Utopian societies have long been haggled over by human beings: we dream, we attempt, we bicker, we fight. A vast, mirthless line of political wrecks blot human history. One somewhat hopeful uptick has been the present brand of representative democracy that graces America and other Western European nations. Even here, again, detractors have wholly dissimilar schemes.
I think one of the murky underpinnings of Survivor’s appeal is the hope of witnessing the sprouting of a fledgling model society. One may embark on a new Survivor season musing that this just may be the time when the proper combination of minds and personalities mix within a tribe to create bonds that withstand pedestrian human foibles, and remain steadfastly rooted to the greater good for all. At the very least it’s something to root for besides treachery and fratricide.
Naturally, no one can really forget the game, the reason we are all here, it constantly hovers there just beyond the trees and the moon---a video camera bumming along for your morning walk. Yet different people indulge the game in varying degrees. One person may see the experience as an overwhelming responsibility to conduct themselves as honestly and forthrightly as possible, a duty to their tribe community and its members; others view the castaway saga as nothing more than a tropical setting for a cutthroat version of, say, Hollywood Squares; others plop down somewhere in-between.
In the current Survivor 7 diorama, the Drake tribe burst from the gate a looming giant, completely overshadowing the hapless Morgan. It all started from the moment each tribe landed on Panamanian soil: Drake gathered together and secured enough supplies to ensure their basic needs were abundantly met; Rupert even “pirated” some of Morgan’s shoes later used for bartering. Morgan splintered at the village and withdrew from it in haste with barely enough supplies to get them through the first night. The Drake freight train continued its rampage once camps were erected, winning six Challenges in a row and eating and drinking with almost blind abandon. Morgan limped along wearily, a blight upon any reasonable assessment of how a tribe with eight healthy people should perform---catching even a single fish proved an impossible task.
One of the main reasons Drake has remained potent has been Rupert. He is obviously a stalwart individual physically---in many ways an immovable object---and metaphysically. What he has contributed to the tribe in terms of emotional stability and spiritual will has been equally immeasurable. Yes he has provided oodles of fish to feed the Drake stomachs, but to be able to fashion yourself---a barrel-chested hulk---a utilitarian skirt from a woman’s frock, for example, and to also stitch it together amidst incessant mocking is a true measure of adaptation and what the Drake tribe has found to strive for when tapping their inner fires.
Morgan has had no such honed nobility to ignite their own passions. Rupert’s Morgan counterpart was expected to be Osten, a young, fully muscular behemoth---an equity trade manager, no less---who has proved to be as inspiring to his tribe mates as a dose of the flu. His ripped physique, proudly on display with only a loose Abercrombie and Fitch boxer hanging across his hips (and removed entirely earlier in the show), proved to be an utterly frivolous adornment, and fundamentally ineffectual. And thus, Morgan began and has so sustained its lifeless free-fall. Osten though, remains an incurable lout and drain on Morgan’s goodwill. Unadvisedly, a visiting Pelican blows into the Morgan encampment in the last episode and within minutes Osten is beside himself with contempt and loathing for this poor ol’ bird. Unheeding the light admonishments of Tijuana and Ryan O., both openly hospitable towards the bird, Osten alights out of his shack and proceeds to sharpen a machete like nobody’s business. “I would keep the machete and chop this thing’s head right the f--k off,” he stammers contemptibly. And remember this is the same guy who, barely minutes into the show, drew two of his female tribe mates into a huddle and advised them to strip in front of the Panamanian “horny old men” and dangle their “boobs” for money. And, in regular fashion, during the Immunity Challenge Osten is outlasted by Drake’s Christa, who was balancing the same 160 pounds against her neck. I don’t know what else to say about this man... it just may remain a mystery why he ever applied for this show. It may be as simple an explanation as he just got in the wrong line.
So, Drake was in part, the Shining City, impregnable, daunting---leaning squarely on the shoulders of a moral leviathan who provided a sense of duty, compassion and hope to his tribe. Drake won Challenges because they knew they could; they had themselves, they had Rupert. Morgan’s lead engine was afraid of bugs, afraid of the ocean, afraid of the jungle, afraid of his own shadow. He could provide no example but despair.
