You know you are in the lucky country when the biggest home-grown tribal conflict shown on TV is between the Wales and the Urquharts over the deeply divisive question: ‘‘What is an affectionate name you might call your partner?’’
Family Feud is back on Ten and it is refreshing to tune into a commercial network at 6pm and see two clans only pretend to hate each other’s guts. While losers in sectarian grudges overseas are left territorially and politically displaced, runners-up in Australia get a $1000 clothing voucher. Perhaps Family Feud could be a template for settling disputes worldwide (“OK, Vladimir, let’s see if ‘Repossessing Crimea’ is on the board”). Ask any dictator, warlord or military strongman; they will tell you that no mealy mouthed non-binding United Nations resolution can compete with the inviolability of Family Feud’s ‘‘bah-bow’’ sound effect.
Since its first incarnation in 1977, Family Feud has differed from those other quiz shows that have a pesky bias towards actual knowledge. In its own fun way, the format is one where learning and lateral thinking are liabilities. The key to a contestant’s success is a kind of mind-reading; to not necessarily say what you think, but what you think everyone else thinks. In a recent episode, teams were asked to ‘‘name something you associate with snoring’’, and one contestant chose unwisely to proffer an appropriate medical term – ‘‘sleep apnoea’’ – which triggered audible snorts of disbelief from those in the studio. The man shrunk in embarrassment, shattered to have been so obvious a burden to his team. Only on Family Feud can a display of cleverness and education implicate you as an utter moron.
The show zips along, with the first question asked about a minute after the opening titles. Team captains are given a brief moment to introduce their kin, which I suspect disguises the tenuous nature of some relationships. I’d like to see the ombudsman investigate a few of these ‘‘future daughters-in-law’’. My gut says contestants are shipped in and given temporary sibling status to plug holes in underpopulated families. All up, the program reportedly received 35,000 applications before the first episode went to air. Who knew Australia had that many families on speaking terms? Truly shocking are the relatives who turn up in matching bedazzled outfits and laugh merrily throughout their choreographed dance moves. Such flagrant displays of love and co-operation are an affront to those families who actually need the money to be happy. One clearly already-contented family lost by more than 400 points and my sense of schadenfreude pinged wonderfully at the justice.
Family Feud’s funniest moments are never forced, such as when a contestant was asked to “Name a fruit that is yellow” and replied confidently, “Orange”. Another gift of the format is that viewers are compelled to make wild assumptions about a contestant’s character based on incorrect answers. Free-associating against the clock certainly shed unwelcome light on my own black soul. I stopped playing along at home when, in the heat of the hypothetical moment, my answer to “Name something people don’t like being too lumpy” was “Breast”.
Family Feud’s reinvigorated success in the US is due in part to its G-rated riotousness, susceptible occasionally to being over-egged. Some of the prompts in the local version (“Name a food a man thinks is sexy when a woman eats it’’) angle nakedly towards Family Freud, and elicit the sort of salacious responses better found by accident. By the way, if I’m ever a contestant I refuse to stand next to my mum as she air-tongues a lollipop.
Like a low-rent James Bond, each iteration of Family Feud is fronted by a new face that fans will place in their pantheon of favourites. My vintage was Rob Brough (pronounced ‘‘Robb Ruff’’ by his dog), whose curly-tipped peroxide perm seemed distinctly ’80s even in the ’80s. Now we have Grant Denyer, otherwise known as Daryl Somers 2.0, who delivers the consummate, engaged positivity you’d expect from a hardened Sunrise weatherman. Interestingly, he actually started as a cub reporter at the network in the ’90s, covering flower shows in rural Australia. Since the newsroom cutbacks, this experience now qualifies him as one of the most senior journalists at Ten.
I’m pleased to see what has returned is the bizarre scene in the final segment when a contestant, awaiting her turn on stage, pretends to absent-mindedly boogie in a sound-proof booth. I could happily watch raw footage of that for hours.
Whatever the show’s long-term fortunes, the Channel Ten board must be over the moon to have a Family Feud in the headlines that doesn’t involve a Rinehart. The ratings, and survey, say winner.
