Balloon Boy and the 24-Hour News Cycle
Want to hear something crazy? When I was Falcon Heene’s age, mumblehrumble years ago, you could only watch the news a couple of times a day. At certain, predetermined times. On one of only three channels. (Also, there were no remote controls, there were no drive-through windows, and dinosaurs still roamed free. But I digress.)
There was, of course, “breaking news”, even back then. But interrupting television with a news report back then usually meant that something really newsworthy and important had happened — a presidential assassination attempt, a plane crash, or (locally, and most memorably) when Elvis died.
These days, things are obviously different. We have access to cable and local news channels 24 hours a day, seven days a week. And if we can’t wait for that, there’s instant gratification on the internet. News has become synonymous with entertainment, and ratings trump public service. The idea of “public interest” is gone, replaced with the needs of a merely “interested public.”
So it’s no wonder that this week, Falcon Heene became an instant celebrity, as the little boy supposedly took flight in a helium balloon built by his father, inventor/storm chaser/handyman/wannabe reality-tv star, Richard Heene. The child became an immediate national celebrity as local authorities, the military, and a myriad of news organizations all descended to try and find the boy.
The only problem being that Falcon was in his family’s garage attic the whole time.
Looking back, of course, there were several problems with the family’s story, even on Thursday. But let’s set aside, for the moment, the fact that Richard Heene called the local news even before he dialed 911 in “fear” for his son. Let’s forget that the family’s own video shows the balloon taking off, nothing visibly attached to it, as a frankly quite scary Richard Heene curses about it floating away, not properly tethered. Let’s ignore, even, that Heene himself built the balloon, and should have known that it was incapable of transporting a six-year-old.
I mean, have you tried to carry a six-year-old around lately? I have. Those things are heavy.
Obviously, all of those things are suspicious to the average person. Local Sheriff Jim Alderdan agrees; although he originally defended the family, after further questioning, he has decided to file misdemeanor against the Heenes, including potentially filing a false report, contributing to the delinquency of a minor, attempting to influence a public servant, and conspiracy. In fact, Alderdan isn’t really satisfied with that and is hoping that more serious federal charges can be filed as well.
But putting all of the problems with the Heenes’ story aside for the moment, let’s look at the bigger problem. When asked on CNN why he failed to show himself for hours on end, Falcon looked up at his father and said, “You guys said we did this for a show.” As if it were the most normal thing in the world. Although his father tried to cover, Falcon literally became physically ill when asked again on the Today show.
Let’s absorb that for a second. “You guys said we did this for a show.”
Even if Thursday’s “balloon ride” wasn’t intended as a hoax, this is an entire family for whom the lines between reality and television have become irretrievably blurred. Recently, Richard Heene shopped an idea for a reality series about his family to TLC, who passed. The family has appeared twice on ABC’s Wife Swap, and even had a deal for their own reality television series with the producers of that show. (The deal is now off.) The entire family, including the children, is even said to sleep in their clothes so that they can film themselves chasing storms in the middle of the night.
And then there is what is, to me, ultimately, the most disturbing part of the story. After allegedly living in fear for their six-year-old son’s life for hours, supposedly concerned for his life, what was the Heenes’ first order of business? To shop Falcon around to CNN, Good Morning America, Today, and anyone else who would have them.
Having been raised this way, is it any wonder that Falcon Heene seems to be confused between what constitutes reality and what constitutes television? (Although, admittedly, the impulse to become violently ill when questioned does suggest that he knew something was horribly wrong.) Granted, I don’t know the Heenes, but all available information about them suggests that their family life is less centered around creating a stable home life for their sons and more about establishing themselves as stars.
We can’t just blame Richard and Mayumi Heene, though. First, the 24-hour news cycle is a major part of the problem. Some days, there is just not enough real news to fill up an entire broadcast day. That’s why most afternoons these days, if you happen to have CNN on during your lunch or your coffee break, you won’t see hard news stories. You’ll see an “in-depth” report on Caylee Anthony or Jaycee Dugard or whoever happens to be the exploited-child-du-jour.
Taking that a step further, we must also step back and check to see if, perhaps, “the fault, dear Brutus, is not in the stars, but in ourselves.” Compassion is a wonderful thing, but are we really so bored with our lives that we need to constantly get involved in other people’s tragedies to entertain ourselves? If it weren’t for the viewing public’s interest, the news industry couldn’t very well profit off Jon and Kate’s imploding marriage or Lindsay Lohan’s nineteenth nervous breakdown, now, could they?
Admittedly, I was as guilty as the next person last Thursday of constantly hitting “refresh” on my browser to see if Falcon Heene had been found. But when do we say enough is too much?
In her book “And So It Goes”: Adventures in Television, Linda Ellerbee recounts a story of a post-production gathering in her living room, during which there sprang up a heated debate on the merits of airing a report live versus on tape. Her then-14-year-old son, Josh, interrupted. He pointed to everyone in the room, saying, “This is live. You, me, everybody in this room. This is live.” Then, pointing to the box in the corner, he continued, “That, Mom — that’s television.” Ellerbee goes on to add:
What this is, I guess, is a book without a hero or a moral, a reminder to myself that live is not life, that mine is a craft and not a calling, and most important: it’s not brain surgery. It’s not nuclear physics. It’s television. It’s only television.
Ellerbee wrote that in 1986. But it’s a lesson that we’d do well to remember over 20 years later in a society that puts so much emphasis on fame.
“Live” is not life. It’s only television.
