Watching Si Doel: Television, Language and Identity in Contemporary Indonesia [1 ed.] 9789004253919, 9789067182799

Citation preview

Watching si Doel

To Nyak, Babe, and Abang, and in loving memory of Encang Ben van Bronckhorst

Cover illustration: The krismon forced Karnos Film to shoot a scene about Doel in Switzerland on a refuse dump in Jakarta (courtesy of Karnos Film)

V E R HAN D ELINGEN VAN HET KONINKLIJK INSTITUUT VOOR TAAL-, LAND- EN VOLKENKUNDE

242

Klarijn Loven

Watching Si doel Television, language, and cultural identity in contemporary Indonesia

KITLV Press Leiden 2008

Published by: KITLV Press Koninklijk Instituut voor Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde (Royal Netherlands Institute of Southeast Asian and Caribbean Studies) PO Box 9515 2300 RA Leiden The Netherlands website: www.kitlv.nl e-mail: [email protected] KITLV is an institute of the Royal Netherlands Academy of Arts and Sciences (KNAW)

Cover: Creja ontwerpen, Leiderdorp ISBN 978 90 67182-79-6 © 2008 Koninklijk Instituut voor Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the copyright owner. Printed in the Netherlands

Contents Introduction: Watching Si Doel, studying Indonesian television Si Doel and the New Order 3 Theoretical framework 5 Previous studies on media, discourse, and Indonesian media 9 ‘Unframing’ Si Doel: The DVD 11 Part I

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Si Doel, a discourse of Indonesian television

I From Balai Pustaka to UNICEF The mediatization of ‘Betawi Doel’ Child of Betawi, the movie 22 Child of modernity 27 Educated Doel 29 Doel commercials 31 Doel’s adventures 32 Campaign Doel 34 The extended mediatization of ‘Betawi Doel’ 35 II Si Doel as a sinetron Televising the New Order? Commercial television in New Order and post-Soeharto Indonesia 41 Changes in the television landscape in post-Soeharto Indonesia 44 The Indonesian sinetron as a genre and a metagenre 46 Multivision and mainstream sinetron 48 Si Doel, the first series 50 Si Doel, its sequels 64 Si Doel: Televising the New Order? 66 A discourse of Indonesian television 71

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III The making of Si Doel Shaping the face of Indonesian television 73 Localizing Indonesian television 74 Producing Si Doel: The revival of production company Karnos Film 76 The cast 77 Preparing the shoots 80 Producing the first series: The birth of a television hit 81 Post-production: Setting a new standard for Indonesian television production 83 To be continued: Reproducing the success of the first series 87 Adding the final touch: Post-production 95 Part II The languagescape of Si Doel IV The languagescape of Si Doel Creating an illusion of reality The notion of ‘languagescape’ 104 The languagescape of Jakarta 105 Jakarta/Betawi Malay 107 The languagescape of Si Doel 114 Other elements of discourse characterizing Si Doel 123 Code-switching 125 Particles and interjections 126 Terms of address and personal pronouns 127 Conclusion 133 V From script to broadcasting Producing the languagescape of Si Doel Writing the script 135 Performing the script 140 Improvisation 143 Editing the languagescape of Si Doel 145 The multimodality of the television text Si Doel 149 The Idul Fitri scene 153 Conclusion 157

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Part III Framing Si Doel VI Si Doel as a broadcasting asset Broadcasting in Indonesia 162 Si Doel enters the world of broadcasting 163 From risk to guaranteed profit 165 Paving the way for local television: Gossip lenong 168 Ratings discourse 171 The viewing figures of Si Doel 174 Exploiting the ratings of Si Doel 178 Si Doel 4 profits from the monetary crisis 179 The Sunsilk Quiz 180 Discovering the marketability of local television 184 VII Catching ‘Doel fever’ Si Doel in the discourse of ordinary viewers and television critics Si Doel in public critical discourse 186 Si Doel in ordinary viewers’ discourse: A nationwide debate? 200 The Vista-TV serialized story 204 Si Doel as exceptional Indonesian television 206 VIII Mediating Betawi identity Si Doel in Betawi discourse Ethnicity as a discursive category 209 The Betawi: An ethnic group or a way of life? 211 Si Doel and the burden of representation 215 Bens Radio 223 Sinetron Betawi: NPK, Fatima, Mat Angin 226 Mediating Betawi identity 231 IX Advertising Si Doel Local products, foreign advertisers 237 The Doel commercials 238 The NoPain Ginseng-Doel commercial 242 The Ramayana-Doel commercial 243 The Honda-Doel campaign 246 Parasitic commercials 254 Advertising Si Doel 256

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X Si Doel as a vehicle of language The languagescape of Indonesian television 261 Si Doel evaluated in sociolinguistic discourse 264 Regulating the languagescape of national television: Article 33 271 Restricting the use of foreign languages on national television: Article 33 276 The debate on subtitling and dubbing 277

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Part IV The scope of Si Doel XI Interpreting the language of Si Doel A viewing experiment 287 The reception research 289 The viewing experiment: Fuzzy interpretation at work 291 The interviews 296 The language of Si Doel is intelligible to viewers throughout Indonesia 297 The language of Si Doel is entertaining 301 The language of Si Doel is a reflection of ‘unmediatized’ Betawi Malay 303 The language of Si Doel is an advertising asset 304 The language of Si Doel threatens the development of the national language 309 Making meaning: Towards an understanding of the reception of television language 313 XII Si Doel and beyond The languagescape of Si Doel 320 Mediating Jakarta Malay 322 Jakartan voices and the voice of ‘Jakarta’ 325 Television discourse in late New Order and post-Soeharto Indonesia 327

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A Design of the reception research B Example of a set of forms C Glossary D Abbreviations and acronyms E List of interviews F Si Doel excerpts on DVD

333 339 342 345 347 350

Bibliography

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Index

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Appendices

Introduction

Watching Si Doel, studying Indonesian television

In recent decades, the relationship between local, national, and global media and media products has been significantly altered through processes of globalization. In line with this, the question of how to preserve one’s national identity amidst the influx of ‘foreign’ programmes and techniques has come to dominate many a debate in media industries worldwide. In Indonesia, the successful local television programme Si Doel anak sekolahan (‘Educated Doel’, Si Doel for short) was often at the heart of such discussions in the early 1990s and at the turn of the twenty-first century. Si Doel is classed as a sinetron, a word that is a portmanteau for sinema elektronis, or ‘electronic cinema’. This ‘dramedy’ was broadcast between 1994 and 2003, and portrayed the daily lives of ‘ordinary’ people living in a kampong on the urban fringes of present-day Jakarta.1 The main character Doel, his relatives, and some of his friends belong to the orang Betawi (or ‘Betawi’ as I will proceed to call them), the native inhabitants of Jakarta. This book investigates Si Doel and the various discourse and sociocultural practices surrounding it, in an effort to disentangle the various understandings of ‘national television’ in late New Order and post-Soeharto Indonesia. In addition, it explores the various ways in which the media in contemporary Indonesia, particularly but not exclusively television, both shape and are shaped by discourse in society at large. In doing so, my main aim is to reveal what could and could not be said, and, with that, ‘imagined’ (Anderson 1991, Appadurai 1996) on national television and beyond in late New Order and post-Reformasi Indonesia. Si Doel was launched in 1994 by Rajawali Citra Televisi Indonesia (RCTI), Indonesia’s first and largest commercial television station. At the time of the launch, most domestic Indonesian drama series portrayed the vicissitudes of 1

On 6 October 2005, a new series was broadcast using the same crew, cast, characters, and plot lines. Owing to the changed setting and career developments of the main characters, this new series was entitled Si Doel anak gedongan (‘Corporate Doel’) rather than Si Doel anak sekolahan (‘Educated Doel’).

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Watching Si Doel

the lives of the urban elite, and therefore RCTI doubted whether a television serial of this format would interest its mostly upper-class audience. Against all odds, the sinetron became a tremendous success. Ratings suggest that Si Doel was capable of entertaining the upper segment of the RCTI audience as well as viewers who normally tuned in to rival stations, thus uniting audiences otherwise divided by class, age, gender, and ethnic background – a major achievement that no other local producer had accomplished before on such a scale. Producer Rano Karno had clearly found a formula for making television that was acceptable and recognizable for a variety of audiences nationwide. Not surprisingly, the serial became a welcome topic of conversation among viewers and played a prominent role in discussions on national television. Explaining the enduring success of this indigenous television show at the end of the twentieth and beginning of the twenty-first century, film director and media critic Garin Nugroho pointed to the quality of the cast and crew of Si Doel, its well-developed characters, and its ‘realistic’ and ‘Indonesian’ story lines. According to him the serial’s locality, apparent from the Betawi setting of the sinetron and the language of the characters, was another major asset. Nugroho characterized the serial as ‘local sensitivity in a global packag­e’ (sensi­tivitas lokal dalam kemasan global). Through its characters and stories Si Doel explored Betawi culture in all its facets; yet this focus on local culture was supported by professional camera work which met international stan­ dards of quality.2 The success of Si Doel is similar to findings elsewhere suggesting that, provided a quality choice is available, national audiences tend to prefer local programmes to foreign imports (Moran 2004:4) – although preference for national products may be related to class (Crane 2002:10). Local audiences’ fondness for local programmes illustrates that processes of globalization do not necessarily diminish the importance of the nation. In fact, as Moran (2004:4) argues, it demonstrates ‘the key role undertaken by national producers and audiences in localizing television’. In fact, numerous examples reinforce the importance that the nation has in television industries worldwide. More time and money is spent on the production and broadcasting of local programmes than on importing foreign programmes. In addition international formats are only successful in their new country once local production houses have adapted these formats to local tastes (Moran 2004:6). The state also plays a significant role in structuring national media systems, for instance by issuing television licenses and laws on broadcasting (Curran and Park 2000a:12). Governments take measures to protect their national and local media in their efforts to preserve national and local cultures and to minimize unwanted effects of global cultures (Crane 2002:13-15). Finally, while audiences in most countries have access to foreign television programmes, they watch and interpret them 2

Interview with Garin Nugroho, 9 June 2000.

Introduction

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through the cultural visor and linguistic and semiotic framework of that particular nation. The international dimension of television in today’s world cannot be denied, an example of which is the flourishing global trade in television formats (Moran and Keane 2004). But national television is still to a considerable extent local, rather than global in orientation. Si Doel and the New Order All analyses of media are political to a certain extent, but in Indonesia the links between media, culture, and politics are especially evident (Sen and Hill 2000:11). A study of the Indonesian television phenomenon Si Doel therefore needs to take into account the socio-political background against which the serial was produced and consumed. The first series of Si Doel was produced in the context of what in hindsight has been termed late New Order Indonesia; the last sequel was to be enjoyed half a decade after the Reformasi or ‘Reform (movement)’. Late New Order Indonesia refers to the final years of Soeharto’s presidency, which lasted from 1966 to 1998.3 The New Order regime was characterized by an authoritarian, centralized government which emphasized economic development and political stability (Schwarz 1999:64). To catch up with ‘the modern world’, the regime acknowledged the importance of education and modernization, notably in technology (Schwarz 1999:53). The New Order embraced and propagated the state ideology Panca Sila, the five principles (chief among them the belief in one God) that Sukarno had formulated in an effort to create a common ideological basis for the new Indonesian state (Schwarz 1999:40). The Soeharto administration moreover promoted traditional family structures (with the ideal nuclear family consisting of a father, a mother, and two children) and invented and supported conventional gender roles (Kellar 2004). The unity of the archipelago was another important cornerstone of the New Order, an obsession Soeharto shared with his predecessor Sukarno. Schwarz (1999:6) explains this fixation on unity: ‘Spread out over [Indonesia’s] many islands are literally hundreds of spoken dialects and cultural subgroups. Little wonder, then, that maintaining national unity has been the one constant preoccupation of all of Indonesia’s leaders throughout its short history’. Recent socio-political developments in the archipelago, many of them 3 In Indonesian, this period is called Orde Baru or New Order. This term stands in contrast to the Old Order, or Orde Lama, which denotes the administration of Indonesia’s first president, the charismatic Sukarno. For a thorough analysis of the politics of the New Order and the emergence and demise of this regime, see Schwarz 1999 and Van Dijk 2001. For an excellent overview of the New Order in relation to the media, see Sen and Hill 2000, notably the introduction.

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Watching Si Doel

involving racial, ethnic, or religious violence (Van Dijk 2001:385-92), have made discussions about the unity or disintegration of the Indonesian state even more timely. Both Sukarno and Soeharto used the media as nation-building devices. Radio first proved itself as a revolutionary instrument during Indonesia’s struggle for independence against the Dutch. When Indonesia’s first president turned to the medium, he drew large audiences across the nation and established his reputation as an enticing orator (McDaniel 1994:211-19). Television was introduced in Indonesia in 1962, and both Sukarno and Soeharto recognized the potential of this medium as a nation-building instrument (Kitley 2000:42). For instance, they consciously employed the new medium to promote bahasa Indonesia, or Indonesian, the national language. In addition, Soeharto used television to promote the New Order ideology and to sustain his administration. Sen and Hill (2000:4) point out that the myth of the communist coup and Soeharto’s counter-coup was constantly reproduced on Indonesian television as a means of legitimizing the New Order regime – even though most Indonesians doubted the accuracy of the story. Another element of the New Order ideology was the SARA taboo, which obliged those operating in the public arena to write and talk carefully in relation to suku (ethnicity), agama (religion), ras (race), and antargolongan (inter-group relations or class). The idea that sensitive issues that may polarize different segments of the population should be treated with care seems understandable in the context of the violent events that have plagued Indonesia throughout its history. But SARA was often used as a powerful ideological instrument by means of which the New Order regime endeavoured to silence critical voices, notably in the media. In the late 1980s, however, the government began to lose grip on the media. Particularly the advent of Internet, which is notoriously difficult to control, and the mushrooming of warung internet or warnet (Internet cafés) throughout Indonesia in the early 1990s posed significant challenges to the Soeharto government (Lim 2003). The Internet was instrumental in the Reformasi movement, the turbulent period leading up to and directly following Soeharto’s resignation. The Reformasi was characterized by strong societal demands for radical socio-political and economic reforms, genuine democracy, transparency, and freedom of speech (Schwarz 1999) and was rooted in a general dissatisfaction with the government’s questionable involvement in matters of economy and democracy – among which the banning of the well-known critical magazine Tempo in 1994 and the brutal attack on the headquarters of opposition party PDI in 1996. The movement gained momentum during the monetary crisis (krisis moneter or krismon) which struck Indonesia and other parts of Asia in the autumn of 1997. While large sections of the population were faced with increasing poverty, George Aditjondro, an Indonesian professor living in Australia, revealed the wealth and corruption of Soeharto and

Introduction

5

other high officials by email (Lim 2003:122). These and similar events fuelled the krismon and allowed it to develop into a fully-fledged socio-political and economic crisis, which eventually led to the political turmoil of May 1998 and the resignation of the Soeharto regime. Especially in the last weeks before the president stepped down demonstrations against the regime increased and tensions in Jakarta and other major cities in Indonesia mounted. These tensions culminated in the events of 14 and 15 May, when the capital city (and other cities such as Solo (Pausacker 2003)) became the scene of violent riots. The riots, which included burning down and looting shopping malls, small shops, and private estates, were particularly (though not exclusively) directed at Indonesians of Chinese descent. They underscored, as did violent outbursts in the Moluccas and Kalimantan in 1999 and the Bali bombings in 2002, the challenges the Indonesian government faced in managing the nation in all its diversity. Theoretical framework In examining Si Doel, I mainly draw on work done in the fields of Indonesian studies, media studies, and discourse studies. In particular, my perspective is influenced by critical discourse analysis (CDA). CDA is an investigation of ‘real and often extended instances of social interaction which take a linguistic form, or a partially linguistic form’ (Fairclough and Wodak 1997:258). Taking a critical stance towards language, through CDA one conceives of discourse as being at the same time socially constitutive and socially shaped. In CDA one is aware that ‘discursive practices may have major ideological effects’, and that this analysis strives to shed light on ‘the ideological loading of particular ways of using language and the relations of power which underlie them’ (Fairclough and Wodak 1997:258). CDA includes a number of approaches, which share a critical interest in the social use of language but are organized around different research principles. Following Norman Fairclough (1995:18), one of the pioneers of CDA and a prominent critical discourse analyst, I am most interested in distinguishing ‘two main senses’ which came to be associated with discourse: ‘One is predominant in language studies: discourse as social action and interaction, people interacting together in real social situations. The other is predominant in post-structuralist social theory (e.g. in the work of Foucault): a discourse as a social construction of reality, a form of knowledge’. Other media discourse scholars make the same distinction, although their emphasis is slightly different: ‘In the more sociologically oriented areas, discourse is considered primarily in relation to social contexts of language use. In linguistics, discourse tends to focus more on language and its use’ (Garrett and Bell 1998:2).

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Watching Si Doel

Presently, one sees a tendency to fuse the two traditions; critical discourse analysis, although not uncontested, is considered one of the most successful efforts of such fusions thus far (Garrett and Bell 1998:2-6). In accordance with a widely accepted definition of discourse among critical discourse analysts, I take discourse loosely to mean the social use of language and other forms of semiosis (Chouliaraki and Fairclough 1999:vii). This perspective entails that both language use (in the broadest sense of the word) on screen as well as the social use of language surrounding the medium are topics of investigation. In addition, when referring to specific discourses and the ways in which they frame one’s perspective, I define discourses as ‘socially situated forms of knowledge about (aspects of) reality’ (Kress and Van Leeuwen 2001:20). The emergence of CDA as a field of study had its roots in the dissatisfaction in the 1970s of some linguists with traditional linguistics (Hodge and Kress 1993). Its current popularity as a field of study is related to the increased importance in today’s society of language in a number of social practices. Fairclough and Wodak (1997:259) assert that ‘the current interest in critical discourse analysis as a field corresponds to, contributes to but also draws upon an upsurge of critical interest in language in contemporary society’. In addition, the role of the media in contemporary society has become more dominant, for instance in political processes (Fairclough and Wodak 1997:259-60). The fact that the significance of language in ‘key areas of social life’ has increased, has set in motion ‘a greater level of conscious intervention to control and shape language practices in accordance with economic, political and institutional objectives’ (Fairclough and Wodak 1997:260). It is this critical interest in language combined with an increased awareness of the effects of certain ways of using language that is the basis of CDA. CDA merges elements from both discourse theory and discourse analysis. It calls the findings of social theories on discourse insightful, but regards as problematic their lack of appropriate tools for the analysis of specific texts (Fairclough 1995:53). To contribute to social and cultural analysis, CDA therefore seeks ‘to combine [the insights of social theory] with traditions of close textual analysis which have developed in linguistics and language studies – to make them “operational”, practically usable, in analysis of specific cases’ (Fairclough 1995:54). An important advantage of CDA over traditional discourse theory is that it provides a link between the study of discourse as a process invested with power that produces knowledge, and actual media texts that embody that knowledge and reveal power relations through language. In other words, CDA not only examines language use (in a broad sense) in actual media texts, it also tries to analyse the workings of power, one of the major concerns of traditional discourse theory as well, in and through media language. CDA enables one to

Introduction

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examine how the New Order ideology frames certain statements on Indonesian television, but it also sensitizes the analyst to issues of power and language at a micro-level. In my own analysis, it encouraged me to critically assess the production of speech in Si Doel, and point out moments of discursive resistance in the television text that may otherwise have gone unnoticed. According to Fairclough (1995:2-3), the mass media should be analysed ‘linguistically and in terms of discourse’ to ‘highlight the linguistic and discoursal nature of media power’. Explaining the kind of analysis he envisions, Fairclough (1995:16-7) proceeds: My view is that we need to analyse media language as discourse, and the linguistic analysis of media should be part of the discourse analysis of media. Linguistic analysis focuses on texts, in a broad sense [….]. But discourse analysis is concerned with practices as well as texts, and with both discourse practices and sociocultural practices. By discourse practices I mean, for instance, the ways in which texts are produced by media workers in media institutions, and the ways in which texts are received by audiences […], as well as how media texts are socially distributed. There are various levels of sociocultural practice that may constitute parts of the context of discourse practice. I find it helpful to distinguish […] the specific social goings-on that the discourse is part of, the institutional framework(s) that a discourse occurs within, and the wider societal matrix of the discourse. Discourse analysis can be understood as an attempt to show systematic links between texts, discourse practices, and sociocultural practices.

Another advantage of CDA over traditional discourse theory is that it is more apt to deal with questions of agency, a topic less developed in traditional discourse theory – and for that reason particularly criticized and modified by feminist and post-colonial discourse theorists (Mills 1997:102, 122). CDA takes agency into consideration by identifying specific moments in the text that betray how power relations between individuals translate into different discourse strategies for each individual. CDA shares its interest in language with traditional linguistics, but differs in its broad conceptualization of discourse, taking it to include ‘language (written and spoken and in combination with other semiotics, for example, with music in singing), non-verbal communication (facial expressions, body movements, gestures, etc.) and visual images (for instance, photographs, film)’ (Chouliaraki and Fairclough 1999:38). The inclusive definition of discourse in CDA makes this approach particularly suitable for dealing with discourse in relation to the audiovisual media, which is the purpose of this book. Besides, the discourse and sociocultural practices within which texts come into being and function enables the CDA scholar to expose the meaning of certain texts for real individuals, and to map out its history and functioning within society at large.

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Watching Si Doel

By calling itself ‘critical’, CDA sets itself apart from traditional linguistics and mainstream discourse analysis. According to Chouliaraki and Fairclough (1999:6), ‘CDA belongs to a tradition of language critique [...]. [W]hat is distinctive about CDA within this tradition however is that it brings critical social science and linguistics [...] together within a single theoretical and analytical framework, setting up a dialogue between them’. Indeed, CDA sees itself partly as an extension of social struggles, and part of its project is emancipatory: [C]ritique (including critique of language) is not just academic but part of social life and social struggles [...] critical social science is informed by and indebted to social movements and struggles. [...] CDA is a matter of democracy in the sense that it aims to bring into democratic control aspects of the contemporary social use of language which are currently outside democratic control (including the effects of unequal power relations [...]). (Fairclough 1999:9.)

