|
 The Euro silliness has begun in
earnest
—with performers having arrived in the Latvian capital for pre-contest practice and
orientation and with several hundred journalists from around the world in tow.
But it is Russia's Tatu duo, comprised of two 18-year-olds who are (or pretend to be) lesbian lovers,
who have stolen the
limelight and have appeared to be the sole focus of many journalists. In a press
conference Tuesday, four days before the live television production
starts, the bad-girl twosome moaned about the stage lighting and the overall organization of the event; their
pouting and gripes prompted increasingly angry boos from journalists,
who, at Eurovision, tend to throw objectivity by the wayside. The
Eurovision organizers are clearly nervous about just what the Russians, already a well-established group in the West, will do on stage during the live
performance Saturday. The two are known for making out on stage during their
concerts, clad in scanty schoolgirl uniforms. Officials have put the two on notice that they could be disqualified for engaging in any sexually explicit acts and have said they could
suddenly switch Saturday to a tape of Tatu practicing earlier in the week if they do not follow
urgent advice to keep things clean. But in their earliest practice sessions in Riga, the duo proved uncooperative, refusing to sing when given the cue from stage directors; they could be trying to foil attempts to get a usable tape of their performance prior to the Big Night.
Another clear sign that Tatu might be planning something untoward
was an inquiry from their managers about the Song Contest rules
several days ago: they asked if contestants had to keep their clothes
on during the performance. The response, unsurprisingly, was that
"yes
they do." (For more on Tatu, see CITY PAPER's 2003 song listings
here.)
Latvians expressed widespread disgust at a depiction in
Norway—during that Nordic country's March national Eurovision
final—of Latvia as an essentially Russian, pro-communist
state. In a film clip during the televised Norwegian contest, alleged Latvians were shown in Russian Cossack uniforms playing
balalaikas—neither of which are things associated with Latvian culture; hanging nearby were Soviet hammers and
sickles.
"The feature depicted my country as a part of Russia, and that's simply not true," the
Aftenposten newspaper quoted Latvia's ambassador to Norway as
complaining, adding that it painted an "extremely negative" picture of his homeland. The Norwegian ambassador in Riga, Jan Wessel Hegg, also criticized the national TV station's portrayal of Latvia, which he said was not only inaccurate but offensive. "The Latvians think this exhibits an enormous lack of sensitivity," he was quoted as saying.
Latvia, along with Baltic neighbors Estonia and Lithuania, have endeavored to shake off their reputations as so called former Soviet
republics—including by implementing far-reaching open-market reforms after regaining independence following 50 years of occupation by Red Army troops. They remain sensitive about assumptions made by some in the West that the Baltic states are more or less like Russia; natives in all three countries speak distinct, non-Russian languages. Latvian and Estonian culture has been most heavily influenced by Sweden and Germany, both of which occupied the region for centuries; Lithuania has been influenced more by Poland.
Latvia has seen its hosting of the 2003
Eurovision Song Contest as a PR opportunity of a lifetime—as one way to
set the record straight, so to speak, about the country's cultural roots. At least 100 million people are expected to tune in to watch the May 24
televised extravaganza from Riga.
Latvian organizers of this year's Eurovision Song Contest emphatically
denied reports the extravaganza might have to be moved to another country because of
serious logistical and financial problems. Similar rumors spread in the months before the neighboring Baltic
state of Estonia staged the 2002 Song Contest, though it was later hailed as one of the better organized in years.
Estonians and Latvians complain some Western Europeans were too quick write off their organizational abilities
simply because they had once been communist-ruled, and because outsiders didn't appreciate how Western-oriented the Baltics have
become.
Questions about whether Latvia could swing the complex,
highly costly show surfaced almost within the hour that Latvia's Marija Naumova won in Tallinn in 2003; some Western newspapers erroneously reported that the Latvian government was
distraught that the obligation of hosting the 2004 Contest had been foisted upon them. On the contrary, most officials rejoiced
at the opportunity for their little-known nation to step into the international limelight.
At least 100 million people are expected to tune in to watch the televised contest on May24.
The web site esctoday.com quoted the Danish
BT newspaper as writing in mid-March that Eurovision executives
visiting Latvia were deeply worried about missed deadlines and about financial shortfalls; the newspaper said some 5 million dollars needed
to put on the event had still not been allocated by the government.
Esctoday.com, however, quoted the head of Latvian television, Uldis
Grava, as flatly denying there had been any
such complaints or warnings that the pop-song gala would have to be moved elsewhere. He said he had recently meant with
Eurovision's top brass but that “we talked about cooperation and about program exchanges, and neither of them said a single
word that would indicate any doubts, lack of trust or accusations.”
Grava added that his intention was that "the three-hour broadcast from Latvia will be the best ever for millions of viewers."
(For a description of how
Eurovision went in Estonia, see Whacky
and Wonderful.)
News & Gossip from last year's Eurovision in
Tallinn:
To say Estonians are taking the 2002 Song Contest seriously is something of an understatement.
Newspapers here have run stories almost daily about the Big Event since
mid-2001, usually hammering home how much it all means to the country.
There's also a popular weekly TV show devoted exclusively to the preparations for the
contest, and anyone associated with the coming extravaganza, from the
designated hosts to stage-set designers to film crews, have achieved a celebrity
status—their photos splashed across the pages of local society
magazines.
Another indication of the level of seriousness with which
the Eurovision Contest is taken here is that almost no one ever pokes fun at the
contest (at least not in public). With so much national pride riding on
the 2002 Contest, Eurovision has become almost sacrosanct here. Speaking ill of the Contest or
joking about its frequently-alleged mediocrity, for some, verges on unpatriotic.
A question circulating among Eurovision aficionados following the
Estonian victory in 2001 was: Could the Estonians manage to organize
and pay for the 2002 contest? The resounding response from Estonians
was, "We can, and will—thank you very much!" Estonians
marked the knee-jerk skepticism down to a pervasive prejudice that any
"ex-Soviet republic" would just have to be an
economic basket case, poverty stricken, backwards and corrupt. There
is, Estonians frequently lament, little appreciation for the stark
differences between the staunchly pro-West, pro-reform Baltics and,
say, semi-authoritarian, destitute former Soviet republics like
Belarus or Uzbekistan. One ex-Soviet republic is like another,
the prevailing thinking seems to be. Such misunderstandings and low
expectations have further fortified Estonian resolve to put on a show
that is as smooth-running and technologically advanced as
possible.
(For more on Estonia's
dramatic revival since the Soviet collapse, see Ten
Years Later.)
Eurovision chat sites have hotly debated the way the singing order was determined by the Estonian organizers, with some suggesting that the selection had been rigged in favor of East European nations.
How this alleged conspiracy was executed or precisely how the given singing order benefits one country over another wasn't entirely clear; some said the grouping together of so many ex-communist states in blocs improved their vote-drawing potential. One report said the
European Broadcasting Union, which overseas the contest, was "swamped with complaints regarding the conduct of the draw." The oversight body released a statement saying they saw nothing suspicious in how the Estonians determined
who sang when. "What purpose would there be to strategically place countries together in a draw?" said one EBU official. "In any case, if a song competing in the contest is good, the people of Europe will vote for it regardless of it being placed first, fifteenth or twenty-third."
(See the singing order here.)
—CITY PAPER-The Baltic States
|
