Cultural Cringe and Celebrity Treasure Island

I grew up in simpler times, when our television choices were limited to the imaginatively named TV One and TV Two. Much of what aired was locally produced: smart, high-quality shows like Gliding On and Mastermind, alongside glossier fare such as Gloss and Close to Home. It was not all high art, but it felt like television that reflected something of us, our humour, and our lives.

Those memories resurfaced recently with the announcement that New Zealand On Air has decided to fund another season of Celebrity Treasure Island. I will confess upfront that I have never watched an episode of Treasure Island, celebrity or otherwise. Reality TV has never been my thing. It feels like the kind of programming that lowers the collective IQ rather than raises it. That said, I am also aware that millions of people worldwide have tuned into reality formats over the past two decades, making them a staple of commercial broadcasters’ schedules. Whatever I may think of them, they have proven to be extraordinarily successful at pulling audiences and, by extension, advertisers. Which brings me to the real issue: not whether reality TV counts as entertainment, it clearly does for large numbers of people, but whether it warrants public funding.

Government funding of the creative sector has long been debated. The late Sir Robert Jones once quipped that the only things worth funding were trout fishing conventions and boxing matches. His was a deliberately narrow view, but it raises a valid question about the purpose of public investment in the arts. Most would agree that taxpayer support should serve some wider public good, supporting voices and stories that may otherwise struggle to find a commercial foothold. That might mean documentaries that dig into our history, dramas that explore contemporary New Zealand issues, or comedies that skewer our national quirks. In other words, content that enriches cultural life rather than simply fills a primetime slot. By that standard, Celebrity Treasure Island feels like a poor fit.

To be fair, funding bodies like New Zealand On Air do not operate in a vacuum. They are required to balance cultural value with audience reach. Reality TV formats have historically delivered strong ratings. Internationally, shows such as Big Brother, Survivor, and I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here have been juggernauts, generating advertising revenue and social media buzz. From a purely commercial perspective, the logic is obvious: fund something that attracts viewers and you can demonstrate relevance to the taxpayers footing the bill. In an age of fragmented attention spans and streaming giants, the safest bet is often the proven format, the familiar comfort food of television.

But here is the problem. Commercial logic is exactly what the market already provides. Broadcasters and production houses have strong incentives to churn out ratings-friendly fare. Public funding, by contrast, should be about risk-taking and nation-building. It should enable the stories that may not immediately pull big audiences but that enrich the cultural record, support diverse voices, and challenge us to think differently. Every dollar spent on Celebrity Treasure Island is a dollar not spent on telling New Zealand stories that might otherwise remain untold. Documentaries about our history, dramas that grapple with social change, or even experimental formats that push creative boundaries are projects less likely to attract commercial funding but arguably far more aligned with the spirit of public investment.

That is the real sting. It is not just that taxpayer money is going to a show I do not like. It is because the opportunity cost is so high. Instead of funding the next Once Were Warriors or nurturing the next Jane Campion, we are underwriting a programme that could just as easily be financed through advertising dollars. It is tempting to cast New Zealand On Air decision-makers as failed creatives compensating by greenlighting populist fare, but that is too glib. Many of the people involved are experienced professionals who genuinely care about supporting local content. But they also face pressure to demonstrate impact, to prove audience engagement, and to show that public funding is not disappearing into niche programming no one watches. In that sense, Celebrity Treasure Island is a defensive choice. It is safe. It delivers numbers. It reassures those asking whether the funding agency is in touch with ordinary New Zealanders. What it does not do is inspire, challenge, or uplift.

Perhaps I am being unfair. Maybe there is some deeper social commentary embedded in the show that I have overlooked. Maybe watching semi-famous New Zealanders stumble through manufactured challenges says something profound about resilience, community, or the human condition. I am open to being convinced. But my worry is broader. When public funding bodies repeatedly default to proven commercial formats, we risk losing sight of their higher purpose. We have the talent. New Zealand has produced world-class filmmakers, writers, and creatives who have made their mark on the global stage. What we need is a funding system that backs that talent, not one that props up safe, commercially bankable television.

We had a choice. We could have demanded more from our publicly funded content, choosing stories that reflect our diversity, complexity, and creativity. Instead, we chose Celebrity Treasure Island. It is bread and circuses while Rome burns.