It is perhaps this affiliation of CDA with social struggle that is most clearly reminiscent of traditional discourse theory. Whereas the label CDA seems to suggest one single theoretical approach, it is in fact more appropriate to speak of CDAs in the plural. Fairclough and Wodak (1997), in their overview of the field of CDA in the late nineties, outline the key elements of dominant approaches to CDA and the principles around which these approaches are organized. Approaches differ, for example, in whether they emphasize a historical perspective or not; whether they focus on predictability or creativity; how they view the relation between the mediated text and society; and how they interpret discursive events (Wodak 1997:262). To give an example: French Discourse Analysis focuses on ‘discursive formations’ and ‘access to discourse’, whereas critical linguists, such as Hodge and Kress (1993:262-4), concentrate on smaller units of analysis, such as ‘meaningful grammatical choices’ within actual texts. Social semiotics, to mention another approach, emphasizes ‘the multi-semiotic character of most texts in contemporary society’ and is particularly interested in investigating relationships between language and visual images (Hodge and Kress 1993:264). What unites these different approaches is their critical interest in language and discourse, particularly as pertaining to their shared purpose ‘to uncover opaqueness and power relationships’ (Hodge and Kress 1993:265). My approach to CDA is mainly inspired by the work of Norman Fairclough, critical linguistics, and social semiotics. Fairclough’s work introduced me to the field of CDA and convinced me that a critical examination of media discourse should include a thorough analysis of media language. Fairclough and Chouliaraki’s ideas (1997) on the commodification of language resonate, for example, in my analysis of the commercial exploitation of language within and

Introduction

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surrounding the television serial Si Doel. Though I do not analyse stretches of texts as thoroughly and systematically as some critical linguists (for instance Hodge and Kress 1993) and do not examine these texts from a background in linguistics, I do single out some specific words and stretches of discourse for detailed analysis. In Part III, for example, I examine the various strategies behind the use of the terms ngacir and Encang/Encing. This book moreover seeks to contribute to the theorization of the complicated relationship between different semiotic systems and the media. With that aim, I analyse how audience readings of the television text Si Doel are connected to the multi-semiotic design of that text. My critical perspective on language focuses on matters concerning language policies and media language, on the tension between the national language and regional languages, and on the implications of using a particular phrase, language, dialect, or language register for all parties involved in the discursive event. I call my approach ‘critical’, finally, for its commitment to showing how issues of language, identity, and media are intimately linked to matters of power. Previous studies on media, discourse, and Indonesian media Though this book is influenced by work done in discourse studies (notably critical discourse analysis), media studies, and Indonesian studies, it differs in several respects from previous works on media, discourse, and Indonesia. The differences pertain to the genre that is studied in this book, the region under consideration, and the focus on language and discourse rather than politics. Critical discourse analysts tend to examine genres that address ‘the political’ or focus on political issues, such as news items (Hodge and Kress 1993, Fairclough 1995), political speeches or statements (Hodge and Kress 1993), and interviews (Fairclough and Wodak 1997, Barker and Galasiński 2001). Many approaches to CDA emphasize ‘actual’ language in ‘factual’ genres (Garrett and Bell 1998:4). In these approaches there is a focus on ‘real’ instances of discourse (Fairclough and Wodak 1997:258) and ‘naturally occurring texts’ (Barker and Galasiński 2001:63). This book, by contrast, centres on discourse in and surrounding the television ‘dramedy’ Si Doel, a genre that superficially seems less political in nature and less ideologically loaded than the genres mentioned above. What is more, it examines not only ‘actual’ language (‘real’ instances of discourse in and around the media) but also ‘mediated’ language (the scripted language of the Si Doel characters). In their overview of state-of-the-art media discourse studies, Garrett and Bell (1998) make a plea for more research into the reception of texts. In addition, they observe ‘an almost total lack of research […] of how the fin-

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Watching Si Doel

ished text is the outcome of the processes by which it was made’ (1998:18-9). Reception and production can be grouped under what Fairclough (1995:16-7) terms ‘discourse and socio-cultural practices’. Both processes will receive ample attention throughout the book. An important difference with previous work done in media and discourse studies is the region covered by this book. Until fairly recently, most studies on media and media discourse focused on the Anglophone media.4 Similarly, Mirzoeff (1998:2) in his reader on visual culture admits that ‘the geographical coverage is weakest in terms of Asia and Oceania’, pointing out that ‘it must be recognized that visual culture remains a discourse of the West about the West’ (Mirzoeff 1998:10). Over the past two decades this picture has gradually altered. Pioneering works include Kottak (1990) on television in Brazil, Gillespie (1995) on the ways in which Punjabi Londoners watch television, and Armbrust (1996) on the mass media in Egypt. Since the beginning of the twentyfirst century attention for non-Western media has increased even more, as can be inferred from book titles such as Curran and Park’s (2000b) De-Westernizing media studies and Ho, Kluver, and Yang’s (2003) Asia.com; Asia encounters the Internet. Other examples on Asian popular culture include Crane, Kawashima, and Kawasaki (2002), De Kloet (2001) on rock and pop music in China, Moran and Keane (2004) on global television formats in Asia, and Iwabuchi (2004) on the regional success of Japanese television drama. Nonetheless, studies of non-Western media are currently still underrepresented. Studies of the Indonesian media are still also relatively rare. During the first decades after the introduction of television in the archipelago in 1962, the medium – if researched at all – was mainly approached as an instrument for nation-building. Alfian and Chu (1981), for instance, observed the role of television in connection with the project of unifying the Indonesian nation. Indonesian linguist Badudu (1978), who looked at the relationship between language and television, stressed that the medium could be used to promote the Indonesian language. In the 1980s, few scholarly studies investigated Indonesian television as a form of entertainment. Chu, Alfian, and Schramm’s study (1991), for instance, is a sequel to their 1981 study. Victor Caldarola’s in-depth analysis (1990) of the reception of television, video, and film in South Kalimantan is a notable exception. Since the introduction of commercial (or private) television in Indonesia in the late 1980s, the number of publications on Indonesian television has increased substantially. Many of the Indonesian publications include short articles and reflections on television by broadcasting professionals and cultural critics rather than in-depth, book-length studies (for instance Wardhana 1997 and 2001 and Mulyana and Ibrahim 1997). 4

See for instance Allen 1992, Fairclough 1995, Chouliaraki and Fairclough 1999, and Bell and Garrett 1998.

Introduction

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Outside Indonesia too, academic interest in the archipelago’s mediascape is of recent date. Two groundbreaking works in this respect are by Kitley (2000) and Sen and Hill (2000). Whereas Kitley provides a detailed account of national television in Indonesia, Sen and Hill take a broader approach, covering not only television but also other media such as books and the Internet. Both publications offer interesting insights into national television in Indonesia, emphasizing the medium’s socio-political implications rather than its entertainment function. To the best of my knowledge, no book-length study has yet called attention to one specific entertainment genre or television programme on Indonesian television. The present study, which takes the popular Indonesian sinetron Si Doel as its point of departure, aims to do so. ‘Unframing’ Si Doel: The DVD I interpret discourse broadly as including language, non-verbal communication, and visual images. Hence, next to investigating how people talk on the television screen and how viewers talk about television, I also give ample attention to the visual component of discourse. My interest in the interplay between various semiotic modalities is reflected in a number of ways. To start with, the book devotes extensive attention to the visual component of language use in Si Doel. This implies that I not only discuss the language varieties employed by the respective actors, but also the televisual presentation of these idiosyncrasies. I moreover draw attention to the interaction of discursive and non-discursive sounds and images during the various stages of the production process. Last but not least, I point out how the interplay between what the characters say and what the images show influences the ways in which actual viewers perceive the television text. These and related issues are focal points throughout the book. Additionally, I have selected forty-seven excerpts from the television serial Si Doel and related audiovisual sources for presentation on the DVD that accompanies this book. The first thirty-seven excerpts were taken from the television serial Si Doel, particularly its first two series. The first twenty excerpts constitute a chronological summary of the first series as a whole, whereas the remaining excerpts represent key scenes from latter series. For the remainder of the DVD, I selected material from other audiovisual sources that in one way or another relate to Si Doel. Among these excerpts are a number of commercials that employ Si Doel actors and compilations of the production process of Si Doel. Because one purpose of this DVD is to make at least part of my primary material accessible for the reader of this book, all excerpts have been subtitled in English.

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Watching Si Doel

The DVD can be used as a stand-alone production, in which case it constitutes a partial representation of the television series Si Doel. Because all excerpts are discussed in the book and serve to illustrate and strengthen my argument, the DVD can also be watched as an integral part of this study. As this book is the result of my personal ‘framing’ of Si Doel, readers may also consider the DVDs ‘unframing’ devices (see Rogoff 1998:23): tools which may allow them to partly dismantle my conclusions and to reflect upon the discourse of Si Doel for themselves.

Figure 1.1. Map of Indonesia

Figure 1.2. Map of Jakarta

Part I Si Doel, a discourse of Indonesian television

chapter i

From Balai Pustaka to UNICEF The mediatization of ‘Betawi Doel’

In the early twentieth century, a young man called Aman Datuk Madjoindo migrated from West Sumatra to Batavia, the capital city of the Dutch East Indies. Aman Datuk Madjoindo (‘Aman’) settled in Meester Cornelis (later Jatinegara), one of the largest Betawi communities in town (see map 1.2, Jakarta).1 A teacher and writer, in 1920 Aman started working as a corrector at Balai Pustaka, the colonial institution responsible for book publishing and distribution in the archipelago. As of 1932 he was an editor there. Aman’s new environment inspired him to take up writing himself. In particular, he was attracted to writing children’s stories. Aman was intrigued by his neighbour’s son, a little boy who was different from the other children, yet at the same time – at least in his eyes – represented Betawi culture in its purest form. The child was called Doel, a common name among the Betawi.2 According to his grandson, Aman was impressed by Doel, his energetic behaviour, and his interest in religious activities. He also noticed that Doel was extremely obedient to his parents.3 Aman started working on a book about Doel; for three years he studied the behaviour of his neighbour’s child and adapted the manuscript until he was satisfied with the result. The book, entitled Si Doel anak Betawi (‘Doel, Child of Betawi’, henceforth Child of Betawi), was published by Balai Pustaka in 1932. The publishers of the 1949 edition called Child of Betawi ‘a witty story’ which, it was hoped, would ‘stim-

1

A draft version of this chapter was presented at the international symposium ‘Performance and Mediatization’, which was held by the VA|AVMI research programme from 2 to 5 December 1998. I thank Charles Forceville, associate professor in the Humanities Department, University of Amsterdam, for his critical reading of the draft version and his useful comments. 2 According to H. Bahrum, male Betawi are usually named after the prophet Muhammad or after Abdullah, translating as ‘servant of Allah’. This accords with Islamic teachings, which advise parents to give their children a ‘good’ name in the religious sense. In daily life these names are often shortened to Mamat or Mat (for Muhammad) and Abdul or Dul (for Abdullah). Interview with H. Bahrum, 28 March 1999. 3 Interview with H. Bahrum, 28 March 1999.

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ulate children’s imaginations’.4 Writer Aman explains in the foreword that he has deliberately written the dialogues in bahasa Betawi, the language spoken by the Betawi community, so that readers from outside Batavia could become acquainted with this language of the capital city (on the language policy of Balai Pustaka, see Jedamski 1997). The Betawi, native inhabitants of Jakarta, are commonly defined as an ethnic group whose roots were put down in the course of the seventeenth century. At that time, the Dutch East Indies Company (VOC) replenished the scanty population of Batavia by bringing Indonesian slaves (notably from Bali, South Sulawesi, Kalimantan, and Nusa Tenggara) and foreign slaves (predominantly from mainland South Asia) to the colonial capital. Here these slaves mingled with the so-called free settlers, consisting of Balinese, Buginese, Ambonese, Malays, Europeans, south Indian Muslims, Japanese, and Chinese. At first, the different ethnic groups lived in separate neighbourhoods. Through commerce, mixed marriage, and other inter-cultural relationships, predominantly the indigenous inhabitants of Batavia gradually amalgamated with members of other ethic groups, and from the mid-nineteenth century onwards they were generally considered to form one distinct group whose members were called orang Betawi (Castles 1967:155-62). To counter what he calls ‘the myth of the Betawi as descendants of slaves’, the well-known Betawi politician and cultural authority Ridwan Saidi posits that people were living in the vicinity of what was then called Sunda Kelapa long before the arrival of the Dutch. Because the territory they inhabited fell beyond the administrative unit of Batavia as defined by the Dutch, these people were not included in official censuses and they remained invisible to the Dutch administration and as a source for later research. According to Saidi (1997a:1-5; 1997c:16-20), the Betawi are therefore descendants of these free people.5 Just as there is no consensus on the exact origins of the Betawi, definin­g their main characteristics today is no less complicated. In fact, struggles about what being a Betawi entails nowadays and about who counts as ‘real’ Betawi are not uncommon among the Betawi themselves (Shahab 1996, 1997). For example, being a Betawi is often equated with being a Muslim (see for instance Saidi 1997b:96-104). However, a minority actually adheres to other religions, like Roman Catholicism (Kurris 1996). Another, less contested cul4

My analysis here is based on three editions, issued in 1932 (Si Doel anak Betawi), 1949 (Si Doel), and 1989 (Si Dul anak Jakarta). Note that in later editions the term ‘Betawi’ was changed into the less ethnically loaded term ‘Jakarta’, while the spelling of ‘Doel’ in agreement with the new orthography became ‘Dul’. 5 During the fasting month of 2001, the Institute for the Advancement of Betawi Culture organized a debate between Saidi and Castles. For this debate, which was entitled Betawi Keturunan Budak? (‘Are the Betawi descendants of slaves?’), both scholars were asked to unfold their theories about the origins of the Betawi. The mass media, which covered the debate, afterwards proclaimed Saidi the winner (Kita Sama Kita 2002:3).

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tural marker of the Betawi is their language. A local variety of Malay, bahasa Betawi or Betawi Malay is closely related to the national language, yet sufficiently different to be recognized as a language on its own (Wallace 1976; Grijns 1991; Muhadjir 2000). Stereotypes of the Betawi circulating in society are that they are lazy (because they used to have plenty of land to harvest from without much effort), and have little interest in pursuing an education (because of a fear that modern education would alienate them from their religion). Male Betawi are traditionally referred to as jago,6 or masters of pencak silat, an Indonesian martial art form. Women are traditionally stereotyped as being subordinate to men; their place is at home where they are supposed to take care of their husband, look after the children, read the Koran, and prepare tasty sambal. One also encounters this stereotype in the book Child of Betawi, which is set in the early twentieth century. The main character Doel and his family are Betawi who live in a small neighbourhood in the heart of Batavia. Doel leads his life in the same way as many of his Betawi friends do. In addition to playing, he attends religious classes on the Koran (ngaji) every afternoon. Just as the jago stereotype prescribes and much to the discomfort of his mother, Doel often fights with other boys. Because he is smaller and younger than some of his adversaries, including his archenemy Sapi’i (who will eventually become his best friend), his opponents are impressed by his combativeness and fighting talent. Doel’s mother is not amused by his behaviour and tries to discourage her son’s pugnacity. On the other hand, his father, once considered a jago himself, is proud of Doel’s courage. One day, when his father asks what presents he would like to receive at the end of the fasting month of Ramadan, Doel mentions a school uniform (next, of course, to the obligatory fire crackers). Doel imagines school as a place where you learn all sorts of games and sports; he is really looking forward to going there, just like ‘Karto who lives next door’.7 Doel’s father promises Doel that his wish will be fulfilled after Ramadan. The book begins joyfully, relating vividly the daily adventures of little Doel and his friends and enemies in the kampong. But then Doel’s father, a truck driver, dies in a traffic accident and everything changes. Doel’s carefree days are over, and with them his hopes of ever becoming a schoolboy – or so it seems. Grieved by the death of her beloved husband, Doel’s mother falls ill for quite some time. When she recovers, a friend offers her a job in a department store, but because her father does not grant his permission – in his opinion, a woman should stay at home – she sets up a small business 6 Jago literally translates as fighting rooster, but when used in its metaphorical sense it can be rendered as ‘fighting champion’. On the importance of the jago figure and jago-ism in Betawi culture, see Van Till 1996, especially pp. 477-8. 7 Karto, incidentally, is a typical Javanese name.

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together with her son. In the morning Doel’s mother cooks nasi uduk, a popular Betawi dish of rice and chicken, which her son then peddles during the day. Although mother and son manage to earn a living this way, they will never be able to raise enough money to pay for Doel’s education. Eventually all ends well when Doel’s mother marries for a second time. Because his new father acknowledges the importance of education and is willing to pay the tuition fees, Doel’s dream finally comes true. Although his grandfather does not give his blessings – in fact he despises the idea of Doel’s getting a modern education – Doel’s parents persist and Doel enters primary school. With the notable exception of the 1932 edition of Child of Betawi, to which I will return below, the story ends with Doel’s first day in school and a description of his subsequent enthusiasm. It is not surprising that Aman, who was a teacher, introduced the theme of education into his story, nor that Balai Pustaka endorsed his choice, which was in compliance with the general goal of the ‘ethical policy’8 of uplifting the Indonesian people. The story touched upon a current issue, because at the time the majority of the native inhabitants of Batavia lacked even primary education – at least, in a Western sense. In addition, the educational backwardness (from a colonial perspective) of the Betawi in contrast to nonBetawi citizens was remarkable. One explanation for this educational gap is that the Betawi tended to be suspicious of the school system that was set up by the colonial government. In their eyes, this system disseminated Christian as opposed to Islamic values, and they preferred sending their children to the more familiar Islamic institutions (Abeyasekere 1989:90; Castles 1967:202-4). By contrasting Betawi Doel with his Javanese neighbour Karto, it is as though writer Aman wanted to encourage his Betawi readers to follow the educational example of their Javanese fellow citizens. This interpretation is most explicitly supported by the 1932 edition, in which several references are made to Karto’s Javanese, as opposed to Doel’s Betawi, identity. For instance, one night Doel dreams that he is already in school, where just as he expects of school, he is running, jumping, climbing trees, and getting into line. Doel triumphs in all categories except for the long jump, where he must acknowledge Karto’s superiority. Doel cannot bear the thought of it, because in his view a Betawi child should never be defeated by a Javanese child (Madjoindo 1932:46). Doel’s second father, a mechanic, reflects upon the resistance towards modern education ascribed to the Betawi. The reader is not informed of his place of birth, but villagers know from his language use that he is not a 8

The ‘ethical policy’ alludes to the period in colonial rule that was characterized by a professed concern for the well-being of Indonesians rather than the mere exploitation of Indonesia. As a principle of government, the ethical policy gained ground in the early twentieth century. Scholars disagree upon when it ended; some say it lasted a few decades, others argue that its influence was actually felt throughout the twentieth century (Ricklefs 1981:143, 153-4).

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Betawi (Madjoindo 1989:79). In standard Malay, Doel’s new father expresses his opinion on the importance of education to his wife as follows:9 I have noticed that the people around here do not like to send their children to school. They are only allowed to receive religious teaching. […] It is true that learning to recite the Koran is very good, as is religious knowledge, but one must not forget about schooling. Because it is through scholarly knowledge that people can attain a good life these days.10 (Madjoindo 1989:80.)

After some hesitation, Doel’s mother eventually ventures to ask permission from her father. Doel’s grandfather, who doubles as Doel’s religious teacher, is strongly opposed to the idea of his grandson attending primary school. Venting his anger in his vernacular Betawi Malay, his answer clearly reflects the suspicious attitude towards modern education the Betawi are supposed to have: Do whatever you like! […] Send Doel to school, or let him confess to Christianity immediately, it is up to you. I don’t care! But he doesn’t have to come here any more. I don’t like it. […] If he doesn’t know how to recite from the Koran, he will grow up a heathen, do you realize that? Damn you child, you never listen to what I tell you.11 (Madjoindo 1989:82.)

In the end, the head of the local community, who understands both viewpoints, volunteers to settle the dispute. After the community head’s mediation Doel’s grandfather learns to accept that Doel will go to school in the morning and attend his ngaji lessons in the afternoon. Interestingly, in the 1932 version the story continues with a short description of what has become of Doel as an adult. With the traditional formula, ‘the storyteller tells us that twelve years later…’,12 Aman introduces a new episode in Doel’s life. This section in the story, incidentally, seems to be directed at an adult or adolescent readership rather than at children. The author tells the reader how much Doel’s grandfather regrets his previous suspicious attitude towards modern education. While Doel reads the newspaper to him, Doel’s grandfather realizes that he was wrong to forbid his grandson to pursue a secular education and even goes as far as to say that he is very grateful to his daughter (Doel’s mother) for having disobeyed his orders on that matter. Doel’s grandfather now clearly sees the advantages of being able to read and write Latin script. It 9

All translations are mine unless stated otherwise. ‘[S]aya lihat orang di sini kurang suka menyerahkan anaknya ke sekolah. Mereka hanya diserahkan mengaji saja. […] Betul belajar mengaji dan agama itu sangat baiknya, tetapi sekolah jangan dilupakan. Karena dengan ilmu sekolah itulah sekarang orang dapat mencari hidup yang baik.’ 11 ‘Bikin aje ape yang lu suka […]. Baik si Dul masuk sekole, baik lu jadiin Serani, masak bodoh lu. Gue kagak peduli! Tapi kagak usah dia [sic] dateng-dateng ke sini. Gue kagak suka. […] Kalo die kagak tau ngaji, die jadi kafir nanti lu tau nggak? Emang lu anak kualat, kagak denger kate.’ 12 ‘Kata orang jang poenja tjerita doea belas tahoen kemoedian […]’ (Madjoindo 1932:88). 10

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is useful, for instance, for reading the paper to find out how many Muslims are going on pilgrimage to Mecca. Furthermore, the author makes perfectly clear that modern education has not turned Doel into a heathen as his grandfather had feared. On the contrary, Doel is portrayed wearing a kopiah, the Islamic head covering for men, and at the end of the story he accompanies his grandfather to the mosque to pray for his second father, who apparently is now deceased (Madjoindo 1932:88–91). Though nowadays the attitude of the Betawi towards modern education has changed significantly, as the 1932 Balai Pustaka edition suggested it would, the myth of the old-fashioned, uneducated Betawi persists. According to Yasmine Shahab, herself a Betawi, it is not the attitude of the Betawi towards education that needs updating, but rather the research that so far has been conducted on this topic (Shahab 1996). Only the 1932 edition of Child of Betawi contains a description of Doel in adulthood. The most obvious explanation for this seems to be that the political situation in Indonesia had changed considerably since the first edition was published, so that the colonial perspective from which these pages were originally written (setting the story in an Indonesia ruled by the Dutch) were considered incongruous in the context of the newly independent Indonesia. In addition, Aman had written a sequel to Child of Betawi that rendered the supplementary pages to the 1932 version superfluous. The novel, entitled Pertolongan Dukun; Si Doel anak Jakarta II (‘With the help of the magic specialist; Doel, child of Jakarta, part two’, henceforth: Child of Jakarta part two),13 relates the vicissitudes of the lives of the youngster Doel and his future wife, who have to endure hardship before they can eventually be married. For many mediatizers, that is, those who adopted and adapted this story to a medium of their choice, Child of Betawi was a source of inspiration and admiration, but its sequel is not as well-known and received a less favourable response. According to Ridwan Saidi, a renowned member of the Betawi community, readers responded less enthusiastically because it did not reflect Betawi culture as vividly as did Child of Betawi.14 Child of Betawi, the movie After independence, Balai Pustaka resurfaced under the new Indonesian government. The war and the ensuing military aggression had caused the institution to close down for several years, but on 1 May 1948 production resumed. To fill the literary vacuum resulting from the preceding period, Balai Pustaka 13

I have not been able to determine the year in which this novel was first issued, since later editions only mention the year of its second (1953) and third (1997) prints. 14 Interview with Ridwan Saidi, 12 February 1999. In fact, Saidi was so disappointed in Aman’s follow-up that he decided to write his own sequel to Child of Betawi.

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immediately set out to reprint books from colonial times, provided they were still deemed useful for society (Balai Pustaka 1997:35-7). Evidently, Child of Betawi was one of the books that met these standards repeatedly because by 1995 the book had been reprinted sixteen times (Balai Pustaka 1995:38). In the late 1960s, a nine year-old boy named Rano Karno read the book Child of Betawi in primary school. Rano Karno lived near a Balai Pustaka library and was fond of reading any Balai Pustaka book, but Child of Betawi stole his heart. Despite his Minang-Javanese-Betawi background – his father was of mixed Sumatran-Javanese descent, his mother a ‘Jawi’ (mixed Javanese-Betawi) – the young boy saw many resemblances between himself and ‘Betawi Doel’, who was about the same age and also lived in Jakarta. In the words of the man who would later become one of Indonesia’s leading actors, ‘Doel obsessed me, I really loved him, […] I truly idolized Doel’15. Rano Karno strongly identified with Doel, to the point that he started imitating his behaviour. If Doel helped his mother peddling rice and chicken, the young Rano Karno sold newspapers, cakes, and desserts for basically the same ends: to help his family and to save money for his education.16 Rano Karno was not the only person whose imagination was stimulated by Child of Betawi, thus fulfilling the hope of the Balai Pustaka publishers as expressed in the foreword to the 1949 edition. In all its plainness, Aman’s touching story about the adventures of a Betawi boy marked the start of a range of audiovisual adaptations, beginning with the cinema. The first movie produced in Indonesia appeared as early as 1926, but the national film industry only gained ground in the early 1950s, after the country had become independent. In the early 1960s, production gradually declined until it almost came to a full stop in the wake of the events of the purported coup and counter-coup in September 1965. As the decade drew to a close, the industry slowly recovered and talented new film-makers took a chance. One of them was Sjuman Djaya, a Russian-trained producer and actor who had been involved in the film industry since 1956 but would become a well-known filmmaker only in the 1970s.17 Sjuman Djaya was acquainted with Soekarno M. Noor, an actor of renown and Rano Karno’s father.18 Still an enthusiastic reader of Balai Pustaka and other books at the time, Rano Karno had been developing a passion for acting, as had his elder brother Tino Karno. At first Soekarno Noor forbade his sons to also become actors, but when his prohibition turned out to be in vain the children were allowed to develop their talents. At the age of twelve, 15

‘Saya terobsesi terhadap Si Doel, saya sangat begitu cinta terhadap Si Doel […] saya sangat mengidolakan Si Doel.’ 16 Telephone interview with Rano Karno, 3 September 1998. 17 On Indonesian cinema, see Said 1982, 1991, Heider 1991, and Sen 1994. 18 Screen performances of the late Soekarno M. Noor include the movies Anakku sajang (My dearest child, 1957) and Menjusuri djedjak berdarah (Following the trace of blood, 1967), for both of which he won the title Best Actor.