Yet, with the most recent Tribal Council concluded it was a bit of a shock to consider that the two Survivor 7 tribes were now equal in number, five apiece. And one famous tribe was hollowing out in its direction and purpose, Drake, while Morgan had taken a few steps up the rung, just beginning to garner the fruits of sacrifice, fearlessness and dedication.
The fall of Drake began with a crack in the moral fiber of the tribe, which only Rupert has been able to explain openly. The majority decision to throw the seventh Challenge to rid themselves of a tribe mate only allowed deceit and vanity to worm its way inward. Rupert had campaigned against the move but was scoffed at by the rest of the tribe. He knew not only the egomaniacal delusions that can accompany intrigues such as these, leading to the inevitable slippery-slope of moral collapse, but he was also keen on how Morgan would be buoyed. It all came to pass. Drake is now just another bunch of squawking contestants trampling each other for the million dollars, while Morgan has achieved some kind of greatness.
The most chillingly sweet moment of the whole Survivor 7 series, so far, has to be the moment Andrew Savage threw off his 160-pound wooden pole, knowing he had just won Immunity for his beloved Morgan tribe. This devoted Morgan leader, beautifully spent, collapsed a few steps from his perch and Tijuana stepped over, knelt down, and placed a single, soft kiss on Andrew’s brow. Can I call this some kind of greatness?
Of course, this was all helped along by our “freakin’ puppetmaster,” Jon. Sent to the Morgan camp as Drake’s official looter, he clearly couldn’t help himself---weasels usually can’t---in spilling the beans on Drake’s ploy to throw the seventh Challenge. This got all the Morgan brains lit up. Darrah blew if all off as a sour attempt by Jon to drape his piss-poor Challenge effort in roses but her hackles were raised nonetheless I particularly enjoyed Andrew’s reaction, if a tad bit gritty: “Little bastard... for that little piss ant to take that away from us is just ridiculous. Let the games begin. We’ll see what they’re made of.” Oh dear. Jon had unwittingly created a monster. Here’s Jon before shoving off---in an avaricious stupor---in his pirate ship: “Their morale is pretty low... I plan on taking that morale and jumpin’ on it---just up and down (he jumps up and down on camera)---so it’s absolutely nothing come Immunity time.” Too bad, so sad.
Jon then returned to Drake---after taking a Morgan shampoo---and after losing the Immunity Challenge to the new monster he created, begins a plot with the equally contemptible boor, Trish, to vote out Rupert. Trish struggles to explain her nascent battle plans: “one person has a hell of a lot of power... just so much power... there’s something that’s just not feeling right about this whole thing.” Huh? Jon and Trish start to dig this groovy powerful Survivor-type talk and convince (hypnotize) each other that it’s the right thing to vote out Rupert. Sandra’s supposedly “in” but she sprints off to Christa who tells Rupert who then forms a quickie alliance with Shawn (the guy he wanted out last Tribal Council and the guy he wanted “off my island and out of my adventure”). Things go along swimmingly.
In the end, Rupert stays with Drake. The ghostly alliance between Jon, Trish, Sandra and Shawn, turns into a two-fer puppetmaster special between Trish and Jon, and Trish ain’t around anymore. Jon finally gets a serious sheen to his face. I can’t refrain from repeating Jon’s pompous limerick which he “sung” grandly while casting his vote for Rupert: “Everybody’s got a price. Everybody’s got to pay. Because the million dollar man always gets his way.” I’ll bet a dollar he wrote all these pieces of contrived wit months ago while waiting for his casting call from CBS.
Here’s Trish casting her vote for Rupert, still struggling to gather her thoughts concerning her nascent battle plans: “I think because you have too much power with the other tribe... it just seems to me you are straddling both tribes.” I repeat: Huh?
I leave you with some melancholy words from a wise man named Rupert. It could have been spoken by any mindful individual, at any time past or in the future, witnessing seen and unseen forces chipping away at a meritorious civilization. But these words were about Drake and the whys of why this tribe went the way of the world:
Jeff: “You look incredibly sad...”
Rupert: “I’m ready to cry.”
Rupert: “We shouldn’t be here. I’m upset the way the tribe has gone. We started out so strong... and now, we are not.”
Rupert: “... and it’s hard to pull everybody together.”
Jeff: “Are you losing hope that that can happen?”
Rupert: “Can’t lose hope... got to believe that you can.”
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