the skinny-jeaned gladiators fail to humiliate themselves entirely, the honour falls to the preying Caesar to viciously tear into what little scraps of pride remain, leaving the empty carcass to be hastily dragged away never to be seen again.
Some survive to find themselves publicly adored, but as enthusiastic fans of Batman epic “The Dark Knight” will smugly recite, “you either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.” Once out of sight of an adoring audience, a once loved gladiator is consigned to anonymity, or worse – Countdown’s dictionary corner. The cemetery of reality TV is littered with the tombstones of once fabled demi-gods such as Chico, Wagner and the much-tolerated Cheeky Girls.
Unfortunately for myself, there is a flaw in this otherwise entirely watertight analogy. Gladiators were forced into their fate, either through debt or slavery; it was a path that was rarely trodden willingly. They were taught to accept their death as inevitable, and to do so honourably. To this end, gladiators experienced a sort of mercy not afforded to their modern day parallels. The contemporary gladiator is full of hope; hope that they may succeed where hoards of others have failed. Their delusion serves to provide a demise more humiliating and merciless than the most skewered gladiator of old. Equally, it ensures the survival of the format. Whilst there were a finite number of slaves, seemingly endless drones gather to willingly sacrifice themselves on the altars of Cowell, Osbourne and Walsh. Thus, the efficient cycle perpetuates, stars are born, some fade whilst others are plucked from the sky. All the while, we remain secure in the knowledge that we have outgrown the rudimental entertainment of a by-gone era.
exeposedev 