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Rano Karno had already performed in three movies, one of them directed by Sjuman Djaya.19 Despite his Central Javanese background, Sjuman Djaya was generally considered an anak Betawi, or member of the Betawi community, because he had been living in Jakarta for a long time and had shown an obvious interest in Betawi culture. In the early 1970s, he decided to adapt Aman’s muchadmired book to film and involve members of the Soekarno M. Noor family in the process. Initially he wanted Rano Karno’s elder brother to perform the main character Doel, but in the end it was Rano Karno who was cast. Tino Karno ended up as Sapi’i, Doel’s archenemy. To complicate matters, their (real) father was cast as Doel’s grandfather and religious teacher, while the champion actor of the Betawi, Benyamin Suaeb, better known as Benyamin S., played the role of Doel’s father.20 A trailer of the 1973 movie introduces Doel to the audience as follows: Doel, Child of Betawi. Who has never read his story, who does not know of him? We have Jampang, the Betawi champion. Pitung, the bull of Betawi. This one is called Doel. [Here is] the adventurous story of a little fighting champion. A lovely gift taken from the lives of the children and people who lived in Jakarta in the old times. Si Doel is still fascinating in our days for all tastes, all people, and all ages.21 (DVD no. 38)

Apart from the explicit reference to the Balai Pustaka book (‘who has never read his story?’), it is remarkable the author lists Doel’s name alongside two legendary Betawi heroes, Jampang and Pitung. These archetypal jago, who share many characteristics, are believed to have lived around 1900. The story goes that both were masters in the martial arts, feared by the rich and respected among the poor. Pitung is often referred to as ‘the Robin Hood of Betawi’, since he reputedly stole from the rich and divided his loot among the poor (Muluk and Sutarjo 1979).22 The placement of Doel’s name right after those of these notorious figures invites the viewer to see him as a hero of the same stature: a pious Muslim, opposed to injustice, and noted for his fighting capacities. The story presented in the movie Child of Betawi deviates at some points from Aman’s story, but the general picture is more or less the same. The movie starts with shots of Tanjung Priok, the harbour of the capital, and 19

Dyaja directed Lewat tengah malam (After midnight, 1971). The other films are Malin Kundang (The name of a legend, 1971) and Lingkaran setan (Vicious circle, 1972). 20 Telephone interview with Rano Karno, 3 September 1998. 21 ‘Si Doel Anak Betawi. Siapa tidak pernah membaca atau mengenalnya. Ada Si Jampang, jago Betawi. Ada Si Pitung, banteng Betawi. Yang ini Si Doel. Sebuah kisah petualangan seorang jagoan kecil. Sebuah bingkisan manis dari kehidupan anak-anak dan orang Jakarta jaman tempo dahulu. Dia akan selalu mengasyikkan buat jaman kini, buat semua selera, semua orang, dan semua umur.’ 22 See Van Till 1996 for a critical analysis of the myth of Si Pitung.

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several buildings that clearly set the story in Jakarta (imagine Batavia). The film then proceeds to depict daily life in a Betawi kampong. After some five minutes, Doel, Sapi’i and their respective ‘gangs’ make their first appearance. In a scene reminiscent of the famous film musical West side story, albeit a less racy version, the two gangs are juxtaposed. Meanwhile, the lyrics of the title song relate the qualities of Doel and Sapi’i (DVD no. 38). As in the book, discourses of education and jago-ism inform the narrative of the movie, illustrated by the following dialogue. Doel has been involved in yet another fight with Sapi’i, and he owes his mother an explanation: Doel: Mother: Doel: Mother: Doel: Mother: Father:

I didn’t want to fight, Mom. But Sapi’i is such a rascal, he always provokes me. Just let him provoke you, you mustn’t respond to that. Do you really want to become a fighting champion (jagoan)? You are just like your father […]. He thinks he can do anything because he is rich! Listen, boy, do you want to go to school or not? Of course I do, Mom! Wear a tie, wear shoes, and carry a bag just like Manu and Sri, our neighbour Karto’s children. Well, if you want to go to school, you don’t have to become a jagoan. You will go to school, and you will become a jagoan. That’s my son!23

Whereas the nature of the different media complicates a straightforward comparison between the book Child of Betawi and the movie by the same name, one can compare the ways in which the translatable part of the narrative, that is, the story (Bal 1997), is presented in both narrative texts. Yet there are differences. For instance, whereas in none of the Balai Pustaka editions explicit reference is made to the period in which the story is set (in fact, each new edition is slightly adapted to the changed societal context), the movie situates it in 1940 by showing this date inscribed on the gravestone of Doel’s deceased father. In addition, Doel’s new father in the movie is his uncle Asmat, his father’s younger brother and therefore also a Betawi. By marrying his deceased brother’s widow (turun ranjang), Asmat continues this Betawi tradition. Although in the book the identity of Doel’s second father remains unclear, it is certain that he is not a Betawi. Further, in the movie Doel’s romantic feelings for little Sri seem to nourish his eagerness to go to school, whereas in the book this is not so. The most remark23

Doel: ‘Doel nggak mau berkelahi, Bu. Tapi Sapi’i itu memang jahanam, dia selalu bikin gara-gara.’ / Mother: ‘Ya biarin aja dia cari gara-gara, kamu nggak usah jawab. Memangnya kamu mau jadi jagoan? Nggak anak nggak Bapak […]’ / Doel: ‘Mentang-mentang die orang kaya!’ / Mother: ‘Dengar nak, kamu mau sekolah apa nggak?’ / Doel: ‘Mau dong, Bu. Pake dasi, pake sepatu, bawa tas, kayak si Manu dan si Sri, anak Pak Karto di sebelah itu.’ / Mother: ‘Nah, kalau mau sekolah, nggak usah jadi jagoan.’ / Father: ‘Sekolah juga, jadi jagoan juga. Itu namanya anak si Asman!’ (movie Child of Betawi, 1973; see also script, pp. 8-9).

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able difference between book and film however is the attitude towards education that Doel’s grandparents display. In the book, Doel’s grandfather is at first ill-disposed toward modern education; only later does he come round. In the movie, by contrast, Doel’s grandparents support their grandson’s educational aspirations from the start, and they wait for him after his first day at school. When Doel crosses the schoolyard on his way to his parents and grandparents, the camera zooms in on Doel’s teacher, who is watching her pupil from a distance. Looking in Doel’s direction, the teacher predicts that Doel will become a modern Betawi. The movie ends after this prognostication. Sjuman Djaya is said to have succeeded in his careful construction of a Betawi community in the 1940s, and Child of Betawi was chronicled as a successful children’s film that became a topic of conversation among its youthful audience. One critic praised the producer for pointing out the importance of education to those Betawi determined to get ahead in society (Kristanto 1995:114). Salim Said was of the opinion that too much emphasis had been put on the educational message. Alluding to the influx of people from all over Indonesia to the capital city after World War II and the challenges this new development posed to the Betawi community, he ascribed the success of the movie to its substantiation of ‘the buried hope of the Betawi community to achieve a normal way of living in the heart of this city, which keeps on expanding but is only enjoyed by newcomers’ (Said 1991:240).24 Though children may have enjoyed the movie for its fighting and humorous scenes, adults may indeed have liked the film for the reason mentioned by this critic. Around the time Child of Betawi was launched, in 1973, many Betawi (and many other inhabitants of Jakarta) were being persuaded or forced to sell their land and give way to the municipal government and its project developers, who wanted to transform Jakarta into a full-fledged, modern metropolis to correspond with their ambitious Master Plan (Abeyasekere 1989:219-20, 227-9). Seen from this perspective, Child of Betawi may well have evoked nostalgia in older viewers and a sense of longing for the not-sodistant past when it was they who ‘owned’ the city. The movie Child of Betawi brought Rano Karno instant fame and marked the beginning of his impressive career in the entertainment industry. Just as importantly, many viewers would identify the actor with the bright and courageous Doel from that moment on.

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‘[…] harapan terpendam anak-anak Betawi terhadap suatu hidup yang wajar di tengah kota, yang terus membesar tetapi cuma dinikmati oleh pendatang.’

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Child of modernity The discrepancy between the Betawi community as portrayed in Child of Betawi and the inhabitants of modern Jakarta in the 1970s probably inspired Sjuman Djaya to make his follow-up Si Doel anak modern. This title literally translates as ‘Doel, a modern child’, but I will render it as ‘Doel, child of modernity’ (henceforth Child of modernity). Set in what was then contemporary Jakarta – the mid-1970s – this movie differs in many respects from the previous ‘Doel movie’. First, it was aimed at a general instead of a children’s audience. Further, in the second movie the main character Doel is not played by Rano Karno, who was sixteen at the time, but by the much older Benyamin S. who played Doel’s father in the first movie. In Child of modernity Doel is in his twenties. As Doel’s teacher predicts in the first movie, he has indeed become a modern anak Betawi. Enriched by an education in the city, Doel has become a sophisticated man who surprises his mother with his funny behaviour and strange habits. The movie starts with shots of Doel and his mother in their house in Cibinong, an area south of Jakarta near Bogor. Whereas in the movie Child of Betawi Doel and his mother lived in the centre of Jakarta, in this sequel they have moved to a rural region (scenario Child of modernity 1976, p. 1). The critical viewer may see this as a reference the relocation of many Betawi from the centre of Jakarta to the periphery and beyond. Viewers are also informed that Doel’s mother’s second husband passed away during the revolution, another period in Indonesian history during which many ordinary people became victims. The story begins with an effort – one of many, as the viewer is soon to find out – by Doel’s mother to pair her son with an acquaintance’s daughter. Doel, however, is not at all interested in marrying, let alone marrying a village girl; his priority is starting a business. Doel explains to his mother that he will propose to his old friend Kristin, but only after he has become successful. Kristin was formerly known as Nonon; it is said that when she and Doel were children, they herded the goats together.25 Doel persuades his mother to sell the remains of the land she owns to oil company Pertamina because he needs the money to set up a small business with Sinyo and Sapi’i. The attentive and informed viewer may remember the latter as Doel’s enemy-turned-friend. Apparently Doel succeeds in his efforts, because the next shot shows him riding a motorcycle on his way to the city. The image is frozen and the title song of Sjuman’s first movie, sung by little (Rano Karno) Doel, is inserted, thus strengthening for the viewer the sense of continuity between the two movies (DVD no. 38). 25

Although this seems to be a reference to Child of Betawi, neither the book nor the 1973 movie make any mention of a girl called Nonon.

28

Watching Si Doel

The rest of the story revolves around Doel and his friends’ business ventures and way of living. Doel, however, is actually mainly interested in attracting Kristin’s attention. Willing to do virtually anything to win this woman’s heart, Doel allows himself to be talked into all sorts of ‘modern’ activities, such as curling his hair and wearing platform shoes. His efforts to attract Kristin’s attention with his modern appearance initially appear successful, but in the end Kristin turns him down. After a series of unlikely events, Doel ends up in the hospital, where he tells his mother that modernity was not as good as it looked. He vows to follow her home and marry the first woman that she selects for him. But when Kristin comes running into the hospital, Doel changes his mind and announces that he will marry her instead. Though a contemporary Western viewer may find it hard to concentrate on the multiple storylines, which are at times presented in a disorienting manner, an Indonesian critic described Child of modernity as Sjuman Djaya’s smoothest film. The movie became the fifth most popular film in Jakarta in 1976 and won several national awards, among others for Benyamin S. as best actor (Kristanto 1995:150). Although Child of modernity can be considered a continuation of Child of Betawi, as suggested by the fact that both movies use the same set of characters, were made by the same producer, share a similar title, and use the same title song, that is where their similarities end. Comparing the two films, one critic even observes: ‘The difference is that after Syuman has passionately aroused the spirit of the Betawi people in his first movie, he takes great pains in this latest sequel precisely to ridicule them. In this latest movie Doel has really become a fool, a toy for his friends’ (Said 1991:243).26 Sjuman Djaya does indeed seem to have mainly intended with Child of modernity to ridicule those Betawi (and, for that matter, Indonesians in general) who raved about modernity. The movie mocks certain issues, such as corrupt hajjis, an obsession with money, and unconventional marital relations, which the director may have considered indicative of ‘modern’ Indonesian society. An Indonesian film critic notes that ‘Child of modernity is a comedy meant as a social critique. The core of this social critique is that in the city, in Jakarta to be precise, modernity is only skin-deep. Urban people are only modern from the outside, they only feign to be modern (sok modern), because that which is called modern in the city is fake’ (Seno Gumira Ajidarma 2000:102).27 At the beginning of the movie the title Si Doel anak modern is struck through and replaced with Si Doel sok modern, suggesting that this ‘fake modernity’ is in 26

‘Bedanya adalah bahwa setelah secara berapi-api membangkitkan semangat anak Betawi dalam film terdahulu, dalam seri terbaru si Doel ini, Syuman mati-matian mengejek anak Betawi itu. Dalam film terakhir ini si Doel betul-betul orang konyol yang jadi mainan teman-temannya.’ 27 ‘Si Doel Anak Modern adalah sebuah komedi yang dimaksudkan sebagai kritik sosial. Adapun tema kritik sosialnya adalah: di kota, tepatnya Jakarta, modernisasi hanya diterima sebagai kulit. Jadi orang kota hanya modern di luarnya, hanya sok modern, karena apa yang disebut modern di kota adalah kepalsuan.’

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fact its true theme. For instance, in Child of modernity the frequent use of fake degrees is ridiculed. When Sapi’i introduces Doel to their childhood enemyturned-friend Sinyo, Sinyo gives Doel a business card. Doel is surprised to discover that Sinyo has a Masters degree: Doel:

Nyo, half-breed Sinyo! When for heaven’s sake did you manage to go to school? All of a sudden you can call yourself ‘Master’!

Sinyo: Pi’i: Zus: Doel: Pi’i: Doel:

I am modern! It is the same thing as your deaf telephone!28 Well, he knows. […] Sis, you can make a thing like that for Doel. Sure, just tell me what title [to put on it]. Sapi’i, which title should I choose, Hamid or Sultan perhaps? That is not what she means: engineer, physician, whatever! No! Sis, just [call me] hajji, that is more respectable.29

Child of modernity is not only critical of modern Indonesian society, but also adds a critical note to Sjuman Djaya’s earlier production, Child of Betawi. The producer probably tried to contrast the romanticized narrative of the past as depicted in Child of Betawi with the far dimmer prospects of the Betawi that he saw in his direct vicinity. Doel’s metamorphosis can be partly accounted for by the person who played his role in the second movie. The late Benyamin S. was famous for his spontaneous and comical style, which he developed in the course of his career in the film and music industry (Hanan 1998). In part, Doel’s caricatural behaviour can be explained by the filmmaker’s likely goal of producing a satire on modernity. Nevertheless, from an audience’s point of view in Child of modernity there had been an unexpected and rather unsatisfactory twist in Doel’s fate. Educated Doel30 At least one person who was concerned with Doel’s destiny in Child of modernity was Rano Karno, the actor who played Doel in Sjuman’s first movie, Child of Betawi, and who felt that his alter ego deserved a better fate. Determined to 28

The reference is to the unconnected telephone that Sapi’i has put in his office as a status symbol. 29 Doel: ‘Nyo, Sinyo blaster! Kapan ente makan sekolahan, tau-tau nama ente pake doktorandus?’ / Sinyo: ‘Modern! Sama ame telpon ente yang budek!’ / Pi’i: ‘Tau aja die. / [...] / Zus, zus, bikinin yang ginian buat Si Doel.’ / Zus: ‘Beres, pangkatnya apa dong?’ / Doel: ‘I, pangkatnya ape ye, ape Hamid ape Sultan.’ / Pi’i: ‘Bukan begitu maksudnya: insinyur, dokter, apa kek!’ / Doel: ‘Nggak, ah! Zus, haji aja deh, biar lebih afdol.’ 30 Unless stated otherwise, I obtained all information in this paragraph and the following on the sinetron Educated Doel (or Si Doel as I will refer to it more often) and the cartoon Doel’s adventures through casual conversations and interviews with Rano Karno on various occasions between 1997 and 2003.

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Watching Si Doel

upgrade Doel’s image, Karno made an effort to produce a movie based on the character. When this failed, the actor-turned-producer decided to adapt the story to television. This resulted in the television serial Si Doel anak sekolahan or Educated Doel, which is the focus of this book. Si Doel revolves around Doel and his now extended family as they lead their lives in Karang Tengah, a neighbourhood in the south of present-day Jakarta. In the first series of episodes, Doel – incidentally an abbreviation of Kasdullah, not Abdullah as in previous media manifestations – is an engineering student at a technical university in Jakarta. Doel struggles to find a balance between the traditional values his parents esteem and the modern life he prefers. The characters of Doel and his father Sabeni are played by the same actors who performed in Child of Betawi, respectively Rano Karno and Benyamin S., and Rano Karno’s elder brother Tino Karno is cast once again as Sapi’i, his enemy-turned-friend (viewers may remember him from Aman’s book and both movies by Sjuman Djaya). Important female characters are Doel’s mother Lela, his sister Atun, and Doel’s potential girlfriends, the rival characters Sarah and Zaenab. Whereas Sarah is rich, trendy, and independen­t, the shy Zaenab’s behaviour betrays her traditional upbringing. After the first series of six episodes proved successful, five sequels were produced. Private station RCTI aired the first four series, whereas its competitor Indosiar broadcast the fifth and the sixth series. As noted, in October 2005 the sinetron reappeared in a slightly different setting as Si Doel anak gedongan (‘Corporate Doel’). The first series ends with Doel’s graduation. In the second series, Doel experiences difficulties as he starts looking for a proper job. An important theme throughout the serial is also Doel’s friendship with Zaenab and Sarah; one of them is likely to become his wife. After a number of unsatisfactory jobs, Doel eventually finds work that pleases him at a construction company. In the final series he ends up marrying Sarah. Rano Karno titled his creation Si Doel anak sekolahan, a reference to and a pun on the title of previous Doel stories. The word si is an article that can be used to refer in a familiar or derogatory way to a third person. Hence Si Doel in English simply translates as ‘Doel’.31 The meaning of the word anak in the title, however, is ambiguous: its unmarked meaning is ‘child’, but it can also be used for an adult. When used for an adult, the word anak is followed by a noun or geographical location, denoting that person’s origin or place of birth, or the specific grouping to which he or she is thought to or claims to belong. An example of the latter is Sjuman Djaya, who for his dedication to Betawi culture was often referred to as anak Betawi. 31

The phrase ‘Si Doel’ refers both to the character Doel and to the title of one of the many Doel stories, notably the television serial Si Doel anak sekolahan. If and where necessary, I have translated phrases containing ‘Si Doel’ with unambiguous English phrases, mentioning either the name of the character or the English title of the type of media at hand. Where no suitable English equivalent was available, I retained the Indonesian phrase. 

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Whereas in Aman’s book and Sjuman’s movie Si Doel anak Betawi the word anak unambiguously translates as ‘child’ (the main character is indeed a young boy), the use of the same word in the title of the television serial Si Doel anak sekolahan triggered some criticism. A number of fans of the popular sinetron, perhaps unaware of its marked meaning, protested against the use of the word anak for 26 year-old Doel and urged Rano Karno to come up with an alternative – Si Doel orang kaya (Doel, the rich man), for instance. Although the word anak is gender-neutral and was traditionally used mainly by and for men,32 today the phrase anak Betawi is used for and by both men and women who take pride in their Betawi identity. The final word from the title needing explanation is sekolahan. Whereas anak sekolah can be rendered unequivocally as ‘schoolchild’, anak sekolahan has a slightly different meaning. The noun sekolah with suffix -an is derived from the verb menyekolahkan (‘to send someone to school’) and indicates the result of this verb, in the example, ‘a product of school’. Used as an adjective with anak (in its marked sense), this combination denotes someone who is receiving or has received education.33 Producer Rano Karno has given the term sekolahan a prominent position in the title to challenge the widespread opinion that most Betawi are uneducated. His fellow scriptwriter Ida Farida, however, also wanted the serial to be an example for those Betawi who did recognize themselves in the stereotype of the old-fashioned Betawi countered by Si Doel. She intended for the serial to encourage these people to take certain steps to get ahead in life. Ida Farida believes it is necessary to acknowledge that, even today, many members of the Betawi community still lack education despite the progress that has been made in the past decades.34 Moreover, Rano Karno uses the term sekolahan ambiguously to refer not only to the formal institution of school that turns one into an educated person (although in his view school is a prerequisite for that), but also to draw attention to the fact that one learns as much from school as from socializing with the masses and facing problems in real life. This is yet another reason why he refused to change the title of his television production; in his opinion, education (in a broad sense) is a process that never ends. Doel commercials It turned out that the sinetron Si Doel was the most popular of all media manifestations of Doel. The viewing figures for the serial clearly reflected its popularity, and consequently the advertising industry also developed an interest 32 33 34

Conversation with Basoeki Koesasi, Leiden, 2 December 1998. See also Steinhauer 2001:469. Interview with Ida Farida, 17 March 1999.

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Watching Si Doel

in it. In the wake of Si Doel’s success, dozens of commercials were produced employing actors from Si Doel to advertise products as diverse as food, clothes, cosmetics, household equipment, and motorcycles. Actors were cast as media celebrities (notably Rano Karno), or were contracted in the capacity of the character they played in the serial. Advertisements appeared in various media, such as television, radio, magazines, and newspapers. The television commercials were not only broadcast during Si Doel, but also at other times and on other stations. What is more, these television commercials sometimes used the setting of the sinetron. Most fascinating from an inter-textual point of view were those advertisements that elaborated on themes that had been or were to be developed in the sinetron proper. Because these commercials were aired both during Si Doel and on other occasions, they could be interpreted as commentaries upon the narrative that was presented in the framing story (the sinetron). Doel’s adventures Si Doel was created for a general public and proved popular with various audiences, including primary schoolchildren. Its popularity did not go unnoticed, and soon a Jakarta-based branch office of a Singaporean animation company by the name of Animata Productions Pte. Ltd. suggested the possibility of transforming the sinetron into a cartoon. Rumour has it that it was in fact a young viewer of the television serial Si Doel who voiced this idea for the first time. Fond of cartoons, as many of his Indonesian contemporaries are, the child imagined what it would be like if not only a ‘live’ but also an animated version of his favourite television serial existed.35 Animata approached Karnos Film, and the companies decided to join hands in the production of Petualangan Si Doel (‘Doel’s Adventures’). Animata proposed modelling this cartoon on Hannah-Barbera’s famous production Scooby Doo. Doel’s adventures was to share its basic format (five characters go through exciting adventures), style, and attributes (for instance, the means of transportation is in both cartoons a van) with its illustrious predecessor. While Karnos Film was responsible for writing the scripts, Animata took care of the drawing of the characters. The animated characters were drawn after the photographs of the Si Doel characters. Meanwhile, the Si Doel actors dubbed the speech of their animated alter egos. Because of the krismon the cartoon was never produced, except for two 30- and 60-second trailers. As late as 1999, however, producers and potential sponsors were still engaged in negotiations.36 35

Interview with Quek, director of Animata, Singapore, 21 May 1998. Interview with Hani Surjaseputra, managing director of Animata Datawi Indopura, 17 March 1999. 36

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Because it also targets a children’s audience, not surprisingly this last manifestation in the media (in its seminal state) shares many resemblances with Aman’s original story. For a start, as can be inferred from its title, the adventures of Doel and friends make up the central part of the cartoon’s narrative. Unlike Child of Betawi, however, these adventures centre on ‘adult problems’ such as fighting criminals and rescuing an abducted person, rather than herding goats and making fun of other children. As in Child of Betawi, much attention is given to Doel’s talents as a pencak silat fighter, a quality that is hardly explored in the sinetron. Because the target audience is not perceived to be interested in it, Doel’s love life, allotted much time in both Child of modernity and Si Doel, gets scarcely any attention in the cartoon. Sarah, one of Doel’s female friends in Si Doel, has been chosen as Doel’s pretty companion and girlfriend; her rival Zaenab, considered superfluous in the cartoon, has been disposed of. Although both stories were conceived for a children’s audience, in Child of Betawi the main characters are themselves children, whereas in Doel’s adventures they are modelled after the adult actors who perform in Si Doel. There are of course generic differences too. For instance, the cartoon exploits the visual conventions of its genre by having all characters possess an object that can change into a magic weapon in case of an emergency. Another difference is the background against which both stories are set. Whereas Child of Betawi features many details of the Betawi environment, Doel’s adventures reveals few particulars about the locality where the story takes place. Some requisites however are copied from the sinetron after which it was modelled, among them Doel and his family’s Betawi-style house and their ramshackle car or oplet.37 In the sinetron, the oplet is an old Morris from 1957, driven by Doel’s father Sabeni, Doel’s uncle Mandra, and occasionally by Doel himself. Although the oplet often stalls in the middle of the road, Doel’s father vehemently refuses to exchange the old vehicle with which he for decades has generated a substantial part of the family income for a comfortable mikrolet, despite frequent requests from the other members of the family to do so (DVD no. 12). Rather than adapting to the requirements of modern times, Doel’s father insist on keeping his faithful car, which in his view should be much appreciated for its loyalty and historical value. In the cartoon, by contrast, the oplet is nothing but a friendly animated car, comparable to Scooby Doo and his friends’ colourful minibus. Considering the time gap dividing Child of Betawi and Doel’s adventures, it is interesting that precisely the story that is presented in this last media manifestation of Doel most resembles the story of its first media manifestation: it is an entertaining account of the adventures of Doel and his friends and enemies, designed for a children’s audience. 37 An oplet is a large car used to transport passengers along fixed routes. Popular as a means of public transport in Jakarta in the 1950s and 1960s, since 1980 the oplet has gradually been replaced by mikrolet (minibuses)

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Watching Si Doel

Campaign Doel Once Doel had made fame as a mediatized character, representatives of the New Order government also invited him to perform outside his direct media environment. The government and some affiliated non-profit organizations asked Rano Karno and other Si Doel actors to perform in campaigns addressing social issues such as education (DVD no. 39), health care, and the general elections (DVD no. 41). One such campaign is the yearly national anti-polio campaign (DVD no. 40), in which Si Doel actors have performed since 1995. The actors, notably Mandra and Rano Karno, were chosen as mascots for this campaign because both children and adults were familiar with them. Their assignment was on the one hand to convince parents of the need to vaccinate their children, and on the other to reassure children that a vaccination was nothing to be afraid of. Rano Karno gained much respect with his performance in several nonprofit government campaigns, but not all his alliances with the ruling power turned out as successfully. Some of the actor’s fans were disappointed by Rano Karno’s announcement in October 1997 that he was going to stand as a candidate for the People’s Consultative Assembly (MPR) for Golkar, the parliamentary vehicle of the New Order government. Although Rano Karno assured his audience that his position would not affect the content of the television serial Si Doel, some viewers could not reconcile his affiliation with Golkar with the principles and way of living that Doel represented in their eyes.38 Such was for instance the opinion of a disappointed fan, who vented his frustration in a television magazine.39 Rano Karno stated in his defence that he had taken a pragmatic rather than a political stance in this matter. In his view, Golkar was the only political party before the period of Reformasi that consistently showed a genuine interest in culture. Rano Karno’s political career was short-lived, however: on 5 June 1998, he officially withdrew as a member of the MPR for the period 1998–2003. Because dozens of his colleagues had withdrawn their candidature because of accusations that they were involved in KKN (in practices of corruption (korupsi), collusion (kolusi), and nepotism (nepotisme)), Rano Karno had to convince his followers that he was not leaving for the same reason. Thus he assured questioners that it was merely his new task as the ambassador of UNICEF for the year 1998-1999 – a post requiring political neutrality – that had made him decide to step out of the political arena. Rano Karno was appointed as the UNICEF ambassador on 4 June 1998 for the period of one year.

