It seems that my vice of watching Living TV to catch CSI (not so much CSI: Miami or CSI:NY–these franchisees lack the ineffable appeal of the original Las Vegas series) is at least shared by J.G. Ballard (in his article in the Guardian Review)In his attempt to explain, “given that there are no interesting characters, no car chases or shoot-outs, no violently stirred emotions and no dramatic action, why is the C.S.I. series so riveting?” Ballard reveals that when not chronicling the transformation of Rotary Club members into blood-smeared anarchists, he spends a fair amount of time in front of the box.For example, he tells us that:”Watched with the sound down, episodes of Starsky and Hutch resembled instructional films on valet parking.” and “The identification of car and hero reached its apotheosis in the 1970s series Vegas[!], where the playboy private eye played by the affable Robert Urich…” and “This [CSI’s] reticence contrasts favourably with the demented profligacy of The Bill.”So what explanation does Ballard offer for the programme’s appeal? A typically “Ballardian” one, but, once you think about it, not wholly implausible:”I suspect that the cadavers waiting their turn on the tables are surrogates for ourselves, the viewers. The real crime the C.S.I. team is investigating, weighing every tear, every drop of blood, every smear of semen, is the crime of being alive. I fear that we watch, entranced, because we feel an almost holy pity for ourselves and the oblivion patiently waiting for us.”The phrase “escapist entertainment” is dying on my lips.