Over a decade ago, From The Tube—well, it's my idea that propel—published a sharp critique of the excessive celebrity overexposure on Philippine TV. It was a cry for sanity and a direct challenge to the media giants of Mother Ignacia.
The core question: What happened to the phrase "In the Service of the Filipino"?
For decades, ABS-CBN embraced that iconic slogan as a badge of honor—delivering news, building infrastructure, and shaping culture. Yet somewhere along the way, "In the Service of the Filipino" was aggressively misinterpreted as "In the Service of the Star Magic Catalogue.
A decade later, the Philippine game show landscape reveals that the old Kapamilya network’s failures went unlearned, and its bad habits have spread across the entire broadcast industry.
Let's explore how our game shows turned into private clubs for the wealthy, famous, and those desperate for promotion.
Part I: The Ghost of Family Feud Past
Let's travel back to the mid-2010s, when ABS-CBN ruled the TV scene. They had the funds, high ratings, and a heavily promoted TVPlus. Yet, they stubbornly refused to feature ordinary, tax-paying citizens on their game show stages.
The tipping point was the 2016 iteration of Family Feud.
If you've watched the American version hosted by Steve Harvey, or the older Philippine editions on ABC 5 (Ogie Alcasid) and GMA 7 (Richard Gomez and Dingdong Dantes), you know the show's core: Family. Its appeal lies in showcasing the relatable, chaotic dynamics of real households. Whether it's Aling Teresa rolling her eyes at her husband's silly answer or farmers from Tarlac outsmarting teachers from Laguna, it celebrates the everyday Filipino intellect—and its flaws—in a genuine, entertaining way.
But when ABS-CBN gained their franchise in early April of that year from GMA, they scoffed at the manual and promptly shredded it.
Instead of real families, what did the loyal viewers get? The cast of whatever teleserye was premiering that looming Monday. A scatter of Star Magic rookies looking terrified, and comedians forced to stretch two-second answers into five-minute skits.
It wasn't Family Feud; it was Celebrity Family Feud under a stolen identity—a glorified press junket with a scoreboard.
The Celebrity Monopoly
This wasn’t an isolated incident. ABS-CBN had a chronic, network-wide reliance on its talent roster to avoid hired guns from GMA or freelancers when suitable projects were scarce. During the pre-shutdown era, flipping the channel revealed a painfully repetitive pattern: The Singing Bee, Kapamilya Deal or No Deal, Minute to Win It—for MTWI, ordinary players had only one out of five days to participate.
The network’s routine use of celebrities in these slots wasn't just lazy programming; it was a blatant insult to the audience.
Yes, the network excelled at convincing the masses to buy their TVPlus and fostering parasocial obsessions with love teams like KathNiel and LizQuen. But when it came to letting a tricycle driver or public school teacher access life-changing cash, the gates were locked—unless you went to the It's Showtime studio.
Management's message: "We’ll entertain you, sell merchandise, use your votes to fund talent shows— but you’re not allowed to access the prize money."
Boy, you'd probably miss Kris Aquino's hosting skills. Her style may be annoying but your presence will be much memorable and active.
Part II: The Paradox of "Generosity"
Past network executives easily deflected criticism about the scarcity of civilian contestants by pointing to their variety and talent shows.
"Look at It's Showtime, Pilipinas Got Talent, Tawag ng Tanghalan! We give ordinary people chances every single day!"
Sure. Fine, but let's examine the details.
To win money on a talent show, an ordinary Filipino must showcase an extraordinary, world-class talent. Whether singing impossible high notes, balancing a spinning plate on your forehead while riding a unicycle, or being part of an 18-hour daily dance troupe in an abandoned court, you must earn your share of the network’s wealth through blood, sweat, and exploitative backstories.
A game show should be different—a great equalizer. You shouldn’t need to sing like Regine Velasquez to win a million pesos; knowing what 100 Filipinos said when asked, "What do you bring to a cinema?" should suffice.
By limiting game shows to the elite, ABS-CBN shut down the only chance for average Filipinos to dream of a financial miracle. Despite earning billions in ad revenue, the network failed to grasp the importance of sharing the wealth—unless a typhoon struck, prompting a star-studded relief telethon for PR.
They call themselves the Kapamilya network, but hoarding prize money within the corporate family? Classic toxic Filipino household behavior.
(I remember the song from The Lorax called, How Bad Can I Be?)
Part III: The Hubris of the Post-Shutdown Era
Then 2020 brought shutdown and franchise rejection.