38 Sri Raharti and Pracoyo, ‘Rano Karno: “Saya Tidak Mau Jadi Votegetter!”’, Forum Keadilan, 15, V, 4 November 1996, pp. 36-40. 39 Hari Supri, ‘Kecewa Rano Masuk Parpol’, Vista-TV, 4, 13, March, p. 38.

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UNICEF selected Rano Karno for the position of ambassador because of his long-time commitment to education, health care, and the well-being of children, and because the national audience was familiar with him. The first Indonesian ambassador of the United Nations Children Fund was expected to promote the UNICEF campaign focusing on the millions of children who were unable to pursue their education because of the monetary crisis. In addition, he was to find new ‘Friends of UNICEF’ in Indonesia as well as abroad. Around the same time, Rano Karno was involved in a government campaign titled Aku Anak Sekolah (I am a schoolchild), which was intended for the same target group. The title of this campaign contains an obvious reference to Rano Karno’s television serial Si Doel anak sekolahan. However, the phrase anak sekolah must be read here in its unmarked sense (‘schoolchild’), because the campaign, which took place both in and outside the media, was targeted at young schoolchildren and their parents. The campaign consisted of a series of advertisements to promote education, and a UNICEF-sponsored talk show called Aku dan sahabatku (Me and my friends), hosted by Rano Karno. As a private person, Rano Karno also visited children all over Java to give them some support and to distribute a number of scholarships. These scholarships, incidentally, were financed by Yayasan Karnos, the Karnos Film charity foundation. The topic of education and the person of Rano ‘Si Doel’ Karno are thus intertwined in several ways. Rano Karno was a schoolboy when he first encountered the character Doel, and his identification with Doel helped him to pursue his ideals, one of which was – as it was Doel’s – attending school. Three decades later, after successfully playing the role of Doel in two separate media manifestations (Child of Betawi and Si Doel), the roles seem to be reversed. Rano Karno has become a media star and is increasingly encouraged to play Doel in a non-fictional context. In this role, he is cast to raise funds for real children who, just like himself and the fictional character Doel in earlier times, are not able to pay their school fees. The extended mediatization of ‘Betawi Doel’ Aman’s creation in the course of time has been adopted and adapted by subsequent mediatizers, a process that, following Thompson (1990), could be described as ‘extended mediatization’40 (Table 1.1 provides an overview of the extended mediatization of ‘Betawi Doel’). With the character Doel having 40

Thompson (1995:110) uses the phrase ‘extended mediazation’ for the process whereby ‘media messages [are] taken up by media organizations and incorporated into new messages’. I prefer the term ‘mediatization’ to Thompson’s ‘mediazation’ because the latter suggests a certain transparency – as if a media message can be transferred from one medium to another without adaptation – which I doubt. Instead, I acknowledge ‘that the medium itself structures what one sees, even when it has the illusion of transparency’ (Wyver, quoted in Holland, 1997:161).

Watching Si Doel

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Table 1.1 The extended mediatization of ‘Betawi Doel’ Title of Manifestation Medium in the Media

Mediatizer

Date of Issue/ Broadcast Date

Child of Betawi (Si Doel anak Betawi)

Book

Aman Datuk Madjoindo

1932

Children’s book on the adventures of little Doel and his friends and enemies in a Betawi kampong

Child of Betawi (Si Doel anak Betawi)

Movie

Sjuman Djaya

1973

Film version of Aman’s book of the same title (1940s)

Child of modernity (Si Doel anak modern)

Movie

Sjuman Djaya

1976

Film on the youngster Doel in ‘modern’ Jakarta (1970s­)

Educated Doel (Si Doel anak sekolahan)

Television serial (sinetron)

Rano Karno

(Untitled)

Advertisements Various in various media (television, magazines, newspapers)

Doel’s Adventures (Petualangan Si Doel)

Television cartoon

1994-2003

Description

Television serial that revolves around Doel, a serious Betawi engineer, and his extended family in contemporary Jakarta (1990s)

From 1994 Social and commercial advertisements onwards that employ actors, characters, setting, and/or story line of Si Doel

Animata and Conceived Cartoon that centres on the five main Karnos Film in 1997 characters of Si Doel

been recycled time and again by various producers and for various reasons, a plethora of images was created, some strengthening, others contradicting the image of Doel as created in previous media manifestations. This multiplicity of media manifestations made the character very flexible, although never beyond recognition for the informed viewer. The range of mediatizations did not deprive Doel of his core identity as an exceptional person of Betawi descent; it did however transform him from a local into a national (or, in the case of the cartoon, potentially transnational) hero. In addition, his nationwide fame made the character particularly suited to exploitation in both commercial and social advertising campaigns. Through these processes of extended mediatization, Doel has become a Betawi television hero with a truly national as well as transnational scope, surpassing the reputation of his predecessors, the traditional Betawi heroes Jampang and Pitung. The gradual shift in orientation from local to national in subsequent Doel stories is most clearly symbolized by the pan-Indonesian setting of the cartoon Doel’s adventures as opposed to the overtly Betawi setting of previous stories (book, movies, and in particular the first two series of the sinetron). Over the decades, this recycling and restyling of the original character has caused Doel to take on different roles, play out different plots, and serve different, even contradictory interests. Though commercial advertisers, for instance,

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employed Doel in advertisements to persuade viewers of their advertisements to spend more money on consumer goods, the Indonesian government at the same time used Doel as a mouthpiece in a campaign urging people to restrict their expenditures and spend this money on educating their children instead. Si Doel proved capable of crossing boundaries that had up to then seemed impermeable. While the television serial managed to unite a variety of audiences across class, age, gender, and ethnic borderlines, the Doel commercials transported Doel across the most stubborn border: that between different television stations. In doing so, Si Doel was introduced to a wider audience still, reaching even those viewers who had never tuned in to broadcaster RCTI to watch the sinetron. If one compares this process of crossing borders with what Nichols (1994) says about the blurring of fiction and non-fiction, the case of Si Doel is noteworthy for yet another reason. Nichols observes that the media tend to dramatize actual events, and that this is a deliberate choice for producers, with far-reaching consequences for the way in which the event represented is likely to be perceived by the viewers (Nichols 1994). Si Doel presents viewers with an example of the opposite situation: a fictional (mediatized) character who enters – or to some extent, defines – the life of an actual person. This transgressing of boundaries in the opposite direction also affects the people and stories involved. The blurring between the character Doel and the actor Rano Karno started with the character Doel, who was initially modelled after an existing person of the same name. Over time, several actors embodied Doel, but in the end his image stuck to Rano Karno, who identified with (or was) Doel before he actually got the chance to play (or imitate) him. Through his involvement with the television serial Si Doel, Rano Karno sustained his identification with Doel to the point that, at least to a certain extent, the distinction between character and performer had disappeared for many viewers as well as for himself. In a fictional context, this fusion between Doel and Rano Karno is perhaps best symbolized by the fact that the cartoon Doel’s adventures depicts a Doel whose appearance is much like that of his most prominent performer. In a non-fictional context, Rano Karno’s positions as a short-lived politician, social benefactor, and UNICEF ambassador cannot be detached from his television alter ego. Doel stands for honesty, educational aspirations, religious devotion, and righteousness – an image that fits perfectly with his political and charity positions. The various Doel stories show that certain discourses structured most media manifestations, making the corpus as a whole coherent. Most Doel stories were for instance informed by discourses of ‘Betawiness’, education, and modernity, and these discourses were often intertwined. A site where these discourses interweave is for instance the myth of the uneducated, oldfashioned Betawi addressed throughout the corpus of Doel stories. In Child

38

Watching Si Doel

of Betawi, it is said that compared to other population groups many Betawi in colonial Batavia lack a modern education. Child of modernity, on the other hand, mocks the virtues of education by creating a Doel who is constantly fooled, despite his modern education. This film moreover calls attention to the existence and frequent use of fake degrees in ‘modern’ Indonesia. Educated Doel returns to the issue of education by attacking the prejudice that the Betawi in present-day Indonesia never make it to university. The entanglement of Rano Karno with the topic of education is further emphasized by his positions as a UNICEF ambassador and host of a UNICEF-sponsored talk show, and his involvement in government campaigns on this subject. The Doel stories have certainly succeeded in bringing the myth of the uneducated Betawi to the attention of a nationwide audience. Another shared feature of the Doel stories is their use of Betawi Malay as opposed to Indonesian, the national language of Indonesia. Whereas Aman considered it necessary to justify his choice by saying (almost apologetically) that he wanted to introduce this language variety to a readership that was not yet acquainted with it, subsequent mediatizers apparently took its use for granted. Similarly, Si Doel was broadcast on national television without subtitles, suggesting that the use of Betawi Malay in the sinetron would not pose any significant problems for its nationwide audience. The nonchalant attitude towards the use of Betawi Malay in the national media indicates that a much wider audience now knows this language variety than at the time when Aman wrote his book for Balai Pustaka. Whether or not this is true, and whether and how the frequent use of Betawi Malay in popular audiovisual productions such as the corpus of Doel stories may have contributed to its dissemination is one of my major interests and will be addressed throughout the rest of this book. With the amount of money that has been and is being made from the serial Si Doel and its spin-offs, Doel is not only as a story or a character, but also as a profitable commodity. The character Doel has metaphorically become the property of a national, pan-Indonesian audience. A literal answer to the question ‘to whom does Si Doel belong?’ however, involves claims on copyright and royalties. There has been some struggle over this issue between the heirs of writer Aman Datuk Madjoindo, the spiritual father of the character, and producer Rano Karno, the man who created and popularized Doel through television. The heirs on the one hand demand their part of the profit made from the exploitation of their grandfather’s creation, arguing that the Balai Pustaka book, including its main character and the spelling of his name (which, using old orthography, is written as ‘Doel’ instead of ‘Dul’) is protected by copyright law. They consequently feel entitled to receive royalties from Karnos Film. Rano Karno for his part asserts that he has already compensated the family sufficiently, both morally (by inviting some of the

I From Balai Pustaka to UNICEF

39

heirs to participate in a short religious trip to Mecca) and financially (by giving them money). Karnos Film also mentioned Aman’s name as their source of inspiration on the credit roll of Si Doel (DVD no. 20). In addition, Rano Karno points out that the sinetron Si Doel is also copyrighted; the serial is registered at the Ministry of Justice (Departemen Kehakiman). The producer in turn complains about the infringement of his copyright by unauthorized persons: these people sell homemade T-shirts and postcards that exploit the popularity of Si Doel, and distribute illegal video copies of the sinetron without asking for his permission or handing over a percentage of the profit (Figure 1.3 is an example of an unauthorized postcard). Interestingly, with the phrase Hak cipta dilindungi undang-undang, cing! (‘Uncles and Aunts, [remember] that copyright is protected by law!’), the makers of this card they announce that they own the copyright to this card. Rather than reducing discussions about Si Doel to questions of ownership and copyright, I will in the remainder of this book explore the wider cultural and linguistic implications of what Indonesian television critics have called Fenomena Si Doel (The Doel phenomenon).

Figure 1.3 Front and back of an unauthorized Si Doel postcard

CHAPTER II

Si Doel as a sinetron

Televising the New Order?

The Betawi are old fashioned, they say Who says that the Betawi all put on airs? Who says that the Betawi are all womanizers? Yes, the Betawi are old fashioned, they say The Betawi have no culture, they say Oh my, what nonsense! Here is Doel, a genuine Betawi His activities are praying and reciting the Koran But be careful not to offend him For if he hits you once, you may die1

Commercial television in New Order and post-Soeharto Indonesia In his well-documented study of Indonesian television, Philip Kitley (2000) gives a detailed overview of the development of the television industry in the archipelago. Kitley describes the reasoning behind the introduction of television in Indonesia in 1962, the monopoly position that was held for decades by government station Televisi Republik Indonesia (TVRI), and the breaking up of this monopoly by the advent of commercial television in the late 1980s. Kitley also observes how the launch of the domestic satellite ‘Palapa’ in 1976 turned television into a service that was the right of all citizens, as much a part of being Indonesian as the other key cultural symbols that were shared nationally: the language, the flag, and the national anthem. Like radio, only more vividly because of its visualizing power and its high-tech cachet, television was devised to be both the channel and the manifestation, the nightly dramatization of a shared cultural identity. (Kitley 2000:47.) 1

Anak Betawi ketinggalan jaman, katenye / Siape bilang anak Betawi pade betingke? / Siape bilang anak Betawi pade buaye? / Iye, anak Betawi, ketinggalan jaman, katenye / Anak Betawi, nggak berbudaye, katenye / Aduh, sialan! / Nih Si Doel, anak Betawi asli / Kerjaannye sembahyang mengaji / Tapi jangan bikin die sakit hati / Diberi sekali, orang bisa mati (title song of Si Doel; DVD no. 1).

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Watching Si Doel

The creation and experience of this ‘shared cultural identity’ is also central to discussions about Si Doel. In 1987 the government of Indonesia decided to introduce commercial television in that country. This decision was remarkable, because until then the Indonesian government had displayed a patriarchal attitude towards viewers of TVRI, the nation’s single television broadcaster. This attitude resulted in a ban on advertising on the government station on 1 April 1981. The ban was based on the belief that Indonesian viewers, particularly the vulnerable rural communities, needed protection from the consumerist values promoted in television commercials. Moreover, the ban may have been inspired by political motives (Kitley 2006:63-72). The decision to allow commercial television in Indonesia was partly motivated by the access of Indonesian viewers to transnational sources (Owen Thomas 2005:131). At the time, foreign cultural products and services – spillover from foreign, notably Malaysian television stations, videos, advertising, and transnational satellite broadcasts – were increasingly gaining popularity in Indonesia (Sen and Hill 2000:116-8). The government acknowledged that audiences turned to these viewing alternatives because they were unsatisfied with TVRI’s programming. Rather than lose their viewers to these new, uncontrollable media products and services, which were not only threatening the government’s television monopoly but also ‘the cultural and spatial integrity of the nation’ (Kitley 2000:229), the government decided to provide them with an alternative in the form of commercial television (Kitley 2000:215-24). By making this decision, the government also responded to demands in the press for such an alternative service, which was expected to ‘stimulate business turnover through commercial advertising’ (Kitley 2000:224). Commercial television was first established in the form of a restricted pay TV service. The Ministry of Information (Departemen Penerangan, or Deppen) appointed TVRI to license a third party to provide this service, and on 28 October 1987, TVRI nominated Rajawali Citra Televisi Indonesia (RCTI) as the provider of the first commercial television service in Indonesia. RCTI officially started broadcasting on 24 August 1989. On 17 January 1990, Surya Citra Televisi (SCTV) was appointed to provide a similar service for Surabaya (Kitley 2000:224-6). Initially RCTI and SCTV were not permitted to broadcast beyond Jakarta and Surabaya. In addition, the viewership of the stations was limited to those who were able and willing to pay for the service (Kitley 2000:96). Pay TV required subscribers to purchase expensive signal decoders for their television sets and pay a considerable monthly rental charge. It is estimated that in the first two years of its existence, RCTI had 125,000 subscribers who paid Rp 131,000 (about US$ 15) for the decoder plus an additional fee for each

II Si Doel as a sinetron

43

programme they requested.2 Obviously, this limited viewership made the stations less attractive for the advertisers that were their main source of income. The stations therefore soon requested for the decoder ruling to be reviewed. On 24 July 1990, the Ministry of Information fulfilled the request, issuing a new decree allowing both RCTI and SCTV to broadcast without a decoder. On 24 August 1990, on RCTI’s first anniversary, the stations started broadcasting for free (Kitley 2000:350). At first, RCTI and SCTV were only allowed to broadcast to a geographically restricted audience. The stations accepted this situation until another commercial broadcaster was established on 23 January 1991. The new station, Televisi Pendidikan Indonesia or TPI, was owned by Siti Hardiyanti Rukmana or Mbak (‘older sister’) Tutut, the daughter of the head of state Soeharto. Reportedly because of its status as an educational broadcaster, but more likely because of its close links with the president, the new station was allowed to use TVRI’s equipment and was granted the right to broadcast nationwide right away (Kitley 2000:276-8). RCTI and SCTV protested against this blatant inequity, and with success. On 1 July of the same year, RCTI was allowed to use the Palapa satellite to broadcast to Jakarta, Bandung, Surabaya, and Denpasar, and on 1 January 1992 RCTI and SCTV joined forces to air their programmes to these four major cities (Kitley 2000:350). In August 1993, both stations were finally allowed to broadcast their programmes to a nationwide audience.3 Though the first ministerial decrees on commercial television were put in place to create a decentralized structure for the system, in the end a highly centralized system of five national commercial broadcasters was established in Jakarta (Kitley 2000:226). In order of appearance, the stations were PT Rajawali Citra Televisi Indonesia (RCTI), PT Surya Citra Televisi (SCTV), PT Cipta Televisi Pendidikan Indonesia (TPI), PT Cakrawala Andalas Televisi (ANTEVE), and PT Indosiar Visual Mandiri (IVM, henceforth Indosiar). The legal basis for these institutions was copied from the film industry. The regulations specified that television programmes should be in harmony with the 1945 Constitution and the Panca Sila, and should respect the sensitivity of SARA-related issues (Sen and Hill 2000:119). When Si Doel was first broadcast, in January 1994, all stations but Indosiar were in operation (see Table 2.1). As can be expected from such a profitable project, the establishment of commercial television involved many people who were close to president Soeharto. In fact, all licenses were handed out to business friends or members of the first family. 2

Pontoh, Coen ‘Rajawali Terbang Tinggi’, in: Pantau Online 2-14, June 2001, www.pantau.or. id/txt/14/07.html, accessed 15 July 2001. 3 Pontoh, Coen ‘Rajawali Terbang Tinggi’, in: Pantau Online 2-14, June 2001, www.pantau.or. id/txt/14/07.html, accessed 15 July 2001.

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Watching Si Doel

Soeharto’s cousin Sudwikatmono was a key investor in SCTV. TPI was owned by Soeharto’s eldest daughter Tutut. ANTEVE partly belonged to the Bakrie Group and partly to Agus Laksono, who entertained a close relationship with the ruling party Golkar (Sen and Hill 2000:112). The Salim conglomerate, owned by Soeharto’s closest crony, Liem Sioe Liong, possessed Indosiar. Finally, Indonesia’s first commercial television station RCTI only obtained its license after the Chinese Indonesian businessman Peter Sondakh had linked up with the business conglomerate of Bambang Trihatmodjo, the second son of the president.4

Changes in the television landscape in post-Soeharto Indonesia The late 1990s and particularly the post-Soeharto era witnessed a number of substantial changes in Indonesia’s television industry.5 One of the major changes affecting the television landscape in post-Soeharto Indonesia was that president Habibie issued five new television licenses. The stations that were operating without cable on a national scale in July 2003 were Metro TV, Global TV, Trans TV, Lativi, and TV7. The lifting of the ban on the use of any Chinese language on Indonesian television by the administration of president Abdurrahman Wahid enabled one of the new stations, Metro TV, to broadcast a fortnightly news programme in Chinese (Kitley 2001). In 2003, this news programme, called Metro Xin Wen, was aired twice a day.6 Yet another influential event in the development of the national television industry in the late 1990s was the drafting of Indonesia’s first Broadcast Law or Undang-Undang Penyiaran (UUP). The drafting had already started in 1987, but it was only during the mid 1990s, when commercial television had developed into a fully fledged industry, that the pressure for a legal framework was more urgently felt by the broadcasting industry and society at large. Children’s welfare organizations, for instance, were worried about ‘the apparent lack of regulation of violent and sexually explicit imported films considered incompatible with Indonesian cultural values’ (Kitley 2000:299). In addition, broadcast stations expressed the need for clear information on import quota and local content requirements. Moreover, they wanted to know whether TVRI in the future would be allowed to carry advertising, as this might affect their financial planning (Kitley 2000:300). 4

Pontoh, Coen ‘Rajawali Terbang Tinggi’, in: Pantau Online 2-14, June 2001, www.pantau. or.id/txt/14/07.html, accessed 15 July 2001. 5 For details on changes in the mediascape in post-Soeharto Indonesia, see Kitley 2001. For an elaborate account of the developments surrounding the controversial media law, see Kitley 2000. 6 Personal communication with Mattheus Dwi Hartanto via e-mail, 17 April 2003.

II Si Doel as a sinetron

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Though the Law spurred a number of controversies, most notably because it aimed severely to restrict the broadcast area for the commercial television stations, president Soeharto eventually ratified it on 1 October 1997. Because the Department of Information under whose authority the Law had been drafted was dissolved in October 1999, the Law never took effect. On 28 December 2002, president Megawati Soekarnoputri ratified a revised Broadcast Law.7 A final development was the initiative a number of Indonesian media professionals took of setting up a network of local television stations throughout the archipelago. This network was meant to facilitate the exchange of ‘ethnic’ programmes, meaning programmes inspired by the cultures that flourished in the regions where these stations were located. The media professionals involved hoped that the swapping of these various ‘ethnic’ programmes would develop a sense of mutual respect and understanding between different ethnic groups in Indonesia, which in turn might contribute to an easing of ethnic tensions in post-Soeharto Indonesia.8 In 1994, when the first series of Si Doel was aired, such changes in the television system were yet unthinkable. At the time, the five commercial television stations in operation were discovering and exploiting the popularity of domestic drama or sinetron. Table 2.1 Commercial television stations operating in Indonesia in 1998 TV station

Operating since

PT Rajawali Citra Televisi Indonesia (RCTI)

24 August 1989 (restricted Bimantara Citra Group and to Jakarta); 24 August 1993 Rajawali Wira Bhakti Utama (nationwide) Group

Urban middle and upper class

PT Surya Citra Televisi (SCTV)

17 January 1990 (restricted to Surabaya); 24 August 1993 (nationwide)

Sudwikatmono

Urban middle and upper class

PT Cipta Televisi Pendidikan Indonesia (TPI)

23 January 1991

Cipta Lamtoro Gung Persada

Middle and lower class

PT Cakrawala Andalas Televisi 28 March 1993 (ANTEVE)

Bakrie Group & Hasmuda Group

Urban youth

PT Indosiar Visual Mandiri (INDOSIAR)

Salim Group

Urban middle and upper class, particularly Indonesians of Chinese descent

7 8

2003.

