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An Estonian coat-check girl stood mouth agape as three transvestites, Slovenia’s
Eurovision entry, swept down a staircase at the Estonia Concert Hall and strode, high heels clickety-clacking on the floorboards, into the women’s bathroom.
She, as most other Estonians, had never seen anything like it, not just the
homosexuals in their trademark red stewardess uniforms at this one pre-contest
 party, but the whole tawdry, downright frivolous and fun spectacle of the
Eurovision Song Contest.
Assorted VIPs, Song Contest fans and over 1000 journalists from across
Europe descended on Tallinn the week before the contest—in what may have been the first time in history that so many foreigners had invaded Estonia at one time who hadn’t come to overthrow the government. Over 150 million more TV viewers tuned in to watch when the show finally hit the airwaves on May 25.
Doubters had said an ex-communist nation couldn’t possibly pull off such a costly, technologically complex production—the largest by far in the history of
Estonian Television. Even many Estonians seemed anxious about whether their homeland could take advantage of the greatest single PR opportunity the country
has ever had, or possibly ever will have.
Skeptics ended up eating their hats.
By most accounts, Estonians staged one of the best
Song Contests in years. The three-hour glitzfest featured deft camera work and a huge stage flanked by chameleon fiberglass sails that were spun, lifted and lit
in an ever-changing array of colors.
Witty, sometimes cerebral film clips ran between each of the 24 songs,
showcasing aspects of Estonian life and culture. One harkened back to Baltic independence drives from Moscow, depicting a captive goldfish being released into
 a pond—the word freedom then flashing on the TV screen. (It immediately
preceded the performance by Russia.)
BBC journalists were among the unbelievers when Estonia won the right to host the competition last year. But in his post-show analysis, the British media giant’s
Eurovision reporter Michael Osborn had only good things to say: “The Estonians clearly put their heart and soul into the whole shabang...producing a show that was slick, good-looking and professional.”
A Swedish technician involved in staging the Eurovision
final in Stockholm two years ago also helped with this year’s Song Contest in Tallinn; he told his
Estonian colleagues that he had good news and bad news about how the Estonian-produced event had gone.
“The good news is we did the show well,” said the Swede. “The bad news is—we did it better than Sweden.”
The 7-million-dollar extravaganza was seen as a kind of coming out party for Estonia, and Estonians were determined that nothing should spoil it.
Guardians of the nation’s image fretted in advance about how visiting journalists would portray Estonia, later rejoicing at any praise and lamenting at the slightest criticism.
There was speculation that the free beer supplied to journalists at the
Eurovision press center all week ensured flattering reviews—or at least kept correspondents drunk enough not to turn malicious. The complimentary alcohol was reportedly a first in
Song Contest history: So much for the cash-strapped former Soviet republic.
Estonia didn’t take any chances on the security front, either, organizing the biggest anti-terrorism operation in its history. Bomb-sniffing dogs prowled the contest venue and snipers took up positions atop the complex. With September 11 in mind, planes flying near the
Saku Suurhall auditorium were closely monitored. And over 1000 extra police were brought in to beef up street patrols, with the windfall that the incidence of pick pocketing in tourist hotspots fell to near zero.
If there were any glitches during the live show, they weren’t apparent. Reports later emerged of a few crises back stage—including when aggravated make-up personnel threatened an impromptu strike a mere 45 minutes before
show time.
But as workmen began untangling 50 kilometers of cables and repacking some 500 stage lights and 30 TV cameras after the contest ended, most Estonians swelled with pride. Not only had nothing gone obviously wrong, the Estonians had appeared to set a new
Eurovision standard. Latvia winning on the last votes cast added an element of drama that helped make the night a success
(see Back to the Baltics).
The Estonian executive producer of
Eurovision 2002, Juhan Paadam, was hailed from Estonian journalists to Prime Minister Siim Kallas as a national hero—with some serious calls for him to be awarded a state medal for his efforts.
A few complaints did trickle in—invariably from countries whose singers bombed on the Big Night, like Denmark and Greece.
Some Danes said the chosen camera angles didn’t do their blond beauty justice, causing her to miss out on votes that they insisted would have otherwise
flooded her way; she came in dead last, with a paltry 7 points.
Greece was grief-stricken when its entrant, Michalis Rakintzis, came in a dismal 17th
place.
Rakintzis told journalists back home that he’d done so badly not because of his widely ridiculed outfit—what seemed to be a black-leather space suit with matching,
18th century lead diving shoes—but because his microphone hadn’t worked properly.
He threatened to sue the show’s producers.
The Estonians, though, didn’t flinch.
“There was no technical problem with the sound,” said Estonian
Eurovision official Ingrid Peek. “If there was a problem, it was with the singer.”
—Michael Tarm, CITY PAPER-The Baltic States
Also see Back in the Baltics
for a full report on Latvia’s stunning win. For other reports on Eurovision
2002 and 2003, see CITY PAPER’s Song Contest page, here.
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