It was a devastating blow to the media landscape, a dark day for press freedom, and a tragic loss for the thousands of employees. The nation watched as a once-untouchable empire was forced into humiliation, relying on blocktime agreements (even bowing down to the Villanuevas and Villars), digital streams, and a hefty dose of humble pie.
You would think that after losing their broadcast frequency and facing their vulnerability, the executives would return to their roots—reaching out to their remaining digital audience and saying, "Let's bring the people back to the stage and reconnect with the grassroots."
Six years later, have they learned their lesson? Clearly not. (And no, DDS, it's not about tax delinquents or reportage against your beloved idol and their henchmen now wanted at The Hague.)
Enter Rainbow Rumble and the current weekend of Kapamilya, Deal or No Deal.
The audacity is almost admirable. It's the same formula with the same host. Luis Manzano is a fantastic host—quick-witted, charismatic, and able to salvage dead episodes with a single ad-lib. Yet his constant presence underscores the insular nature of the production: a revolving door of actors, influencers, and reality show alumni playing for money they don't even need to pay rent.
Six years after their worst crisis, with ongoing net losses and negative cash flow that no PR spin can fix, the civilian Filipino remains just a metric on a viewership dashboard.
Part IV: The GMA Transfusion (and the ABS Contagion)
Meanwhile, at GMA Network, the Kapuso executives held a goldmine. In 2022, they acquired Family Feud rights once more and handed the mic to Dingdong Dantes.
The show became a ratings juggernaut and one of the most successful pre-primetime programs in modern Philippine TV history. Dingdong is a revelation as a host—suave, surprisingly funny, and exuding dad-energy that perfectly anchors the game show.
Look closely at the weekday late afternoon contestants; the negative legacy of the old ABS-CBN format persists on the Kamuning side.
Who plays on GMA’s Family Feud?
- Team Abot Kamay Na Pangarap vs. Team Black Rider.
- Sparkle Gen Z stars vs. Sparkle Millennials.
- TikTok influencers vs. pageant queens.
It’s the same overused celebrity format that FTT and I criticized a decade ago, with the network turning the half-hour slot into an internal marketing battlefield.
GMA recognized that ABS's pure celebrity format left audiences dissatisfied, so they offered a few crumbs. They introduced a home viewer promo with a QR code to win a few thousand pesos, and later allowed the studio audience to answer missed questions for some pocket change.
While these additions are welcome, they seem more like tactical bribes than genuine empowerment—TV Marie Antoinette saying, "Let them eat cake, if they scan this QR code during the commercial."
Part V: The Rebellion
Fortunately, the universe abhors a vacuum. While the traditional giants in South Triangle treat game shows as VIP lounges for their contract artists, the underdog networks have recognized the gap—"The Average Filipino"—and are rushing to fill it.
Look at TV5. In recent years, the Kapatid network has launched game shows like EmojiNation (hosted by Maja Salvador) and Rolling In It Philippines (hosted by Yassi Pressman) that reject the celebrity-only rule. They recognize that the funniest, most unpredictable TV comes when real people, who need the money, are in front of the microphone.
And then, the unexpected plot twist: NET25.
Yes, the religious-influence commercial network known for its pristine, highly conservative image has quietly become a hub of commercial alternative. Tara Game, Agad Agad (hosted by OkiDokiDoc himself, Aga Muhlach) may be an obscure game show, they prioritize ordinary participants. Win or lose, the emphasis is on the masses.
When a regular citizen steps onto the NET25 or TV5 stage, the stakes are real. A hundred thousand pesos isn’t just a bonus; it’s tuition, a hospital bill, or startup capital. The tension is thick, victories are deeply emotional, and defeats heartbreaking. That’s the true essence of great game show television.
Conclusion: The Viewer's Ultimate Power
The tragedy of modern Philippine TV is that our biggest networks fear the very people who sustain them. They see ordinary Filipinos as mere viewers, consumers, or fans—not as peers deserving the stage.
Ten years after the warning and six years after the upheaval, the message is unchanged, but the urgency has grown. We don't need to see millionaires guessing rice prices or actors with drivers pretending to understand commuting hardships for entertainment.
If ABS-CBN, GMA, and their successors refuse to open their studios, the public's only logical move is clear.
Tune out.
Switch to networks that remember what "In the Service of the Filipino" truly means. Let the giants play their exclusive games in their empty, star-studded halls. Until they realize the heart of Philippine television lies with the people on the street, they can shout into their own celebrity-filled void.
Comments
Post a Comment