11 January 1995

Owner

Target audience

Personal communication with Jimmy Silalahi via e-mail, 20 April 2003. Personal communications with Hinca Pandjaitan and Jimmy Silalahi via e-mail, 19 March

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Watching Si Doel

The Indonesian sinetron as a genre and a metagenre The components of the portmanteau ‘sinetron’ – sinema elektronis or sinema elektronik – often refer specifically to films made for television. In broadcasting discourse, the adjective elektronik is interpreted as denoting either the storage medium or the broadcast medium. Whereas some say it is the use of video rather than film that determines whether a production should be termed a sinetron, others, such as television critic Veven Wardhana, declare that the term refers to the broadcast medium. Wardhana argues that whether a sinetron is produced by using film or video technique is less important than the producers’ intention of having their product broadcast on television (Wardhana 1997:278). Television critic Syahmuharnis argues that the category of sinetron, by definition, includes all programmes that can be shown on television. According to this definition, even a company profile on video intended for a limited audience belongs in this category.9 A sinetron can be either a stand-alone production (sinetron lepas) or a serial or series (sinetron berseri).10 As a rule, sinetron are broadcast in daily or weekly instalments, each episode filling a half-hour to one-hour slot. Whenever the term sinetron is used without specification, it will for most viewers invoke the notion of sinetron drama or drama series and the associations that this particular genre brings about (its generic associations). When I allude to Si Doel as a sinetron in the following, I refer to this notion of sinetron drama rather than its technical genesis. Genre is a complicated notion that has generated a large body of theory in various academic disciplines. As early as the Greek philosopher Aristotle, and up to and including the 1980s, critical theorists mainly conceptualized genres as separate entities with fixed textual characteristics and clear generic boundaries (Altman 1999:1-12). Recent scholarship however has led to a looser understanding of the notion as an organizing principle (Bauman 1992:53-4) or a cultural category (Mittell 2004).11 A genre can be defined as ‘a cultural practice that attempts to structure some order into the wide range of texts and meanings that circulate in our culture for the convenience of both producers and audiences’ (Fiske 1987). In the case of the ‘highly generic’ medium of television, the concept serves to highlight ‘the similarities between programs rather than their individual differences’ (Fiske 1987:109). It is this generic or ‘formulaic’ aspect of popular television that leads some to reject its output as ‘lowbrow’ art, not worthy of critical attention. 9

Syahmuharnis, ‘Mega Bisnis Sinetron’, Eksekutif, 209, November 1996, p. 101. On the difference between a television series (in which each episode presents a new story) and a television serial (in which the story continues over different episodes), see Kozloff (1992:90-1). 11 On genre and film, see for instance Altman 1999. On genre and television see for instance Ang 1985, Fiske 1987, Feuer 1992, Gledhill 1997, Forceville 2000, and Mittell 2004. 10

II Si Doel as a sinetron

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Popular, formulaic television programmes are however ‘an integral part of the culture and [need] to be investigated, not dismissed’ (Fiske 1987:110). Conventions about genre are useful for producers, the broadcasting industry, and audiences. For producers, knowledge of genre is predominantly interesting from an economic point of view, as it helps them to ‘predict and produce popularity’ (Fiske 1987:113). Genre classifications are also convenient for broadcast professionals who must determine a programme’s most appropriate broadcasting slot. These professionals endeavour to schedule a programme in such a way – on a certain day or in between certain other shows – that its generic associations and hence its meanings and attractiveness are positively influenced (Fiske 1987:113). Broadcast professionals moreover use knowledge about genre to decide how best to announce a certain programme, and categories according to genre are helpful in devising effective marketing strategies for a particular show. Finally, audiences gain important information through knowing what genre a programme is. Genre indicates ‘the range of pleasures [viewers] might expect and thus regulates and activates memory of similar texts and the expectations of this one’ (Fiske 1987:114). Information on the genre of a certain programme thus helps viewers decide whether or not to watch the programme under consideration. In addition, genre knowledge partly determines how viewers will react emotionally to the programme in question (Forceville 2000:63). Mittell (2004:xii) argues that genres are best understood as processes of classification that function ‘across the cultural realms of media industries, audiences, policy, critics, and historical contexts’. Rather than studying the internal textual features of a particular genre or programme, one should therefore investigate the cultural practices (such as production, broadcasting, and reception) through which these texts are categorized according to genre (2004:8). Though the term ‘sinetron’ strictly speaking contains no genre information other than that a particular programme has been produced to be broadcast on television, most sinetron can be categorized under the general heading of television drama. In addition, specific labels are used to indicate the kind of drama that a particular sinetron is thought to represent. Programmes are for instance announced as sinetron drama (drama series, comparable to the Western genre of soap opera), sinetron komedi (comedy series), sinetron misteri (mystery plays), or sinetron remaja (series for adolescents). Alternatively, specific types of sinetron are referred to with different expressions, such as TV misteri (mystery television) or SMS (sinetron miniseri, ‘miniseries’).12 In addition, some broadcast stations employ specific terms for particular kinds of sinetron; SCTV for instance introduced the expression FTV (film televisi, ‘television film’) to refer to stand-alone sinetron (Wardhana 2002:241). 12

Ody/Xar/CP ‘Tiada Hari Tanpa Sinetron’, Kompas, 4 August 2002, p. 13.

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Watching Si Doel

Multivision and mainstream sinetron13 Throughout the 1990s and the beginning of the twenty-first century the bulk of mainstream sinetron was produced by one single production company, PT Tripar Multivision Plus (henceforth Multivision). Multivision is owned by Ram Jethmal Punjabi or Raam Punjabi, as he is better known. Born of Indian parents in Surabaya, East Java, the later ‘emperor of sinetron’ claims to have been an avid viewer of Indonesian and foreign films ever since he was little. As an eight year-old boy, he was already frequenting local movie theatres, eagerly absorbing the stories that were presented there. Punjabi started his career in the entertainment industry as an importer and distributor of foreign movies. He became a film producer in 1967, when he established production company Parkit Film. In the late 1980s, Punjabi became interested in producing sinetron and in 1990 he established his production house Multivision. Punjabi’s decision to digress into the sinetron industry was motivated by the collapse of the national film industry in the late eighties. This collapse collided with and was partly caused by the advent of national television. To compare, Kristanto (1995) in his overview of national film production lists 110 movies in 1990 as opposed to 33 in 1994. Commercial television offered new career opportunities for people who had previously been working in the film industry; hence many of them shifted the helm and decided to try their luck in the television industry. In the same way that theatre had been an important source of manpower for the new medium of film in the late 1930s (Said 1982:38-9), film became a significant supplier of human resources for the sinetron industry in the early 1990s. Particularly actors of name regarded the new medium with suspicion, so when Christine Hakim, one of Indonesia’s most respected film actresses, announced in 1996 that she would perform in a Multivision sinetron, it caused quite some consternation in the film world.14 Due to this initial lack of interest on the part of film actors, the sinetron industry produced its own stars, many of whom had no or little previous experience in the film industry. Among the new sinetron stars were Cornelia Agatha and Maudy Koesnaedy, the actors who played Sarah and Zaenab in Si Doel. Due to the establishment of commercial television in the early 1990s, the demand for sinetron increased dramatically. Television stations produced some sinetron by themselves (the so-called ‘in-house productions’), but specialized production houses took care of the most. In 1996, some three years after the sinetron industry had started to boom, several hundred production houses were registered by the Department of Information. In practice, only 13

Unless stated otherwise, all information in this section on production company Multivision was obtained through an interview with Raam Punjabi on 9 June 2000. 14 YM, ‘Para Bintang Memandang Sinetron’, Eksekutif, November 1996, p. 107.

II Si Doel as a sinetron

49

a dozen among them were actively producing sinetron.15 In August 1992, when Karnos Film started producing Si Doel, it was the mainstream sinetron produced by Multivision that largely determined the attitude of RCTI and its viewers towards this genre. In 1995, an authoritative television magazine called Punjabi the best-selling producer of the year.16 By 2000, the sinetron of Multivision were broadcast weekly on all commercial television stations and the company was responsible for 60 to 70 % of the total output of sinetron. Punjabi ascribes his success to the professionalism of his company and to his personal ability to recognize products for their commercial value. As a businessman, he regards his sine­ tron primarily as products that bring him financial profit. At the same time, he tries to educate his viewers by slipping into his sinetron moral messages and by showing them how to handle certain situations. Nevertheless, the products of Multivision are often condemned for their superficiality. Punjabi, an Indonesian of Indian descent, also receives frequent criticism that his sinetron are not sufficiently ‘Indonesian’. Part of this criticism involves accusations that Multivision imports Indian scripts and simply translates them into Indonesian.17 Denying these accusations, Punjabi responds as follows: Many people criticize me, [saying that] my movies do not contain Indonesian culture. I say, ‘What culture?’ […] [Do these critics mean to suggest that Indonesian culture means that] [the actors must] talk Indonesian, say their prayers (sholat), eat gado-gado or white rice, and wear a kopiah? Are there people who say that that is what Indonesian culture is like? No there aren’t! Indonesia does not possess an obvious culture, as is the case in India, for instance. So, if you want to be successful in this domain, treat film culture as film culture. The actors are Indonesian anyway, and if they kneel to say their prayers, people can take that as an example. Do I have to present Indonesian women as though they always wear kebayas? How many of them do, compared to international [clothing]? Even in the village, the majority of them wear international clothing. That would be misleading, wouldn’t it, as if in the large cities people wear sarong when they are having dinner in a restaurant.

The criticism that Multivision sinetron are not sufficiently ‘Indonesian’ and Punjabi’s response to such signs of disapproval both activate discourses of patriotism and national identity. Such debates illustrate that the ‘shared cultural identity’ that national television was hoped to broadcast is a contested notion, which is constantly constructed and reconstructed and fought over. This struggle over meaning also takes place in the sinetron of Multivision, in television criticism, and in the serial Si Doel. 15

Syh, ‘Boom Bisnis Sinetron’, Eksekutif, November 1996, pp. 102-4. ‘Produser 1995 Terlaris: Raam Punjabi’, Vista-TV, Special Edition, 15 December 1995. 17 See for instance Tedjomurti, ‘Raam Punjabi: Saya Menjual Mimpi dan Harapan’, Vista-TV, November 1994, pp. 23-5; Yasra Muhtarom and Wahyu Indrasto, ‘Raam Punjabi: “Saya Menjual Mimpi-Mimpi Yang Positif”’, Eksekutif, November 1996, pp. 21-7. 16

Watching Si Doel

50

Si Doel, the first series From 23 January 1994 onwards, broadcaster RCTI screened the first series of episodes of Si Doel in six one-hour instalments. As is common for television serials that are broadcast weekly, each episode of Si Doel, with the exception of the first episode of the first series, begins with a compilation of scenes from the previous episode in order to refresh the memory of the viewers. This compilation is followed by the signature tune, which makes a provocative statement on the Betawi (DVD no. 1). The lyrics of this song (quoted at the beginning of this chapter) concisely describe the theme of the first series of episodes of Si Doel. The song is about the fact that in present-day Indonesia some people are still convinced that the Betawi are inferior to other inhabitants of Jakarta. The lyrics render the well-known stereotype that Betawi men are strangely behaving, old-fashioned womanizers, with no interest whatsoever in culture or education. As is clear from the title, Si Doel sets out to fight this outdated and oversimplified view of the autochthonous inhabitants of Jakarta. It tells the story of Doel, a ‘genuine’ Betawi who is also a sympathetic and diligent engineering graduate. The song uses virtually the same lyrics and melody as the title song of the movies Child of Betawi and Child of modernity. The only remarkable difference is that the word mengabdi (‘to serve’) in the original version is replaced by mengaji (‘recite Koranic verses’).18 As in Child of modernity, only the first part of the title song (the part about Doel) is used, while the part about Doel’s archenemy Sapi’i has been disposed of. The title song is accompanied by images of the actors and they are introduced by name; if actors or crew members have performed the pilgrimage to Mecca, their names are preceded by the religious title hajji (shortened to H., for men) or hajjah (shortened to Hj., for women). Remarkably, the credit titles of the first series also mention the oplet as one of the actors, illustrating its important role in the narrative. The visual accompaniment of the title song differs from sequel to sequel. The opening tune of the first series features scenes from the sinetron which illustrate either the lyrics of the signature tune (Doel is for instance portrayed during a pencak silat class while the lyrics mention his fighting capacities) or the spirit of the narrative (Doel’s father is depicted carefully counting the small amount of money earned by driving the oplet). By contrast, the visuals that come with the opening tune of the fourth series do not include scenes from the serial and look more sophisticated. Actors are portrayed through a fusion of graphic and film techniques, and these images are mixed with footage in crackled black and white of Jakarta’s harbour Tanjung Priok. After the title song has faded out, a new episode of the sinetron begins. During the opening shots of each episode, an opening title, shown in bright 18

Compare DVD no. 38 with DVD no. 1.

II Si Doel as a sinetron

51

colours, emerges, setting the stage for the story to come. For the first episode of the first series, this title is Antara Cinere-Gandul (‘Between Cinere and Gandul’), a reference to two places in South Jakarta at both ends of the fictive fixed route between which Doel’s father’s oplet runs. The first scene of the first series of Si Doel immediately gives a feel for what the serial is going to be like (DVD no. 2). This scene, which lasts for approximately three minutes, also introduces virtually all the major characters and clarifies the mutual relations of the members of Doel’s family (which I will be referring to as the Sabeni family, after Doel’s father; see Figure 2.2).

Figure 2.1 The oplet parked in front of the house and premises of the Sabeni family (courtesy of Karnos Film)

The first shot offers a bird’s-eye perspective of the Sabeni family’s premises. When the camera zooms in one sees Doel’s father, Babe (pronounced Ba-bay) Sabeni, who is just repairing the oplet. Doel’s mother (Nyak) Lela brings her husband a mug of coffee and asks whether he has already finished repairing the oplet; she is afraid their son will be late again (for college, as it turns out later). Sabeni immediately snaps at Lela for badgering him. Next Doel enters the scene. Walking quickly towards his father, Doel proposes to take the bus instead of the oplet. Babe however assures his son that he is almost done and urges him to get into the car. Doel says goodbye to his mother, kissing her hand, an Islamic custom practiced by many Betawi; he then calls for his sister



(ENGKONG) ALI [MUH. TOYIB]* Doel’s grandfather



[name unknown] Doel’s late grandmother +



child 2 + (BABE) SABENI Doel’s father

(NYAK) LELA [NURLAELA] Doel’s mother

child 3 +

(BANG) MANDRA Doel’s uncle







Nurhayati +

DOEL [KASDULLAH] main character

Madjid + ATUN [ZAITUN] Doel’s sister

Legend: […] = full name (…) = term of address for members of the family from Doel’s perspective + = passed away * In a summary of the first series of episodes, the production company specifies that Ali had four children with this wife. Two of them drowned in the Ciliwung river in Jakarta, leaving Nurlaela (the oldest) and Mandra (the youngest).

Figure 2.2 Composition of the Sabeni family in the first series of Si Doel

II Si Doel as a sinetron

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Atun to hurry up. Atun comes along because she has to do some shopping for their mother, who cannot go herself because she has to attend to the small shop or warung she is running on their premises. Doel gets into the front seat of the car next to his father. As Doel’s sister enters the oplet, Babe criticizes her abundant use of make-up, saying mockingly that she looks like a cashew nut.19 He then asks where Mandra, Doel’s uncle and Babe’s driver’s mate is hanging out. When Doel says that Mandra has a day off to visit the dentist, Babe grumbles that Mandra’s teeth are sufficiently protrusive as they are. The first effort to start the oplet is in vain; judging from Doel’s reaction it is not the first time this happens. At his father’s request, Doel cranks up the oplet until the engine suddenly turns on with a bang. This causes the birds of neighbour Karyo, who was watching the scene, to flutter around in a panic in their cages. Because of this, Karyo and Babe start to quarrel. Afterwards, and to Babe’s great annoyance, Atun and Karyo smile at each other and exchange glances. Babe snaps at his daughter for liking the ‘rotten divorcee’ Karyo.20 Doel urges his father to leave matters alone, as he is already running late. A final shot from a bird’s-eye perspective shows how the oplet eventually leaves the premises. The first scene immediately sets the tone for the story to come. It is clear from the outset that this is not a story of glitter and glamour, but of struggle and sweat. (And quite literally so. After his father has repaired the oplet, Doel asks whether he wants to change his clothes; Babe however does not see the use of this, because in a minute he will feel clammy again.) The house and premises, unpaved and dotted with trees, the calm whistling of birds, Lela’s warung: all are characteristic of life in an Indonesian kampong (Figure 2.1). In addition, the language used by the major characters, the architecture of the house, and the clothes Babe (a large belt with his sarong and a kopiah on his head) and Nyak (a traditional sarong and kebaya) wear set the story in a Betawi setting. In the first scene the major characters are introduced: Doel, the student; his sister Atun; their father Sabeni, who snaps and grumbles at all members of the family; and Lela, their mother (Figure 2.3). Doel’s uncle Mandra, although in this scene he is referred to in dialogue only, and the Javanese neighbour Karyo, surrounded by his precious birds as usual, are also introduced. A former actor of lenong and topeng, two traditional Betawi theatre genres, Mandra is partly responsible for the cheerful note in the story, particularly in 19

The reference is to the colourfulness of an unplucked, whole cashew nut, and perhaps also to its plump shape. Conversation in the editing room of Karnos Film with Haerun La Ode Ghowe, 20 May 2000. 20 Babe’s use of duda (a noun used for a man who is either divorced or a widower) for Mas Karyo is confusing, as Mas Karyo is at that time still married to a Javanese woman. Babe is probably alluding to the fact that Mas Karyo and his wife are virtually living separately: Mas Karyo lives in Jakarta, while his wife and children reside in Pekalongan, a town on the north coast of Central Java.

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his encounters with his brother-in-law Sabeni, his father Ali, and the Javanese neighbour Karyo (Figure 2.4). The latter, incidentally, is played by Basuki, an actor famous for his performance in the Central Javanese theatre group Srimulat. Mandra is Lela’s younger brother and the anti-hero of the story. Representing the stereotypical Betawi male (lazy, uneducated, short-sighted and high-tempered, but also upfront and funny), Mandra never seems to have luck on his side. Whereas Doel is the hero of the story, Mandra is unmistakably the underdog character. Although the Betawi background of Doel and his family is central to the story, particularly in its first two series, Si Doel also accommodates other ethnic groups. In the first series of episodes, these are represented by the Javanese petty trader in batik, Karyo, who rents a room from Doel’s father; the Sundanese hawker in household appliances, Mamang; a Taiwanese businessman in the construction industry, A Hong; and Doel’s fellow student of Batak (North Sumatran) origins called Edi (DVD no. 3). In addition, Hans, Doel’s best friend at the university, and Sarah, Doel’s girlfriend-to-be, are Eurasians or Indo21. Most characters, incidentally, are denoted with the term of address that is used in their region of origin. The majority of the male characters mentioned above are addressed as ‘older brother’; hence one finds Bang Doel (Betawi), Mas Karyo (Javanese), Kang Mamang (Sundanese), and Engkoh or Koh A Hong (Chinese). This mixture of characters from various ethnic groups accords with the widespread belief among Indonesian producers that the traits of the typical Betawi character stand out most clearly (hence make for the funniest effect) in interactions with either a Javanese character (considered the opposite of the typical Betawi with respect to social and linguistic behaviour) or a Batak or Madurese character (considered equally ‘strong’ and hence a suitable match for a Betawi character). The producer of Si Doel clearly opts to emphasize the contrast between the ethnic backgrounds: (Betawi) Mandra often clashes with (Javanese) Karyo.22 Reading the Si Doel characters through a New Order framework, the emphasis on the Betawi as an ethnic group and its juxtaposition with other ethnicities is remarkable. Under Soeharto’s administration, it was hoped that television would integrate the nation and foster unity, and most characters in other sinetron had a ‘national’ rather than an ‘ethnic’ profile. This unspoken production rule reflects the general aim of the New Order administration ‘to develop a modern, non-ethnic Indonesia’ (Van Klinken 2003:64). The treat21 ‘Indo’, ‘Indo-European’, ‘Eurasian’, or the Indonesian word blasteran (popular) are terms commonly used for people of mixed European and Indonesian descent. Eurasians are often cast in film and television productions and advertising campaigns for their fair skin colour, a marker of beauty in the eyes of many. For a discussion of Eurasian celebrities and their presumed attractiveness, see the Indonesian Internet forum http://www.asiafinest.com/forum/lofiversion/index. php/t68171-150.html. 22 Interview with Tino Karno, 10 January 1998.

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ment of ethnicity in Si Doel can however also be read as supporting New Order ideology. Its mixture of characters obeys the SARA ban, which curbed political discussions of ethnicity (suku), and conforms with the New Order preference for the less politically loaded notion of budaya daerah (regional culture) (Jurriëns 2004:34). Si Doel mainly portrays the cultural traits of the ethnic characters, showing how Indonesians of different ethnic backgrounds coexist peacefully. Conflicts between characters of different ethnic backgrounds are largely exploited for their humorous potential, and only rarely address those issues that informed the serious ethnic conflicts that struck Indonesia during and after the New Order. That Indonesians are one at heart and that ethnic boundaries can be overcome, as New Order ideology has it, is probably best illustrated by the relationship between (Javanese) Karyo and (Betawi) Atun, which gradually develops and culminates in a wedding.

Figure 2.3 The Sabeni family (courtesy of Karnos Film)

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Figure 2.4 Bang Mandra, Engkong Ali, and Mas Karyo (courtesy of Karnos Film)

Another important theme throughout the serial is the divide between the rich and the poor, which is painfully obvious in present-day Jakarta too. This contrast is most clearly embodied by Doel and his female friend, the Indo Sarah van Heus (Figure 2.5). Representing the typical upper-class young woman, Sarah is rich, trendy, and independent; she wears the latest fashions, owns a mobile phone and a brand new car (which changes several times during the serial) and lives in a beautiful house with her parents, whom she greets in Western style with a kiss on the cheek.23 Doel on the other hand comes from a relatively poor family, lives in a modest house in a kampong at the urban fringes of Jakarta, and is quite conservative when it comes to women. The relationship between Sarah and Doel begins hesitantly, as the worlds of the two characters often clash. This clash is most forcefully embodied in the literal collision that brings the two characters into contact: Doel and Sarah meet on the road through a minor car accident, in the district of Cinere in South Jakarta, somewhere between Cinere and Gandul (DVD no. 4). Sarah’s expensive car collides with Doel’s rusty oplet when Doel suddenly stops in the middle of the road. After the accident, Sarah, who was driving, and her friend Ati emerge from the car. Ati reacts to the incident with annoyance and immediately becomes involved in a quarrel with Mandra, Doel’s driver’s mate on the occasion. Sarah, on the other hand, remains calm and offers to 23

1997.

For a description of the Jakartan elite of which Sarah is an exponent, see Van Leeuwen

II Si Doel as a sinetron

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pay for the damage she has caused to the oplet. Sarah’s appearance and her fair attitude with concern to the accident apparently attract Doel’s attention; when the two women drive away, he keeps staring at them while a romantic melody hints at his emotional state. One day Sarah visits her cousin Hans (DVD no. 5). To her great surprise, she runs into Doel, who is studying at Hans’s place. Only then does Sarah discover that Doel is in fact a fellow student and Hans’ friend. At first Sarah is shocked to find out that her cousin socializes with an oplet driver, but her annoyance turns to admiration when Hans tells her that Doel is not only a student, but also a teaching assistant. As if this weren’t enough, Hans proudly says that Doel is perhaps the only Betawi to have accomplished this. Their dialogue is decisive for the development of the plot: Sarah: Hans: Sarah: Hans: Sarah: Hans: Sarah: Hans: Sarah: Hans: Sarah:

Is he really your friend? Yes. Why, do you fancy him? No. Isn’t he an oplet driver? Are you implying that an oplet driver is unable to take classes? He is a teaching assistant. Is he? That’s fantastic. Speaking of fantastic: Doel is probably the only Betawi who is getting a higher education. A Betawi? Yes. A genuine [Betawi]? Guaranteed, why do you ask? No reason. I’m going, Hans. Bye.24

A final-year student of anthropology, Sarah was originally planning to write her undergraduate thesis on the people of Irian Jaya. Once she finds out that Doel is a Betawi who is studying engineering at university and combines his work as a part-time teaching assistant with driving a minibus to contribute to the family income, she decides to change her research subject and write about Doel and the native inhabitants of Jakarta instead: Sarah:

24

Can a Betawi receive higher education? Well then, why would I go far away to Irian if I can find equally interesting material in Jakarta?25

Sarah: ‘Dia tuh bener temen kamu?’ / Hans: ‘Iya. Kenapa, naksir?’ / Sarah: ‘Nggak. Itu kan supir oplet.’ / Hans: ‘Emangnya supir oplet tu enggak bisa kuliah. Dia itu assisten dosen.’ / Sarah: ‘Oh ya? Hebat dong.’ / Hans: ‘Kalo ngomong soal hebat Doel, mungkin dia tuh satu-satunya anak Betawi yang sekolah tinggi.’ / Sarah: ‘Anak Betawi?’ / Hans: ‘Iye.’ / Sarah: ‘Asli?’ / Hans: ‘Ditanggung halal, kenapa sih?’/ Sarah: ‘Enggak, enggak apa-apa. Aku balik ya Hans. Bye.’ 25 Sarah: ‘Anak Betawi bisa sekolah tinggi? Ah, buat apa aku jauh-jauh ke Irian kalau di Jakarta ada bahan yang sama menariknya?’

