Elections in Argentina can be strange affairs, and the mid-term vote for Congress on 28th June was no exception. But this time the event acquired a particularly bizarre twist: for the first time anywhere in the world, the result of an election was influenced, and perhaps decided, by a reality TV show.
It's said that if you put three Argentines in a room, you get five opinions. In the city of Buenos Aires alone, 19 parties and 8 coalitions (formed by 33 other parties) fought 13 seats in congress. This inability to seek common ground, always part of the national ethos, was magnified by the catastrophic collapse of the economy in 2001, which nearly dragged the political system into its whirlpool. "Que se vayan todos!" (Politicians should all go!) was the angry chant of demonstrators in city streets.
Inevitably, a society with such a cacophony of views and opinions has a weakness for strong leaders who tell everybody to shut up and listen. Particularly in hard times. In 2003, Néstor Kirchner fit this bill perfectly. Short-tempered, authoritarian, and totally focused on gaining control of every aspect of government, Kirchner was elected president in May of that year and his hard grip was what a society shattered by the economic collapse needed to rebuild its faith in government. He negotiated a substantial reduction of the country's crippling external debt and by the 2007 elections the economy was in good shape. An obedient majority in congress passed any law Kirchner wanted (including the indefinite extension of government by presidential decree). He was popular and his hold on power seemed unchallengeable; although he stepped down as president in 2007, he appointed his wife, Cristina Kircher, as the candidate for his Peronist party for the presidential elections that year. She won easily, doubling her husband's original support.
Much of that support was based on the hope, fostered by the Kirchers, that her government would change aspects of her husband's that had caused alarm: the concentration of power, the disregard for constitutional checks and balances or even constitutional rules, the belief that all points of view different to his were inimical and widespread corruption. Another source of great concern was that, as inflation surged in the wake of rising prosperity and a bottleneck in industrial productivity, Nestor Kircher's government, rather than devise an anti-inflation plan, simply took control of the quango in charge of national statistics, and announced ludicrously low inflation figures from then on.
But nothing changed. A colossally mismanaged conflict with the huge farming sector, allied with the urban middle classes, ended with defeat in congress for the government. The Kirchners were badly wounded, but no opposition party or figure seemed able to make capital out of their troubles. In a sort of tired stalemate, Argentina prepared itself for the 2009 legislative elections. Then, foolishly, Néstor Kirchner announced that he would run for congress, and that the election was a referendum on his wife's presidency and the "national project" of the Kirchners.
Enter Marcelo Tinelli, Argentina's most successful TV producer. One of his many programmes is the comedy show Showmatch. Revamped and re-launched in May, two months before the elections, Showmatch included a new section: Gran Cuñado (Big Brother-in-Law), which involved a group of 19 people living together in a house, their dialogues and confrontations taking place in full view of the cameras and the nation. So far, so typical—but in this case the "residents" were actors chosen for their looks and impersonating skills, and the characters they played were the main political figures in the forthcoming election. As with Big Brother, the public voted over the phone to eject whichever figure they thought should leave the show. Mrs Kirchner was played by a man; a cruel but observant choice. A very pretty woman in her youth, her exaggerated make-up and hairstyle now create a slightly different effect.
Perhaps the great strength of the show was that it took the old concept of Spitting Image, showing the audience what politicians are "really like" when we don't see them. Throughout his presidency, Néstor Kirchner never gave a press conference and refused interviews, and his wife only gave one before the election, in which she mainly recited set pieces rather than answering the questions. Their refusal to show themselves other than in character and on message might be why the "spontaneous" dialogues between "Néstor" and "Cristina" in nightclothes, in their bedroom, became essential viewing for a curious nation.
In spite of being broadcast at 11pm, the show's ratings equalled those of the most watched soap opera in Argentina and the football matches in the South American international championship—no mean feat in a football-crazy nation. Encouraged by the show's runaway success, Tinelli publicly invited politicians to come to the show and meet their doppelgangers. Fearful of the consequences, all but one refused. The exception was Francisco de Narváez, a surprising newcomer even in the unpredictable world of Argentine politics. A very wealthy businessman and a fitness fanatic, he had until then been better known for his dating of young models and a flamboyant tattoo on his neck. He had joined the Peronist party in 2001 and was running against Kirchner in the 2009 election, but was not seen as a threat—until he accepted Tinelli's invitation. Affable and charming, completely at ease with his impersonator, playing mirror games with him and roaring with laughter, de Narváez was a huge hit. His approval ratings shot up. Soon, politicians were begging for invitations. Real life and reality TV began to blur. While canvassing, people would say to the candidates: "I saw you last night on Gran Cuñado."
One by one, all the leading candidates in the election appeared on camera with their impersonators–but not Néstor Kirchner. Would he? Would he not? The dignity of his position as ex-president was mentioned as a reason to refuse, but it could have been equally pertinent that his looks, his voice and his seriously limited sense of humour do not make him a TV natural. At the last minute, the day before the election, Kirchner phoned the programme and spoke briefly with Tinelli. It was a stiff, lacklustre appearance that did little to change the by now expected outcome. De Nárvaez defeated Kirchner in the congress race by a small margin (34.8 per cent to 31.9 per cent), and Kirchner subsequently resigned as party leader. In polls after the election, 15 per cent declared that the programme had influenced their voting decision. The impersonators even waited for the candidates at their polling stations, and interviewed them for the programme after they had voted.
The day after the election, the show ended in a raucous party where the "victors" celebrated their triumph singing and dancing on camera. The programme creators had plenty to celebrate too. Apart from its commercial success, their show had proven to be sharply accurate. The order in which characters were ejected from the house was closely matched by the voting figures; first to go was the most conspicuous figure of the opposition, whose poor electoral result surprised the country.
Argentina's presidential elections are scheduled for 2011. Tinelli is also the producer of the Argentine version of Strictly Come Dancing. Would it be too far-fetched to expect the candidates to don their dancing shoes in a bid for votes, hoping to repeat John Sargent's capture of the British nation's love? In Argentina, as elsewhere in the word, reality TV is often fabricated. But in the case of Gran Cuñado, it has proven to be as true as reality itself. Or nearly.
