I remember watching a movie many years ago called Witness to the Execution in which a TV producer comes up with the ingenious idea of buying the rights to broadcast the execution of a convicted murderer. In the film, viewers at home could watch the man as he came to terms with his fate, and his eventual execution, using the pay-per-view system available on cable. The public went perversely wild for this idea and the network’s profits soared.

When the film was released in 1994 it seemed like a bizarre concept, but I was vividly reminded of it recently as Living TV (as well as major news networks) chronicled the days leading up to Jade Goody’s death. Along with the reality show, other media fed into the story as well. The constant barrage of coverage amplified the public frenzy about Jade.

The tragedy of this young woman, of course, was that she was facing an “execution” of a different kind – she knew she only had months to live after being diagnosed with terminal cancer. In this case, the decision to have it all play out in front of the TV cameras was her own, and the reason she gave was altruistic enough: she wanted to generate enough money to secure a financially sound future for her two sons.

What I have often wondered, however, is whether she ever stopped to think how the two young boys felt about being constantly filmed while knowing that their mother was dying? They were under the scrutiny of the public’s eye as much as she was, and while Jade was obviously “hooked” on being a reality star and willingly forfeited her privacy even during this most difficult time – what about the boys’ privacy?

Jade did not care whether people saw her at her most vulnerable, and plenty of viewers ghoulishly lapped up every second of footage as she lost clumps of her hair and cried in agony, but I was never able to watch more than a few minutes of the programme at a time. I was sickened at myself even for the little that I did see.

The phenomenon of reality TV has reduced us to this. The camera zooms in on people who become emotional as they speak of a personal tragedy. If they weep so much the better; if they cry or sob uncontrollably then the producers are in ratings heaven. We watch a human being going through possibly the most devastating of diseases (and those of us who have had relatives die of cancer know just how unbearable the suffering can be) and we call it…what? Entertainment? A documentary?

No, this is “real life” we are told – unscripted and unrehearsed, where the plot unfolds spontaneously and no one knows what will happen next, least of all the technical crew who are there capturing this woman’s last days for prime time in between stopping for lunch and the occasional coffee break.

When she died, I had a weird reaction.

Somehow, although I had heard that she was nearing the end, I was almost expecting her to miraculously pull through and “make it”. That was when the eerie realisation hit me – by being constantly on our screens, with her story dragged out in episodes in which you tune in for the latest instalment, the line between fiction and reality had become blurred. It was easy to forget that she was real and not an actress playing a role.

But of course, there would be no Hollywood ending for this celebrity. The reality “show” was over.

Or was it?

Living TV continues to milk her fame with a two-part tribute series, Jade: With Love. And her funeral is reportedly going to be a grand, televised affair complete with big screens, in line with her last instructions.

Morbid fascination

She started off as an unknown 20-year-old, chosen to participate in Big Brother 2002. This was followed by more reality shows: Jade’s Salon, Just Jade, Jade’s PA and finally, Living With Jade Goody.

Her only claim to fame was her outrageous personality, which irritated and endeared the public in equal measure. Her death has sparked off a debate in the UK about the morbid fascination people had with her during the seven years she was in the public eye.

Big Brother producer Phil Edgar-Jones said that while middle-class people were initially appalled by her lack of education and crassness, she still touched a nerve because “millions and millions in Britain live Jade’s life”.

Perhaps the most apt description came from Stephen Fry who called her “a kind of Princess Diana from the wrong side of the tracks”.

Loud, rude and larger-than-life, Jade had parents who were both drug addicts — a mother who was violent and a father who spent time in jail. Obviously, she could not help being born into that kind of family, and even before she was diagnosed with cancer, when I used to catch a glimpse of her show, I felt more pity than anything else. She reminded me of that other self-destructive, self-made celebrity Anna Nicole Smith.

It was not their fault for being the way they were – they knew no better. But the nagging problem I have always had with these kind of reality shows is the fact that – in their search for colourful characters – the producers inevitably turn to people who are ignorant, not in the academic sense, but in the sense of social behaviour. Thrusting them in front of a camera, where their every foible is magnified and amplified, and where their vulgarity can be dissected and mocked with relish the next day, smacks of exploitation of the worst kind.

What is worse is that some people identify with, and even applaud, this coarse behaviour. Maltese shows are just as guilty of this: I often get depressed at seeing how television has gone from being uplifting to dragging us all down. Producers seem to relish manipulating people who behave appallingly because it ensures everyone is talking about it the next day (“did you see what he did/said?”).

Rather than encouraging people to be more civilized and polite, we seem to be glorifying ignorance and, to justify it, we claim that it’s OK because that’s just people being “real”.

[email protected]