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Hans objects to the idea that his friend will be used as a research subject without knowing it, but Sarah sticks to her plan. She defends her idea, explaining to Hans that she does not consider the people she studies to be ‘primitive’, as he suggests (DVD no. 6). During the obligatory stage in her research of participant observation, Sarah follows and photographs Doel during his daily activities without his being aware of it. She also persuades Hans to introduce her to Doel’s relatives and undertakes several activities with them. Hence, she learns to cook a Betawi dish from Doel’s mother and rides along when Doel’s father drives the oplet, meanwhile gathering as much information on Doel’s daily life and Betawi culture as she can. After a while, Sarah develops a personal interest in her research subject Doel, which Doel’s parents notice. Particularly Doel’s father is in favour of Doel’s friendship with Sarah. Doel’s mother however still remembers Zaenab, the daughter of an acquaintance (Figure 2.6). Raised in a traditional Betawi family, shy Zaenab is in many respects Sarah’s opposite. When Zaenab and Doel were young, the respective parents agreed to give their son and daughter in marriage to one another. Now that Babe has come to know and appreciate Sarah, he claims not to remember this agreement (DVD no. 7). Romantic love is a major discourse in the first series of Si Doel, and even more so in its follow-ups. But the discourses of education and ethnicity are equally important, as the plot surrounding Doel’s final exams illustrates. Like most Indonesian people, the Sabeni family have to work hard to make ends meet, and they cannot easily earn enough to pay for Doel’s education. When the date of the final exams approaches, it turns out that the financial situation of his family forces Doel to withdraw from the exams (DVD no. 8). Hans finds out what is bothering his friend and offers him a loan, but Doel declines. Hans then feels compelled to remind Doel of the reason he went to college in the first place: to disprove the general opinion that the Betawi never make it to university Hans: Doel: Hans:

You once told me that you wanted to respond to the mockery of people who tend to say that the Betawi at most become landbrokers. Maybe what they are saying is right, Hans. No, Doel, they are wrong. That is what you have to prove to them. You have to get a university degree.26

Emphasizing the importance of education and progress, such statements fit perfectly within the ideological grid of the New Order.

26

Hans: ‘Dulu kamu pernah bilang, kamu ingin menjawab ejekan orang-orang yang sering ngomong bahwa anak Betawi paling banter jadi calo tanah.’ / Doel: ‘Mungkin omongan mereka benar, Hans.’ / Hans: ‘Enggak, Doel, mereka itu salah. Mangkanya kamu harus buktikan kepada mereka. Kamu harus menjadi sarjana.’

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Doel had been able to pay his college fees thus far, because his parents had sold part of the family land to raise the money needed. The exploitation of land used to be a valuable source of income for the Betawi, but land-clearing policies and land speculation in developing Jakarta nowadays have left many of them without land or with only a disproportionately small amount of reimbursement money. In fact, only a small percentage of the land-owning Betawi truly profited from the situation (Abeyasekere 1989:219-20, 227-9). Si Doel alludes several times to the land issue, which is an important topic in Betawi discourse. One scene depicts for instance how Doel’s father regrets the fact that he has sold his land too early; had he waited until the present, his gain would have increased considerably (DVD no. 9). In reaction to this, Doel explains to his father that he for his part feels guilty for not having yet succeeded in becoming an engineer, despite the large amount of land that his father sold to help him become one. The Sabeni family, or more precisely Doel’s grandfather (Engkong) Ali, still own a stretch of land in Cisalak, a neighbourhood to the south of Jakarta in the district of Bogor. One day a land broker and his client, a businessman from Taiwan, arrive at the premises of the Sabeni family with the intention of buying this land (DVD no. 10). As the Taiwanese cannot speak Indonesian, Hans, who turns out to speak Mandarin Chinese, offers to act as an intermediary. Babe and the businessman then engage in negotiations. Because Babe asks for Rp 500,000 per meter while his interlocutor only offers one tenth of that price, they fail to reach an agreement. While Si Doel made an effort to counter the stereotypical portrayal of the Betawi, the introduction of this Chinese character is strikingly clichéd. In popular discourse in Indonesia, being Chinese is often equated to being wealthy (Turner 2003:337), even though most Indonesians of Chinese descent are not. By portraying the only Chinese character in the serial as a businessman, this scene continues the tradition of New Order media to represent Chinese Indonesians as prosperous (Turner 2003:342). Regardless of its stereotypical portrayal of the Chinese character, this scene motivates a major development in the narrative: Hans considers the failed negotiations a perfect opportunity to help his friend (DVD no. 11). He and Sarah decide to buy the land for Sarah’s father, who is a businessman too and needs a plot to build a storehouse. Because Hans knows that Doel would not agree with what they are doing, he keeps the transaction a secret from him and asks Doel’s parents to do the same. Although they do not understand the reason for it, Babe and Nyak agree to keep their mouth shut, though one day Doel’s mother almost discloses the secret by accident (DVD no. 12). Sarah then takes over from Hans. She tells Doel’s parents that the land will be sold to a friend of her father’s. While both Lela and Sabeni are grateful and excited that their land will be sold, Lela is puzzled by the fact that the

Figure 2.5 The independent Sarah (courtesy of Karnos Film)

Figure 2.6 The melancholy Zaenab (courtesy of Karnos Film)

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buyer has agreed to the price without haggling over it (DVD no. 13). Sabeni explains to his wife that that is how rich people behave. ‘As if they are like you’, he adds, ‘you’ll even fight over the price of a pair of sandals!’27 The next day Sarah takes Doel’s parents to the notary, where the transaction is formalized (DVD no. 14). When Doel’s father is asked to sign the contract, it becomes apparent that he is illiterate. A solution is quickly found: Babe signs the contract in the traditional way with a thumbprint. Doel’s parents now have the money to pay for his exams, and the young man can start preparing. Alternating scenes portray Doel as he is studying for his exams, and Sarah who is typing her undergraduate thesis on Doel and the Betawi community. After the exams, Doel returns home, where his family is anxiously awaiting the results (DVD no. 15). Looking downcast, Doel heads straight for the house. Only when his father hesitantly asks how things went, does Doel reveal that he has actually passed the exams. The family is overjoyed, and in a moving scene Babe sets out to spread the news to the neighbours. Jumping from one foot to the other while clapping his hands, Babe shouts his joyful message for everyone to hear it: Babe:

Listen fellow villagers! My son has got a university title! Fellow villagers, Doel is now an engineer (tukang insinyur). Spread the news, Mister Tatung, Mister Tatung, Mister Sidik, my son has passed his exams! Who says that the Betawi never get a university degree? Here, my son has proved it!28

It is remarkable that Babe calls Doel a tukang insinyur, despite the fact that the appellation tukang is normally reserved to indicate unskilled workers like vegetable peddlers (tukang sayur) or satay vendors (tukang sate). Babe probably uses this term for his educated son habitually. However, the phrase tukang insinyur – a spontaneous invention by actor Benyamin S. – is also a beautiful synthesis of the ambiguous attitude that Babe displays towards Doel’s education. On the one hand, Doel’s father is very keen to make sure that his son receives a proper education, but at the same time he is virtually ignorant of the implications of a university degree in engineering. Babe’s monologue is also noteworthy because it contains an explicit response to the stereotype of the uneducated Betawi as represented in the signature tune. To celebrate the occasion, a festive meal or selametan is organized for which Sarah, as friend of the family, is invited too. During this meal, Doel and Sarah timidly exchange glances, and afterwards Sarah invites Doel to attend her birthday party the coming week. The dramatic denouement of the plot of 27

Babe: ‘Emangnya elu? Beli sandal jepit aje pake berantem!’ Babe: ‘Hei orang kampung! Anak gue lulus jadi sarjana! Hei orang kampung, si Doel ude jadi tukang insinyur. Kasi tau Pak Tatung, Pak Tatung, Pak Sidik, anak gue lulus! Siape bilang anak Betawi kagak bisa jadi sarjana? Nih, buktinye anak gue!’ 28

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the first series of episodes takes place at this party, which is the main theme of the fifth episode (DVD no. 16). On this occasion, the contrast between Doel’s and Sarah’s different social and economic backgrounds is once again clearly visible: Sarah wears a risqué red dress, and she is about to cut a Western-style cake when Mandra, in sarong and kopiah, and Doel, dressed modestly in trousers and shirt, arrive. Upon arrival Doel and Mandra experience their first humiliation of the evening, as the door guard denies them access to the party at first; it is only when they claim to be invited that they are reluctantly allowed to enter the premises. A second moment of humiliation, and one that is much more disturbing to Doel, is when Roy, Sarah’s self-proclaimed boyfriend, discloses her secret: in front of all the other guests he informs Doel that Sarah is writing her undergraduate thesis on him and the other members of the ‘primitive’ Betawi community. While Doel is visibly shocked by Roy’s announcement, he remains calm and gives Roy a powerful reply in which he accuses him of being unethical. He then gives Sarah a small present and leaves. At his departure, Sarah bursts into tears. After discovering Sarah’s hidden agenda, Doel is angry and disappointed. Above all, he is frustrated that Sarah apparently considers him a ‘primitive’ instead of her equal. (Doel fails to notice that Roy, not Sarah, uses the word ‘primitive’. In fact Sarah once explained to Hans that it was an interest in other cultures rather than anything else that encouraged her to write her thesis about the Betawi; see DVD no. 6.) In addition, Doel is very disappointed in his best friend Hans, who has kept this secret from him and who to some extent is even involved (DVD no. 17). Doel decides to break off all contact with both Sarah and Hans, but his parents eventually succeed in convincing him that Sarah meant well; after all, it is because of her intervention in the land transaction that Doel was able to take his final exams. They are also of the opinion that their religion compels Doel to forgive someone who begs for forgiveness, as Sarah has done a number of times. After Doel’s initial anger and frustration fade, he approaches Sarah to discuss what she has written about the Betawi (DVD no. 18). Eventually Sarah is made to acknowledge that she is as strange in the eyes of the people whom she studies as they are in hers. The moral of this storyline, that no ethnic group is ‘better’ or more developed than others, seems to embody the New Order motto Bhinneka Tunggal Ika (loosely translated as ‘Unity in Diversity’). This motto however conceals that the New Order government was in fact disturbed by the ‘primitiveness’ of some Indonesian groups, encouraging or forcing them to abandon their ‘backward’ traditions in the name of progress (van Klinken 2003:70-1). After the air has been cleared between Sarah and him, Doel can prepare for the graduation ceremony. This is the major event of the final episode of the first series and a site where discourses of modernity, ‘Betawiness’, education,

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and romance merge (DVD no. 19). It so happens that Doel’s graduation date coincides with Sarah’s defence of her undergraduate thesis. On that day, Doel leaves for the university in his graduation suit. As is customary among Betawi, his family and neighbours escort him. A rebana band, performing Islamic songs to tambourine music, heads the procession, and firecrackers (petasan) are lit to mark the occasion. Meanwhile Sarah, whose session is apparently delayed, is nervously waiting for her turn to defend her thesis at another university building. After the graduation ceremony, Doel looks around at the parking lot to see if he can spot Sarah, but because there is no sign of her, the family decides to go home straight away (DVD no. 20). When they are already at the verge of departure, Sarah suddenly appears. Running towards the oplet, she shouts happily that she too has passed her exams. After a brief embrace, which Babe immediately interrupts, Sarah is summoned to get into the oplet and the family heads home. This scene marks the end of the first series of six episodes. As every episode does, this final one closes with credit titles (DVD no. 20). These acknowledge the actors and members of the crew of Karnos Film. They also mention Aman Datuk Madjoindo’s Child of Betawi as the sinetron’s source of inspiration, and Syumantiasa – incidentally, film director Sjuman Djaya’s brother – as the creator of the title song. At the end of the credit titles, the production company, as always, addresses the audience with a final remark in the form of a written statement; for the final episode of the first series this remark reads ‘God willing, this will be continued!’29 Table 2.2 Broadcast data for Si Doel 1-630 Series

Number of episodes

Broadcast date

Broadcast day and time

Broadcast station

Scriptwriters

Si Doel 1

6

23 January 1994 – 27 February 1994

Sunday, 7:30 p.m.

RCTI

Ida Farida, Rano Karno

Si Doel 2

26

7 October 1994 – 21 April 1995

Friday, 8 p.m.

RCTI

Harry Tjahyono, Rano Karno

Si Doel 3

49

26 February 1996 – 10 February 1997

Monday, 7:30 p.m.

RCTI

Harry Tjahyono, Rano Karno

Si Doel 4

16

18 April 1998 – 5 September 1998

Saturday, 7:30 p.m.

RCTI

Rano Karno, Mas Soegeng

Si Doel 5

28

13 March 2000 – 4 September 2000

Monday, 8 p.m.

INDOSIAR

Rano Karno

Si Doel 6

17

18 January 2003 – 10 May 2003

Saturday, 8 p.m.

INDOSIAR

Rano Karno, Nestor Rico Tambunan

29

‘Insyaallah ade lanjutannye!’ Source: ACNielsen, Jakarta. Data apply to the first screenings. For an overview of the various reruns and the ratings of the respective sequels, see Chapter VI.

30

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Si Doel, its sequels And continued it was. Up to May 2003, five sequels to the initial series were broadcast (see Table 2.2). While the first series ends with Doel and Sarah obtaining their degrees in technical engineering and cultural anthropology, respectively, in the second series Doel starts looking for a job. His efforts turn out repeatedly to be in vain. For example, Doel is once offered a very attractive job in Natuna, a small archipelago near the border with Malaysia (DVD no. 21). Though this would be an excellent job opportunity for Doel, his father refuses to grant permission. In fact, in a rage Babe tears Doel’s appointment letter into pieces and Doel is forced to turn the offer down. In Babe’s opinion, it is ridiculous for Doel to even consider taking a job so far away, while people from all over Indonesia come to Jakarta to try their luck. Rather than leave Jakarta, Doel should do exactly the opposite: as a Betawi he should stay and help develop the city. Although Doel disagrees with his father, he does not dare to contradict him. As for his mother, she only advises him with tears in her eyes to be patient. As for the question of romance, it is important to note that in the second series the character Zaenab makes her appearance. This rival character in the struggle for Doel’s affections was only mentioned by name in the first series, but in the sequels she is one of the major characters. Even though the arranged wedding between Doel and her has never occurred, Zaenab is still determined to make Doel her husband. She smartly succeeds in putting off two other arranged marriages (with her father’s rich business associates, one of them the Taiwanese businessman Koh A Hong who wanted to buy land from Doel’s family in the first series) by demanding that she be allowed to pursue her education and rejecting to be married in the meantime. Meanwhile her competitor Sarah, who is on her way to becoming a businesswoman, still visits the Sabeni family regularly. In the second series, Babe Sabeni hands over the task of driving the oplet to Mandra. Though Mandra is promoted, he is still expected to hand the money he makes driving the oplet to Babe at the end of each day (DVD no. 22). Otherwise, Doel’s uncle is still the underdog character that he was in the first series. Despite his good intentions, Mandra as a rule falls short at whatever it is he is doing or planning to do. The most dramatic example of this is his tragic failure to marry his beloved girlfriend Munaroh (DVD no. 23). Mandra fails to show up at the proposal ceremony, a date he had announced well in advance to Munaroh and her relatives, because his father Ali (Doel’s grandfather) suddenly decides to propose to his bride-to-be on the very same day that Mandra had in mind. Despite his protests, tradition forces Mandra to accompany his father to Ali’s wife-to-be, while in fact he had planned things the other way around (DVD no. 24). Sabeni and Lela join the proposal

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ceremony too, although they feel sorry for Mandra and have their doubts about Engkong Ali’s sudden marriage (DVD no. 25). Mandra’s father-in-lawto-be is so embarrassed about the situation that he forbids Mandra ever to see his daughter again, and soon afterwards she is married against her will to another man. Throughout the serial Engkong Ali indeed seems to care more about his intelligent grandson Doel than about his own son Mandra, whom he considers a good-for-nothing. For instance, the toothless old man buys a brand new motorcycle for Doel to facilitate Doel’s search for a job (Si Doel 3, episode 7). In addition, when his granddaughter Atun dreams of opening her own beauty parlour, Engkong is willing to invest a large amount of money to make this dream come true (Si Doel 2, episode 15). When it comes to his own son, however, Engkong is miserly; in fact, Mandra never receives any presents but his father’s sharp tongue (DVD no. 26). The death of star actor Benyamin S. between the shoots of the second and third series cast a dark shadow over the production process of this sequel. Because producer Rano Karno did not want to replace the popular Benyamin S. with another actor, he decided to write the character of Babe Sabeni off the serial. In the sinetron, Doel’s father dies in a car crash on the way back from a trip to the beach that Sarah has organized and paid for. The narrative specifies that Babe’s cause of death is not directly related to the car accident; viewers are told that Doel’s father was suffering from a heart disease and, just like performer Benyamin S., died of a heart attack. The third series thus starts with Babe Sabeni’s tragic death and burial. Doel now carries the double burden of finding a job and supporting his mother and sister as head of the family. Despite Doel’s assurance that it wasn’t her fault that his father died, Sarah feels guilty and avoids Doel and his family for some time. This gives Zaenab, and yet another woman called Sita, the opportunity to get Doel’s attention. After the loss of Babe, the focus on Doel and his family’s Betawi background gradually disappears. Instead, romantic themes such as Doel’s relationships with the women that surround him (Sarah, Zaenab, and Sita) and Doel’s clashes with Sarah’s self-proclaimed boyfriend Roy come to dominate the sinetron. However, these relationship scenes are still interspersed with comical sketches by Mandra, who behaves in a stereotypical Betawi way, and the sly Javanese neighbour Karyo. In this third series, as in the fourth one, the two main topics remain Doel’s search for a proper job and the efforts of various women to win his heart (DVD no. 27). In the fourth series, Doel has finally found a job that really suits him. He now works at a construction company, and scenes of him and Sarah in their respective offices are increasingly common. Now that Doel has a regular income, life for the Sabeni family becomes more luxurious. In the fifth series of episodes, Doel has a telephone line installed (episode 13). Another

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major event in the fifth series, the first to be broadcast by RCTI’s competitor Indosiar, is the marriage of Doel’s sister Atun to neighbour Karyo in a Betawi wedding ceremony (DVD no. 42 contains images of the production of this particular episode). At this wedding, which dominates the final episode, it is suggested that Doel and Sarah will be the next couple to be married. With this cliffhanger, the producer once more ensured for himself the possibility of a follow-up. Two years later, this follow-up would indeed be produced. On 6 August 2002, at the combined press conference/selametan that preceded the production of a sixth series of episodes, Rano Karno stated that this new series would definitely be Si Doel’s final chapter. Karno explained that he had been in doubt as to whether to produce yet another sequel to Si Doel. To know whether viewers would appreciate a sixth series, he had handed out five thousand questionnaires to people in Jakarta and surroundings. The outcome of this poll had convinced him to produce a new sequel, as 90 per cent of the respondents had answered that they were still waiting for a new series of episodes. Asked what this new series should be about, virtually all respondents had replied that it should be about Doel getting married to Sarah. In addition, respondents demanded that the fate of Zaenab, as a Betawi woman, be ‘upgraded’ as well: she too was to be married to a nice and progressive man. Karno promised that he would not disappoint his audience. On 13 August 2002, the shoots for the sixth series of Si Doel began. Si Doel: Televising the New Order? During the New Order, television was employed as a ‘key propaganda tool’ and a ‘site for the regime’s definition of Indonesian national culture’ (Sen and Hill 2000:131). In fact, the sinetron Si Doel can be read as a vehicle of New Order ideology. Ideologies are created, reproduced, and strengthened through discursive practices such as television (Barker and Galasiński 2001). The television text Si Doel is therefore ideologically loaded, even though politics as such do not seem to play a significant role in the lives of the serial’s characters. Topics related to state politics fall largely beyond the discursive horizon of Si Doel, as they do in mainstream sinetron or the typical soap opera.31 The radical political changes that affected Indonesia in the late 1990s, most notably the stepping down in May 1998 of president Soeharto after a three-decade reign, were not even once critically addressed in the series of episodes produced at the time. Explicit allusions to other political events affecting Indonesian 31

Personal communication with Dorothy Hobson, Amsterdam, 11 December 1998; see also Ang 1985:59-60.

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society were occasionally made, though mainly in the form of jokes or casual remarks by the characters about the event in question. The commotion around the dissolution of IGGI in 1992, for instance, is reflected in the first episode of Si Doel 1.32 In this episode, Doel learns that his friend and fellow student Hans has been to the Netherlands (DVD no. 3). In response, Doel asks lightheartedly whether Hans went there to settle the IGGI conflict. In the same episode, Doel’s mother wants to buy a new thermos can from Kang Mamang, the Sundanese petty trader in household appliances. Her husband forbids her to do so, as she cannot even go to repay an earlier purchase. Babe snaps at Kang Mamang that the deal is off, as they are out of credit (kredit macet). This is an allusion to the uncollectable credits resulting from mismanagement in the banking sector in late New Order Indonesia (Van Dijk 2001:83). Whereas explicit allusions to or critical comments about the political situation in Indonesia are scarce, subtle references to the socio-political backdrop against which each series of episodes is produced can be detected throughout the serial, notably in its depiction of the daily life of the Si Doel characters. For instance, the socio-economic and political crisis that afflicted Indonesia and other parts of Asia in the late 1990s, is reflected in the complaints by customers at Lela’s warung that the cost of living had become unbearable high (Si Doel 4, episode 8). Doel’s company also cancels the project for which it had employed him, forced by the krismon to take economic measures (Si Doel 4, episode 4). More explicit allusions to the period of Reformasi, such as the numerous student demonstrations, the stepping down of Soeharto, or the general elections, are however absent. This is not because expressions of popular culture such as Si Doel are apolitical per se – in fact, some other producers did represent the student demonstrations in their sinetron and criticized the regime in explicit terms after the Reformasi33 – but rather because producer Rano Karno deliberately avoided making explicit political statements through his television serial. In his view, Si Doel was not meant to document political developments; instead, the sinetron was supposed to ‘talk from the heart and to touch people in their hearts’.34 In spite of the political ‘neutrality’ of its producer – which in itself reminds one of the political apathy that reigned in Indonesia during the heyday of the 32

IGGI stands for Inter-Gouvernementele Groep voor Indonesië (Inter-Governmental Group on Indonesia). The aid group was founded in 1968 and led by the Dutch until Soeharto, protesting against the Dutch attitude towards human rights issues, particularly the Dili massacre, decided to reject all Dutch aid on 25 March 1992. In addition, the president called on the Netherlands to step down as the chairman of the IGGI. Soon afterwards a new aid group, led by the World Bank, replaced IGGI (Schwarz 1999:223). 33 See for instance Veven Sp. Wardhana, ‘Reformasi Sinetron dan Sinetron Reformasi di TVRI, Kompas Online, 12 September 1999, viewing date 29 September 1999. 34 ‘[Si Doel] bicara dari hati dan sampai ke hati’. Telephone interview with Rano Karno, 3 September 1998.

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New Order regime (Pausacker 2003:170-1) – traces of New Order ideology can be detected throughout the serial. Si Doel’s traditional portrayal of family life and gender patterns are a good example. Under Soeharto, women were basically defined as mothers and wives: ‘New Order State policies systematically reinforced women’s subordinate status at the ideological level […]. Traditional values were promoted to offset the impact of the forces of modernisation, and to this end women were promoted as mothers of the nation, responsible for ensuring that the familial realm remained harmonious and strong’ (Kellar 2004). An example of such a limiting female stereotype is the concept of kodrat wanita, which denotes the essentially sophisticated nature of women. It is important to note that these traditional female identities were invented; before the New Order administration, the position of women was much more equal (Kellar 2004). The traditional family values propagated by the New Order are reproduced through the character of Doel’s mother Lela. A loving mother and wife, Lela’s mission in life is to serve her husband and children and to maintain harmony in the family. A storyline involving Doel’s sister Atun implicitly addresses the notion of kodrat wanita. Once, when Sarah chats with Lela for her research, she discovers that Doel’s parents consider it unnecessary for their daughter to be educated because Atun is expected to become a housewife anyway. Sarah is visibly shocked, but she keeps quiet. It is remarkable, however, that after having befriended Atun Doel’s sister suddenly demands permission from her parents to follow a course in bridal make-up. Atun aspires to become a beautician. When her father disregards her request, Atun decides to earn the money herself; hence she joins Mandra as driver’s mate on the oplet, something that normally only men are and which is clearly not in agreement with the kodrat wanita. When Babe finds out, he is very angry with his daughter at first (DVD no. 30). Atun defends herself, saying that like her brother, she too has educational aspirations. Hereby she implicitly comments on the title song, which, despite its good intentions, is directed towards Betawi men, not women. In the end, Babe comes round and gives his daughter money and permission to follow the course. After some time, Atun succeeds in becoming a beautician and opens a lucrative beauty parlour at her parents’ house. Though this profession does not defy traditional gender roles, at least Atun has contested her father’s power and stated her own ambition. Another site where the New Order ideology manifests itself is in the sinetron’s cautious treatment of SARA related issues. That said, it must be acknowledged that whereas mainstream sinetron typically avoided the subject, Si Doel at least addressed some SARA-related topics explicitly. The relation between members of different socio-economic and ethnic groups and the prejudices that they may hold towards members of other groups, for instance, is explored through the characters of Doel and Sarah.

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Especially the discussion about the presumed ‘primitiveness’ and ‘backwardness’ of Doel and his fellow Betawi is a case in point. The gap between the well-to-do and the underprivileged in contemporary Indonesia is reflected in a discussion between Lela and her vocal husband Sabeni. When they succeed in selling part of the family land, Lela becomes suspicious about the anonymous buyer of the land agreeing with the price without bargaining. Babe responds that rich people can indeed afford to behave in such a way; they don’t need to bargain, as ‘we’ do. The critical potential of this statement is undone however when Babe turns it into a joke about the bargaining skills of his wife. The sensitive notions of race and ethnicity, particularly in connection to the Chinese or Indonesian Chinese community that lives in Indonesia, are most explicitly addressed through the character of A Hong. While one may object to the stereotypical portrayal of this character in Si Doel 1, the use of Chinese on Indonesian television did break the New Order ban on using this language in the media. In addition, the sinetron’s foregrounding of the ethnic identity of the Sabeni family and its juxtaposition to other ethnicities is remarkable, as noted above. While mainstream sinetron typically portray upper class, metropolitan, ‘pan-Indonesian’ characters, the Betawi identity of the Sabeni family is unquestionable. The theme of religion is reflected in the pronounced Islamic identity of the Sabeni family. Outer manifestations of Islam are manifold in Si Doel. For example, Babe is never portrayed without his kopiah and Lela is regularly shown to either depart to or return home from her ngaji lessons. The members of the Sabeni family use the well-known Islamic greeting assalamu’alaikum (on arrival and departure) or its counterpart wa’alaikum salam (in answering the former). More subtle proof of their religiosity is found in the discourse of the members of the Sabeni family. Babe for instance is of the opinion that religion compels Doel to forgive Sarah for having a hidden agenda, simply because she has asked him to forgive her (DVD no. 17). On another occasion, Lela reminds her husband with an Arabic quote from the Koran that Islam teaches them to be patient (DVD no. 29). Though Si Doel is more outspoken in its treatment of SARA-related issues than mainstream sinetron, it largely deals with these issues from a conventional and conflict-avoiding perspective. Sarah and Doel for instance develop a genuine friendship after learning to respect and appreciate the differences in each other’s lifestyle and culture. This is once again in agreement with the ‘Unity in Diversity’-motto, which promotes a unified Indonesia in which the different classes and ethnic groups live in harmony side by side. Needless to say, this idea is not fully endorsed by Indonesian history, as outbursts of violence in late New Order and post-Soeharto Indonesia have demonstrated. Likewise, the sympathetic portrayal of the Chinese character A Hong in later series is subtly linked to his willingness to speak the national tongue and

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his conversion to Islam. The plot fits into New Order politics of assimilation, which encouraged Chinese citizens to discard their ethnic identity and adjust their lifestyle to that of ‘native’ Indonesians (Schwarz 1999:104; Allen 2003:384). Still, it must be acknowledged that Si Doel addressed some sensitive issues in Indonesian society that were neglected in the typical mainstream sinetron, thereby enabling different ‘imaginations’ of the nation than were possible hitherto. It may be argued, then, that the televison serial Si Doel to some extent televises the New Order. This is at least suggested by the serial’s emphasis on the importance of education and technological advancement (embodied by its main character being an engineer!); its model family (with two children, as the New Order slogan dua anak cukup, ‘two children is enough’, dictates); and the distribution of gender patterns (obedient housewife Lela accompanies dominant pater familias Sabeni). In addition, the state philosophy Panca Sila is for instance endorsed by the explicit religious orientation of the family, which is in line with its ‘belief in one God’-principle. Reading Si Doel as a vehicle of New Order ideology highlights the links between media texts and the political systems that produce them. Framing Si Doel as a New Order text however may prevent the analyst from seeing its disruptive and emancipatory potential. As argued throughout this book, the sinetron at times implicitly or explicitly contests or negotiates the ideological underpinnings of the New Order regime. This may take the form of a narrative development, as when Atun becomes a driver’s mate and succeeds in her mission. It may be a matter of language, as when characters speak out or remain silent when faced with certain situations. The use of Chinese in one scene even defied the official New Order ban prohibiting the use of this language on television. In assessing the ideological weight of a particular statement or scene one should moreover acknowledge the ‘multimodality’ and ‘multimediality’ (Kress and Van Leeuwen 2001:67) of the television text. It makes a difference whether an argument is presented seriously, as a joke, a song, or a complaint – as for instance Babe’s use of the term kredit macet illustrates. Finally, to consider Si Doel merely as an embodiment of New Order ideology does not do justice to the dynamics of the production process and ignores the reading strategies of actual audiences. To determine the ideological location of this sinetron, then, larger ‘framing’ discourses as well as individual statements must be scrutinized and both should be studied in their context of production and reception. For, as Fairclough and Wodak (1997:273) remind us: ‘Every instance of language use makes its own small contribution to reproducing and/or transforming society and culture, including power relations. That is the power of discourse; that is why it is worth struggling over’.

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A discourse of Indonesian television Si Doel was among the first sinetron to be broadcast on commercial television in Indonesia that were explicitly embedded in local culture and portrayed an ‘ordinary’ family and their ‘ordinary’ life. The serial thereby developed the notion of sinetron, most of which in the mid-1990s portrayed the activities and lifestyle of wealthy, metropolitan Indonesians. Si Doel highlighted another segment of Indonesian society by telling the story of the Sabenis, a Betawi family living in a kampong in the urban fringes of Jakarta. The Sabeni family was portrayed in its daily struggle with such pressing issues as financial insecurity, hidden unemployment, corruption, and nepotism. The contribution of Si Doel to the notion of sinetron illustrates Fiske’s (1987:112) observation that each new programme alters the boundaries of a genre and expands its definition. This is not to say that after Si Doel no mainstream sinetron were produced – far from that, production flourished as before. Rather, after the success of Si Doel, alternatives to the usual sinetron format became imaginable. While mainstream sinetron enjoyed – and still do – a great popularity among its audiences, the nationwide success of Si Doel suggests that millions of viewers were pleased to watch a story that focused on the underprivileged segment of Indonesian society rather than its upper class. While the first and second series of Si Doel defied audience expectations and redefined the notion of sinetron, its sequels increasingly resembled the typical mainstream sinetron that Si Doel initially sought to stand out from. This change from pioneering to mainstream sinetron becomes all the more visible if one compares the lyrics of the serial’s title song, which so powerfully express the mission statement of the first series of Si Doel, with the content of its sequels. Summarizing the thrust of the narrative of the first series of episodes, the signature tune in later series merely acts as a nostalgic tribute to the serial’s remarkable origins.

CHAPTER III

The making of Si Doel

Shaping the face of Indonesian television

Television texts take shape in relation to other texts, and come into being through the discourse practices surrounding and running through them. Production is a vital discourse practice that has scarcely been the subject of research: Garrett and Bell (1998:18-9) for instance note the lack of studies on ‘how the finished text is the outcome of the processes by which it was made’. This chapter is concerned with the production process that shapes Si Doel, notably its ‘multiple authorship’ (Hodge and Kress 1993:181). In relation to Si Doel, the phrase ‘multiple authorship’ means the ways in which a multitude of ‘authors’, ranging from single individuals to powerful institutions, influence the shape and content of the television text. I speak here of ‘text’ rather than ‘discourse’ to emphasize the outward manifestation rather than the context of communication of this television serial (Chouliaraki and Fairclough 1998:3). Texts can also be defined as ‘sites of discursive practice in which genre categories may be articulated’ (Mittell 2004:14). The company profile of Karnos Film describes the television text Si Doel as ‘both a gift from above, and an unabated struggle of the people working at Karnos Film’.1 It was indeed only after a prolonged effort that Rano Karno was able to transform his idea to produce a sequel to Sjuman Djaya’s movie Child of Betawi into an audiovisual product.2 Rano Karno had already thought of making a follow-up to Sjuman Djaya’s version of Doel in the late 1970s, when together with his friend and colleague Harry Tjahyono he wrote several short stories about the character. In the 1980s, Rano Karno approached scriptwriter Ida Farida and asked her to rework the stories into a film script. Originally, he had wanted to contact Harry Tjahyono, but because he was unavailable, Rano 1

‘Ini adalah sebuah karunia, sekaligus perjuangan yang tak kenal menyerah dari para personil di PT. Karnos Film.’ Karnos Film company profile, p. 11. 2 Unless stated otherwise, all information in this chapter on the production of Si Doel 1 and its sequels was obtained through conversations and interviews with Rano Karno on various occasions between 1997 and 2003, and through an interview with Ida Farida on 17 March 1999. Because I attended part of the shoots of Si Doel 4, Si Doel 5, and Si Doel 6, I also draw on conversations with the crew and actors and my own observation of the production process.

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Karno turned to Ida Farida instead. A producer and scriptwriter, Ida Farida was directing a successful movie in Malaysia at the time. She promised to meet Karno’s request and in 1987 the script was ready. 3 Although initially the Jakarta production company Prasidi had shown an interest in producing the movie, owing to the collapse of the national film industry in the early 1990s, the film was never produced. Rano Karno claims that it was divine inspiration that made him decide to adapt the film scenario to the requirements of the television industry. Karno recalls that he was on the short pilgrimage to Mecca recommended for Muslims who can spare the money when he prayed for a sign to show him what to do at that point in his life. Suddenly the image of Doel came to his mind. The actor interpreted this experience as an encouragement to concentrate once more on the character that had brought him fame at the start of his career. The fact that in the early 1990s producing sinetron was big business probably helped bring him to this decision too. Rano Karno turned to Ida Farida once more and asked her to help him transform the film script into a sinetron script. In 1992, five years after their first effort to produce a sequel to Sjuman Djaya’s ‘Doel movies’, Rano Karno and Ida Farida thus worked together for a second time. This time, they would be considerably more successful. Localizing Indonesian television With Si Doel, Rano Karno aimed to offer an alternative for the mainstream sinetron that proliferated on the national screen. Karno in part attributed the ‘lack of creativity and cultural transparency’ that he perceived in these sinetron to the New Order government’s obsession with control and unity and its emphasis on economy rather than culture. An atmosphere had thus been created in which genuine diversity was unable to flourish. Looking back at the entertainment industry in Indonesia in the early 1990s, Rano Karno observes: The symbols of government regulations in the form of SARA (ethnicity, race, religion), stability and security, subversion […], have repressed the creativity of film professionals and supported the birth of a type of film that was ‘safe’, meaning films that had sex and violence as their themes. Those two themes were not only ‘safe’; they were also ‘successful’ on the market – in the sense that they succeeded in generating a lot of money.

3

According to Misbach Yusa Biran, head of the Sinematek in Jakarta, the scenario is stored somewhere in his library. Though I paid several visits to the Sinematek in 1998 and 2000, it was impossible to retrieve the scenario on those occasions.

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When film professionals turned to television and produced sinetron, they put these ‘safe’ themes of ‘sex’ and ‘violence’ through a metamorphosis by adapting the recipes for success on which Latin American telenovelas and Indian films were based. The result was, as one could witness on all Indonesian television stations, [the emergence of] Latin American and Indian sinetron in which Indonesians acted.4 (Karno 2001:4.)

There were some exceptions to this type of sinetron. Karno mentions Sitti Nurbaya, based on Marah Rusli’s famous 1922 novel on the clash of cultures in early twentieth century Minangkabau society, and the drama series Losmen, which was Javanese in setting and orientation. Both sinetron were broadcast by government station TVRI, in 1991 and 1986, respectively.5 Like its non-commercial predecessors, then, Si Doel was to stand out from the bulk of sinetron, which copied a foreign formula, by plainly showing its ‘Indonesian’ face. When Rano Karno tried to sell his concept, however, it turned out to be difficult to convince television stations that such a ‘local’ programme would be marketable. By 1994 five television stations were operating in Indonesia. Karno had set his heart upon Indonesia’s first and largest commercial broadcaster RCTI, because this station offered the best broadcast facilities and covered the largest area. But RCTI was not interested in airing Si Doel, and Rano Karno was advised to try his luck at TVRI. The fact that Si Doel defied genre expectations partly explains Rano Karno’s difficulties in selling his concept to RCTI. Used to the typical mainstream sinetron, RCTI associated this genre with features it did not encounter in Si Doel. In addition, as scriptwriter Farida points out, RCTI had never broadcast a sinetron about a run-of-the-mill family thus far. RCTI referred Rano Karno to TVRI, the government station known for its commitment to broadcasting regional culture. TVRI had a special slot for programmes with a local flavour, and RCTI thought that Si Doel would fit perfectly. But Rano Karno refused. He did not want Si Doel to be broadcast in the same category as traditional theatre plays, music, and dance because he considered his creation a sinetron. He also wanted a commercial broadcaster to air his programme so that it would reach a large audience. Despite RCTI’s defence that their target audience consisted of the Indonesian elite, high-class people who would not be interested in watching the adventures of an average Betawi family, Rano Karno insisted and even4

‘Rambu-rambu peraturan pemerintah berupa SARA (suku, ras, agama), stabilitas keamanan, sub[v]ersif dan seterusnya, telah memasung kreativitas insan film dan mendorong lahirnya jenis film yang ‘aman’, yakni film-film bertemakan seks dan kekerasan. Kedua tema tersebut, selain ‘aman’ juga mengalami ‘sukses’ di pasar – dalam pengertian berhasil menghasilkan banyak uang. / Ketika insan film berpaling ke televisi dan memproduksi sinetron, tema yang ‘aman’ berupa ‘seks’ dan ‘kekerasan’ tersebut mengalami metamorphose dengan mengadaptasi resep sukses telenovela Amerika Latin dan film India. Hasilnya, seperti dapat kita saksikan di semua stasiun televisi Indonesia, adalah sinetron Amerika Latin dan India yang dimainkan oleh orang Indonesia.’ 5 Interview with Veven Wardhana, 12 August 2003.

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tually RCTI agreed to purchase the first series of six episodes. The negotiations between Rano Karno and RCTI illustrate how genres evolve and are redefined in the discourse practices of the broadcasting industry, its (real or perceived) audiences, and production houses (Mittell 2004:9). Although it was general policy for RCTI to demand a pilot of each sinetron before acquisition, Rano Karno claims that he obtained his contract through mere conversation. In fact he did have a scripted outline ready, but the acquisition department of RCTI did not bother to read it. Rano Karno believes that he was able to convince the acquisition department of RCTI for several reasons, mainly his familiarity and popularity as an actor with a nationwide audience, and because as a child he had played the character Doel in Sjuman Djaya’s successful movie Child of Betawi. Clearly these arguments weighed heavily for RCTI, because when Rano Karno made his offer to the station, another producer had also offered to produce a sinetron on Doel entitled Si Doel naik haji (‘Doel makes the pilgrimage’). According to the late Tino Karno, it must have been a total coincidence that Karnos Film and another producer were both working on a sinetron about the character Doel. One can imagine however that at the time exploiting the popular film character Doel seemed a promising undertaking for other sinetron producers too. Although some footage of Doel makes the pilgrimage had already been shot, RCTI preferred Rano Karno’s concept, even though only a scripted outline was available at the time. As a consequence, Doel makes the pilgrimage has never been shown on television.6 Producing Si Doel: The revival of production company Karnos Film The production process of a television programme is usually divided into three stages: pre-production, production, and post-production (Holland 1997). This tripartite scheme, which was initially developed for the production of film and television in the United States and Europe, has become the universal mode for producing television, in Indonesia too (Wibowo 1997). While the production process of Si Doel is comparable to production processes elsewhere, the ‘universal’ principles of television making are interpreted through an Indonesian frame of reference. Producer/director Rano Karno learned the ins and outs of televisionmaking predominantly through his own, lengthy experience in the entertainment industry. Among these experiences was a year-long acting course in Los Angeles, which he took in 1981. Calling himself self-taught, Rano Karno further developed his vision on film and television production by reading books on the subject and through discussions with fellow broadcasting professionals. He increased his knowledge by watching foreign and domestic television 6

Interview with Tino Karno, 29 April 1998.

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series and films; for the latter, incidentally, he has a collection of thousands of laser discs at his disposal. Compared to other beginners, Rano Karno had at least one great advantage: he was co-owner of Karnos Film, the production company his father Soekarno M. Noor founded in 1977. Karnos Film produced several movies until its output was diminished by the crisis in the film industry. Rano Karno and his brothers and sisters were then forced to take side jobs to survive. Rano Karno’s younger brother Nurly for instance took a job as a chauffeur, whereas other family members started a restaurant. As soon as Rano obtained a contract from RCTI, however, he only needed to revive his production company. Karnos Film is a family business, and Rano Karno indeed included most of his relatives in the production process of Si Doel 1. Rano himself was president-director of Karnos Film and producer/director of Si Doel. His older brothers Rubby and Tino held the positions of assistant producer and production manager. Their younger brother Nurly was given the position of assistant cameraman, while other family members participated as actors. Tino Karno also performed the role of Doel’s childhood friend Sapi’i, and Rano’s youngest sister Suti was cast to play the character of Atun. Rano also involved their mother Istiarti Soekarno M. Noor in the project; she plays the notary who certifies the documents of Sarah and Doel’s father, Babe Sabeni, when Sarah buys a stretch of land from Doel’s family (DVD no. 14). Karnos Film also recruited some twenty other crew members, all of whom were mentioned in the credit titles (DVD no. 20). As a producer, Rano Karno was also responsible for the financial arrangements. Because he did not succeed in getting a loan from a monetary institution, he chose to put his own savings into the project. He sold some of his personal belongings, including his car (a BMW) and some of his wife’s jewellery, and put his house up as collateral to obtain a loan. In this way he was able to accumulate the capital needed to finance the production of what was to become the company’s masterpiece. The cast One of the factors that television critics were to point out later in their efforts to explain the success of the television serial was the casting talent of Rano Karno. For the production of Si Doel 1, Karno brought together both senior and junior performers with an acting background in television or traditional theatre or none even at all. The producer explained that when he wrote the scenario of Si Doel 1, he already had in mind which artists were to play the main characters. Because he knew most of these people in person, he was able to tailor the char-

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acter to the personality of the performing actor. In Benyamin S., for instance, he saw a clear resemblance with the character of Doel’s father, Babe Sabeni: Like, for instance, the late Benyamin, I knew him very well. I really understood his character, and I also really understood his aspirations. […] I witnessed, for instance, that the late Benyamin really wanted his children to develop. He even had one of his children […] educated in America. Well, this [part of his] character is the same for Sabeni, Doel’s father. […] That is why Benyamin was so… appropriate for playing in Si Doel. […] And then I looked for a character to be performed by Mrs. Aminah. […] I already knew very well who Aminah Cendrakasih was. […] Then Mandra. I had monitored him for almost fifteen years. So when I conceived Si Doel, the people were already there. Although I had not yet contacted them, […] they were already in my mind.7

Rano Karno recalls that Benyamin S. was very pleased when he approached him to play the character of Babe Sabeni in Si Doel. A native Betawi, Benyamin S. played a major role in popularizing Betawi culture with the general public. Benyamin S. had been an amateur singer and performer since his teenage years, and decided to devote his career entirely to music in the late 1960s. In the 1970s he embarked on a second career, and between 1970 and 1992 he performed in some fifty movies (Gunawijaya and Yudoseputro 1997:34-5), among them the film Child of modernity. Through his numerous songs and movies, Benyamin S. made a name for himself as an all-round entertainer with a keen interest in the average Jakartan. Reportedly the actor believed that his role as Babe Sabeni would allow him to elevate Betawi culture even more. Rano Karno asserts that he would have cancelled the whole project if Benyamin S. had declined to play the role of Babe. Like Benyamin S., Mandra too is a native Betawi with a strong commitment to advancing Betawi culture. Mandra comes from a family of performers. His grandfather hajji Jiun was a prominent Betawi artist, and five of his children, including Mandra’s father, became leading Betawi entertainers themselves, particularly in the well-known Betawi theatre genres lenong and topeng.8 As a 7

‘Misalnya kayak almarhum Benyamin, saya sudah sangat kenal. Saya sangat tahu karakternya dia, dan juga saya sangat tahu keinginan dia. [...] Saya lihat, misalnya, almarhum Benyamin itu sangat ingin anak almarhum bisa maju. Sampai ada seorang anak yang […] sampai disekolahkan ke Amerika. Nah, ini kan karakternya sama seperti Sabeni, bapaknya Doel. […] Makanya Benyamin kenapa … kena sekali bermain dalam Si Doel. […] Kemudian, dicari karakter Ibu Aminah. […] Saya udah sangat kenal Aminah Cendrakasih itu siapa. […] Kemudian, Mandra. Mandra sudah hampir lima belas tahun yang lalu sudah saya amati. Jadi waktu saya bikin konsep Si Doel Anak Sekolahan, sudah ada orang-orangnya, walaupun belum saya hubungi […] udah ada di dalam benaknya.’ Telephone interview with Rano Karno, 3 September 1998. 8 The stories in lenong centre on heroes and criminals, its most famous repertoire being the stories of the legendary figure ‘Si Pitung’ (Koesasi 1992, Kleden-Probonegoro 1996). Topeng theatre is household drama (drama rumah tangga), interspersed with dance and clown scenes. The genre derives its name from the masks (topeng) originally worn by the actors. As topeng devel­ ope­d, however, these masks were gradually left out of the performance and nowadays only the

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child, Mandra had joined the renowned topeng group ‘Topeng Bokir’, headed by his uncle, hajji Bokir. Later he also performed in lenong theatre.9 Mandra’s career took off through his role as the character Mandra in Si Doel. Hajjah Aminah Cendrakasih plays the character Lela, Doel’s mother and Mandra’s sister. A daughter of the famous Indonesian actress Wolly Sutinah, Aminah has been involved in the film industry since she was fifteen. She has played in dozens of movies, among them Sjuman Djaya’s Child of modernity. Since the 1970s, the actress performed in a number of television serials. Although she plays the role of a native Betawi woman, Aminah’s own ethnic background is in fact Javanese. She was born in Magelang, Central Java, of Javanese parents. Her husband however is a native Betawi, and Aminah has lived in Jakarta since her childhood.10 Through the character of Lela, producer Rano Karno wanted to offer viewers an alternative for the career women that populate mainstream sinetron: Doel’s mother seems quite content with her position as a full-time spouse, mother, and housewife. Rano Karno stressed, however, that with the character of Sarah he also created an independent and enterprising woman. Indeed, throughout the serial both Sarah and Zaenab are increasingly portrayed as independent women who know what they want. Yet television critic Veven Wardhana points out that their main identity is still essentially passive, as they wait for Doel to choose either of them to become his wife.11 Like Mandra, the late hajji Enung Tile bin Bayan had a background in Betawi theatre. Pak Tile, as he was known, was a native Betawi who had performed as a lenong actor since he was twelve. His national breakthrough came in the late 1980s, when he performed in several movies and television serials. Before appearing as Engkong Ali in Si Doel, Pak Tile featured in Abumawas, another television serial with a Betawi setting.12 In the first series of Si Doel, Doel’s grandfather is only mentioned in the dialogues of the characters. Like Mandra, Agus Basuki too was born into a performing family: both his father, the famous clown actor Pete, and his mother performed in a wayang orang group, a traditional Javanese theatre genre. An ethnic Javanese with roots in Solo, Central Java, Basuki started his acting career as a clown in wayang orang. In the late 1980s he joined the Jakarta-based Srimulat group. For the first Si Doel series, Basuki was cast as a guest actor to play the role dancers and the character Bapak or Pak (‘Mister’) Jantuk wear them. This character, incidentally, features prominently during the final part of the typical topeng performance. This piece revolves around a couple – Pak Jantuk and his wife – who divorce over an insignificant misunderstanding and later reunite. (Ardan 1997, Depdikbud 1983). The split up and subsequent reunion of Engkong Ali and his wife Nyai Rodie in Si Doel resembles the Pak Jantuk story. 9 Conversation with Mandra on the set of Si Doel, 2 June 2000. 10 Conversation with Aminah Cendrakasih on the set of Si Doel, 20 August 2002. 11 Interview with Veven Wardhana, 2 April 2001. 12 Conversation with Pak Tile on the set of Si Doel, 10 January 1998.

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of Mas Karyo, the Sabeni family’s Javanese neighbour. His performance was deemed successful, and in later series he would become one of the most important characters.13 Whereas Rano Karno recruited many performers from traditional theatre circles, he also involved people who started their career in the entertainment industry. Karno’s youngest sister, Suti Karno, for instance, played her first film role when she was thirteen. Cornelia Agatha and Maudy Koesnaedy, the two actresses who play the characters Sarah and Zaenab, had been working for some time as advertising models when they were cast for Si Doel. Though Cornelia had also acted in several movies, the most popular among them Rini tomboy (Tomboy Rini), Maudy had no experience as an actress. As a student of French, she had hosted a television programme in which this language was taught. Like the character Engkong Ali, in the first series of episodes Zaenab is only mentioned in dialogue (see DVD no. 7). Rina Gunawan, finally, is an all-round performer whose singing career started when she was ten years old. Rina was known as a singer and dancer, radio and television host, and MC when she was cast to play the role of Sarah’s best friend Ati in Si Doel.14 Karnos Film also recruited actors who had little or no previous experience in the entertainment industry. The actor playing Hans, for instance, had no acting experience at all. A native Malaysian, Adam Djagwani had worked as a disc jockey all over the world. Rano Karno met him in Jakarta, where they often played football together. This performer, also known as Adam ‘Stardust’, after the Jakartan discotheque where he performed as a DJ in the early 1990s, was cast for the role of Doel’s best friend, the lazy student Hans. Djoni Irawan, who played the antagonist Roy, is a lawyer by profession, and was cast as Tino and Rano’s old friend. The actor playing the Chinese character A Hong came to the company through Rano Karno’s younger brother Nurly. Before the shoots of Si Doel, Nurly had been working as a chauffeur for hajji Salman Alfarizi (formerly known as Kasiman) (Figure 3.1).15 Preparing the shoots Once the crew and the actors had been brought together, Rano Karno approached Ida Farida and asked her to direct the sinetron she had scripted. Because Ida Farida had other obligations at the time, the producer decided 13

Conversation with Basuki on the set of Si Doel, 2 June 2000. Conversations with Suty Karno, Cornelia Agatha, Maudy Koesnaedy, and Rina Gunawan on the set of Si Doel on various occasions in November 1997. 15 Conversations with Djoni Irawan and H. Salman Alfarizi on the set of Si Doel, 31 October 1997. Table 3.1 lists all major actors in Si Doel 1 as well as their professional backgrounds. 14

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to direct the sinetron himself. Karnos Film subsequently started looking for a suitable location and prepared the shoots in other ways. The location that was eventually selected was close to Rano Karno’s own residence. The house and premises were owned by Muhammad Iskak, better known as Pak Tatung. A native Betawi, Pak Tatung had built the wooden house in 1957, living in it with his family until it nearly fell apart. He then built a new brick house next to the old one, which he used as a storehouse. Karnos Film renovated and decorated the storehouse to resemble a traditional Betawi house, suitable to be inhabited by the Sabeni family. The company also rented Pak Tatung’s current house and used it as the character Mas Karyo’s residence. Karnos Film paid Pak Tatung for each day that it used his houses and premises. The company moreover involved him as an actor in Si Doel 1: Pak Tatung plays the land broker who introduces the Taiwanese character A Hong to the Sabeni family (DVD no. 10).16 In addition, when Doel has graduated and Babe Sabeni shouts to the neighbours that his son has become a tukang insinyur, the name of Pak Tatung is mentioned twice (see DVD no. 15). It was Rano’s younger brother Nurly Karno who found the serial’s other major prop: the oplet. Nurly purchased the characteristic blue vehicle in Condet, a part of the Kramat Jati district in East Jakarta known as a preservation area for Betawi culture (Budiati 2000:324). Before the shoots, Karnos Film sought permission to film from the Ministry of Information, the police, and the neighbourhood association (Rukun Tetangga or ‘RT’) of the location where the recordings would be made. After the shoots had been prepared, production of the first series of episodes of Si Doel was ready to begin on 18 August 1992. Producing the first series: The birth of a television hit According to Rano Karno, the making of the first series of Si Doel was a synergetic project. While he directed the sinetron – it was the first time ever that he directed one – he left it up to his actors and actresses, particularly the more experienced ones among them, how to perform their characters. The late Benyamin S. for instance drew on his personal experience in the scene in which Doel tells his parents that he has obtained his engineering degree (DVD no. 15). As the actor explained in an interview, he felt inspired for this scene by his mother’s joy when he himself graduated from the Taman Siswa secondary school in 1958:

16

Conversation with Tony Siswanto in the editing room of Karnos Film, 22 August 2002.

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Watching Si Doel When I graduated from high school, my mother was very happy. Have you ever watched Si Doel? That is the way my mother behaved, except that she did not jump, ha ha ha. […] ‘My child has graduated!’ After Doel has graduated, [I say] ‘My son has become an engineer (tukang insinyur)’, right. But my mother instead said: ‘Alhamdulillah, my child has graduated’, and she embraced me. My, it moves me when I come to think of it.17

During the production process of Si Doel 1, Rano welcomed input from the other actors as well, as in, for example, the scene in which the Chinese character A Hong visits the Sabeni family to buy a plot of land (DVD no. 10). Rano Karno had initially scripted the person who was interested in buying the land as an Indonesian. But then Adam ‘Stardust’ Djagwani who played Doel’s friend Hans suggested that they stage a Chinese character who could only speak Mandarin Chinese. Adam, who had worked in Taiwan as a DJ for four years, was quite capable of speaking that language. In fact, because the Mandarin-speaking capability of the person playing the Chinese character A Hong were restricted, it was Hans who gave him instructions about the right pronunciation and meaning of the Chinese language utterances, not the other way around. Rano Karno took over this suggestion, as it would allow Adam to show off his language skills. Besides, he thought that using this language would contribute to a realistic portrayal of the Taiwanese character A Hong. The language intermezzo resulted in a comical dialogue between Mandra and Babe, which was demeaning towards the Taiwanese character. After hearing Hans speak Chinese, Mandra compliments him on his fluency in English. Doel’s father, clearly annoyed by Mandra’s ignorance, informs his brother-in-law that the language he has just heard is Chinese, or, as he fiercely insists, ‘the language of Glodok’.18 According to editor Tony Siswanto, who later subtitled this dialogue in Jakarta Malay, the language encounter between Hans and A Hong was remarkable, because it was the first time a Chinese language was used in an Indonesian sinetron, and probably on Indonesian television.19 Though in creating the businessman character Rano Karno did not initially intend for him to be Chinese, staging him nonetheless reinforced the ‘othering’ of this ethnic group, as has been common in Indonesia since colonial times (Allen 2003:383). Yet in the course of the serial the character A Hong develops from a harsh businessman into a gentle and reasonable person who 17

‘Lulus di SMA ya Mak saye girang banget. Ente pernah nggak nonton Si Doel Anak Sekolahan? Begitu tuh Mak saye, cuman die nggak lompat hehehe […] “Anak gue lulus!” Kalo Si Doel […] lulus, “Anak gue jadi tukang insinyur,” kan gitu. Tapi Mak gue nggak begitu: “Alhamdulillah, anak gue lulus!” Gue dipelukin ame Nyak. Aduh, terharu juga kalo ingat begitu.’ Recorded interview with Benyamin S., no date, courtesy of Bang Syamsuddin Ch. Haessy. 18 Glodok is the trade centre in the north of Jakarta where relatively many shops and enterprises are owned by Indonesians of Chinese descent. 19 Conversation with Tony Siswanto in the editing room of Karnos Film, 22 August 2002.

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befriends Doel and many others. Babe’s linking of the Taiwanese character with the Jakartan business district Glodok moreover disregards the diversity within the Chinese community and their languages, as is common in popular discourse about Chinese Indonesians (Turner 2003:342). His aggressive pronunciation of the word ‘Glodok’, finally, is a reminder of the popular resentment in Indonesia towards Chinese entrepreneurs, a bitterness which dates back to early colonial times (Turner 2003:340). Post-production: Setting a new standard for Indonesian television production Si Doel 1 was shot in six weeks. Afterwards, the material had to be edited and otherwise prepared for broadcasting. Because Rano Karno did not possess any post-production facilities of his own, he had his production edited by free-lance editor Tony Siswanto in studio IndoMedia. Editor Tony Siswanto (henceforth Mas Tony) recalls that Si Doel 1 was edited in less than one month. The speed of the editing process was partly because Karnos Film hired the studio per day; thus the sooner the editing was finished, the lower the expenses. Mas Tony, a self-made editor, explains that for the editing of Si Doel 1 he took inspiration from the popular North American action series Miami vice, which he watched regularly. What he particularly liked about this series were the smooth transitions between indoor and outdoor shots, as well as the soundtrack that accompanied and connected the images. According to Mas Tony, this resulted in a compact and fluid story that was pleasant to watch. Because he aimed to apply the same principles to Si Doel, the editor assembled and created many sounds and sound effects that he felt captured the soundscape of Jakarta. Some sounds were taken directly from other audiovisual sources; the call for prayer or azan, for instance, was obtained from a ready-to-play cassette on which an Islamic sermon was recorded. Mas Tony recorded other sounds by himself, such as the whistling of Mas Karyo’s birds. To create the sound effects for the clash between Doel’s oplet and Sarah’s car (DVD no. 4), Mas Tony took a several Betacam tapes and smashed them on the floor. The editor furthermore explains that during the editing of Si Doel 1, he and Rano Karno truly made an effort to create a television serial that was different from previous sinetron. The pictures that Sarah takes of Doel when she is studying his behaviour, for instance, were rendered as black-and-white snapshots, while the soundtrack featured the sound of a picture being taken. According to Mas Tony, at the time this kind of editing was unprecedented on Indonesian television. Karnos Film tried to be original in other ways too. As Rano Karno recalls, at the time all sinetron used similar fonts for their credit titles, and the production roles mentioned in them used the same official jargon. To be different,

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Karnos Film designed a casual font for the credit titles of Si Doel and depicted the various tasks the crew members performed in a down-to-earth fashion. Where in the serial Babe Sabeni persistently calls his son a tukang insinyur, even though the appellation tukang is normally reserved for unskilled professions, the credit titles also unpretentiously call some of the crew members juru (‘trained or skilled worker’). The complex task of camera operator, for instance, is rendered as juru keker (from the Dutch kijker, ‘binoculars’). In addition, the editor is casually described as ‘the one who puts the pictures together’ (yang nyambungin gambar) (DVD no. 20).20 After the serial had been edited, Rano Karno asked his good friend Purwa Caraka, an engineer-turned-musician, to arrange the musical accompaniment for Si Doel 1. Purwa’s brief was to compose a characteristic sound for each of the major characters. Otherwise, he was free to create a musical score to his liking. After the music had been composed and added to the sinetron, Si Doel was sent to RCTI. By then, scriptwriter Ida Farida was convinced that the serial would find its way to the audience. RCTI, however, still had its doubts. The station feared that viewers had particular expectations of sinetron, and it therefore announced the first series of Si Doel as a ‘miniseries’ or ‘traditional drama’ rather than using the word ‘sinetron’. RCTI’s substitution of the word ‘sinetron’ for another term once again shows the power of genre as a discursive category and its influence on broadcasting practices. On 23 January 1994, the first episode of Si Doel 1 was aired.

Figure 3.1 Hajji Salman Alfarizi, the actor who played Koh A Hong (courtesy of Karnos Film) 20

To compare, the credit titles of mainstream sinetron speak of penata kamera instead of juru keker (‘cameraman’) and penyunting instead of yang nyambungin gambar (‘editor’).

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Table 3.1 Main characters in Si Doel 1 and the actors who play them Character

Character description

Performer

Background of performer

Doel

Main character, Betawi, engineering student, Rano Karno serious, devout, helpful

Film and television

Babe Sabeni

Doel’s father, Betawi, oplet driver, uneducated, humorous, domineering, high-tempered

hajji Benyamin S.

Film and television

Nyak Lela

Doel’s mother, Betawi, housewife, uneducated, caring, good-hearted

hajjah Aminah Cendrakasih

Film and television

Atun

Doel’s sister, Betawi, childish, good-hearted

Suti Karno

Film

Engkong Ali

Doel’s grandfather, Betawi, uneducated, womanizer

hajji Tile

Lenong and film

Bang Mandra

Doel’s uncle, Betawi, driver’s mate at the Mandra oplet, uneducated, never seems to have luck on his side, lazy, hot-tempered, upfront, funny

Lenong and topeng

Mas Karyo

The Sabeni family’s neighbour, Javanese, batik trader, sly but good-hearted, funny, always short of money

Basuki

Wayang orang; Srimulat

Sarah

Doel’s potential girlfriend no.1, exponent of the Jakarta elite, anthropology student, independent, trendy, rich

Cornelia Agatha

Commercials, modelling, film

Zaenab

Doel’s potential girlfriend no.2, Betawi, shy, traditional

Maudy Koesnaedy Commercials, modelling, television host

Ati

Sarah’s best friend

Rina Gunawan

Singer/dancer, radio and television host, MC

Hans

Doel’s best friend, Jakarta elite, engineering student, good-hearted, intelligent, lazy

Adam ‘Stardust’ Djagwani

Disc jockey in Jakarta discotheque ‘Stardust’

Roy

Antagonist, Sarah’s self-proclaimed boyfriend, exponent of the Jakarta elite

Djoni Irawan SH

No experience in acting, lawyer by profession

Koh A Hong

Taiwanese businessman

hajji Salman Alfarizi

No experience in acting, entrepreneur by profession

The core of the idea – the rapid development of Jakarta and the consequences for its native inhabitants – was however used in episode two of the second series. In this episode, the Sabeni family pays a visit to their ancestors’ land to keep a vow (DVD no. 34). Sabeni had once sworn that if Doel succeeded in becoming an engineer, he would pay his respects to his ancestors. When his wife reminds him of this promise, Babe decides that they will keep it the next morning. Even though a football stadium and a golf course have been built on the land that his ancestors used to own, Sabeni persists in his intention to pay a visit. The family thus enters the stadium, where they arrive in the midst of a football match. As they are about to settle down on the football field to have a picnic, they are sent away. The trip then continues to the golf course, where they search for the place where Sabeni’s parental home use this scene, Farida’s efforts turned out to be in vain.

Figure 3.2 Shoot of Si Doel 4 at the Sabeni residence (courtesy of Karnos Film)

Figure 3.3 Rano Karno, working as the director, with his son Raka (courtesy of Karnos Film)

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To be continued: Reproducing the success of the first series Writing and rewriting the script Because of the immense popularity of Si Doel 1, Karnos Film was soon asked to produce a follow-up. Rano Karno claims that he had not anticipated producing a sequel to the first series of Si Doel, let alone five. His fellow scriptwriter Ida Farida, on the other hand, had plenty of ideas for a new series. After the success of Si Doel 1, she immediately set out to write the script for another six episodes. Ida Farida suggested to Rano Karno that he produce the sequels to the serial based on one single theme. She envisioned series with titles like Si Doel anak pegawai (‘Doel the government official’) and even Si Doel anak konglomerat (‘Conglomerate Doel’). Each subsequent series would reflect Doel’s progress in his professional career. Karno, however, believed that viewers were fond of the formula of Si Doel anak sekolahan, so he did not want to change its concept. Since by now Harry Tjahyono was available as a scriptwriter, Ida Farida’s services were no longer needed. Rano Karno denies that he discontinued his collaboration with Ida Farida for financial reasons, as it was suggested in the press. Rather, he turned to Harry Tjahyono because his good friend had been involved in the Doel project from the start and they formed a good team together. Nevertheless, some ideas from Ida Farida’s script were used for the second series, which consisted of twenty-six episodes. To Ida Farida’s disappointment, these ideas were distributed over a number of episodes. As a result, the unity of the story as she had conceived it was shattered. According to Ida Farida, it was her idea to incorporate the issue of hidden unemployment in the serial. In the second series, Doel finds that his engineering degree does not warrant a proper job. At first Doel refuses other work on the principle that he can find better, but in the end he decides to accept a job as a chauffeur (Si Doel 2, episode 4). When Babe Sabeni finds out that his son is working as a driver, he furiously summons Doel to resign. In Babe’s opinion, rather than driving another person’s car, Doel would do better to drive their own oplet. Farida thought that the theme of hidden unemployment for many viewers would have parallels in real life, and by including this topic in Si Doel she wanted to criticize this aspect of Indonesian society. Rano Karno took over this idea but dismissed its follow-up. In Farida’s script, Doel uses the oplet to take his parents on a trip through Jakarta. During this trip Babe and Nyak point to road names that have changed and tell anecdotes about life in Jakarta in the old days. Through such narrative details, Farida tried to provide viewers with some historical knowledge of Jakarta. To do so and to be as accurate as possible, the scriptwriter went to a museum in Jakarta and consulted an expert on Betawi culture. Because Rano Karno decided not to use this scene, Farida’s efforts turned out to be in vain.

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The core of the idea – the rapid development of Jakarta and the consequences for its native inhabitants – was however used in episode two of the second series. In this episode, the Sabeni family pays a visit to their ancestors’ land to keep a vow (kaulan) (DVD no. 34). Sabeni had once sworn that if Doel succeeded in becoming an engineer, he would pay his respects to his ancestors. When his wife reminds him of this promise, Babe decides that they will keep it the next morning. Even though a football stadium and a golf course have been built on the land that his ancestors used to own, Sabeni persists in his intention to pay a visit. The family thus enters the stadium, where they arrive in the midst of a football match. As they are about to settle down on the football field to have a picnic, they are sent away. The trip then continues to the golf course, where they search for the place where Sabeni’s parental home used to be. Ida Farida was not pleased with the adaptations to her script. According to her, it is common knowledge that one cannot even walk onto a golf course without wearing the proper shoes – let alone walk on the grass carrying a plaited mat to have a picnic. In her view, by including such scenes in Si Doel Rano Karno ridiculed rather than uplifted the Betawi community. According to Rano Karno, one of his main goals in Si Doel was to depict the harmony of a family in which children truly respect their parents. The director intended to show how the main character Doel wants to get ahead in society without denying his cultural roots. Doel’s ambivalence brings him into conflict at times with his parents, particularly his father: the scene in which Babe Sabeni forbids his son to take the Natuna job is a good example (DVD no. 21). When the actor playing Doel’s father, star actor Benyamin S., died between shoots for the second and third series of episodes, Rano Karno did not know how to continue his story. Rano Karno admits that with the death of Benyamin S. he not only lost a deeply respected friend and father figure but also the main idea behind his serial. The producer felt that the loss of the distinctive figure of Babe meant that he had lost the possibility of making Si Doel stand out from other Indonesian television serials: The concept of what I wanted to produce, well honestly… it disappeared after I lost Babe. Yes. Actually there were some values that I wanted to elevate: [I wanted to set] a traditional way of thinking [against] a modern way of thinking. Well, this traditional way of thinking was [embodied by] the character of Babe, whereas the modern way of thinking was [embodied by] Doel. That was in fact what I wanted to convey. [But] lately viewers of Si Doel who had hoped that Si Doel would be a different kind of programme, suddenly discovered that Si Doel had become very ordinary. Because, and I say this in all honesty: […] How was I to develop the story? [ …] I did not find [another] clash of thinking patterns after Babe had passed away. But because Si Doel already existed, I had to finish it, right? So, the dilemma that I now want to convey… that I have to solve is the viewers’ question: who will Doel end up with? [Whereas in fact] love comes last for Doel.21 21

‘Konsep saya apa yang saya ingin buat, itu terus terang … hilang, setelah saya kehilangan Babe. Ya. Sebetulnya ada nilai yang ingin saya angkat, itu: pola pikir tradisional dengan pola pikir

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During the writing process of the third series, Harry Tjahyono asked for a break because he was in a creative impasse; Rano Karno therefore wrote the final episodes of the third series alone. For the fourth series of episodes, the director approached Mas Soegeng, a former journalist with whom he had worked together for a social advertising campaign. After six episodes Harry Tjahyono was able to solve his deadlock and the collaboration with Mas Soegeng was discontinued. Even though he could now work together again with his old friend and ‘sparring partner’, as he put it, Rano Karno admits that while writing the scripts for the fourth series he himself sometimes experienced a lack of creativity too. In addition, the socio-economic crisis frustrated his plans to shoot some footage for the sinetron in a foreign country, which would have allowed him to add a different flavour to the production. Nevertheless, the serial was continued. Because Harry Tjahyono was not available to write the script for the fifth series, Rano Karno once again approached Ida Farida. The scriptwriter of the first series had many ideas for a new series of episodes. Ida Farida believed that this new sequel could be as successful as earlier series, provided it returned to the development of its main character Doel and explored the culture of Jakarta in all its details. In Ida Farida’s view, Rano Karno should bring more suspense into the relationship between Doel and his two female friends Zaenab and Sarah, and more attention should be given to the problems of daily life. To teach the audience more about Betawi culture, she also suggested exploring some art forms or customs of the native inhabitants of Jakarta, such as the circumcision ritual, a Betawi wedding ceremony, and ondel-ondel, the large colourful puppets that feature in many a Betawi ceremony. In an effort to criticize the consumer culture that was thriving in Jakarta in the mid 1990s, Ida Farida also wanted to depict some of the games that were played by Betawi children in the past which are still played now. In this way, she wanted to show that there still exist simple and free alternatives to the high-priced children’s toys that proliferate in the Jakarta shopping malls. Finally, she intended to reinstate the serial’s emphasis on the domestic environment of the Sabeni family. According to Ida Farida, in later series too many scenes were shot in Sarah and Doel’s offices, while viewers were already tired of stories about offices and wealthy people.

moderen. Nah, pola pikir tradisional itu ada di Babe, pola pikir moderen ada di si Doel. Sebetulnya itu yang ingin saya sampaikan. Sehingga belakangan ini, dari harapan orang melihat Si Doel menjadi tontonan yang lain, terus tiba-tiba mereka melihat jadi sangat biasa-biasa saja. Karena terus terang secara jujur saya mengatakan: […] Saya mau larikan ke mana itu problematik? Saya nggak menemukan satu… satu …satu benturan pemikiran setelah almarhum itu nggak ada. Karena Si Doel udah jadi, saya harus selesaikan, kan? Nah, problematik yang ingin saya sampaikan… yang harus saya selesaikan adalah pertanyaan pemirsa: “Si Doel ini jadinya sama siapa?” [Padahal] cinta itu terakhir buat si Doel.’ Telephone interview with Rano Karno, 3 September 1998.

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Notwithstanding Farida’s clear narrative vision, Rano Karno eventually decided to write the scenario for Si Doel 5 by himself. Rano Karno explained his decision, saying that Ida Farida had lost track of plot and character development in the sequels. He did however use some of Ida Farida’s ideas: Si Doel 5 for instance features a Betawi wedding ceremony (DVD no. 42). Despite various obstacles, then, series after series of Si Doel was produced. Rano Karno claims that in writing the scripts he often took inspiration from the daily life of the actors. An example is the development of the character Zaenab, who in later series increasingly comes to resemble her performer Maudy Koesnaedy: in the fifth series, Zaenab has transformed from a shy village girl into a trendy woman, a development that reaches its peak when she wins a beauty contest (Si Doel 5, episode 19). Likewise, Rano Karno in 1993 discovered Maudy Koesnaedy after she had won the ‘Miss Jakarta’ contest, which is organized yearly by the Jakartan municipality.22 The Javanese neighbour Karyo has a passion for birds, as does Basuki, who plays him. In the fifth series of Si Doel Karyo becomes a successful batik trader, and in the year 2000 actor Basuki embarked upon a new career in batik trade. Finally, the Taiwanese character A Hong plays the owner of a brick factory, and this is indeed the daily reality for hajji Salman Alfarizi, who performs the role of A Hong as a side job only. The cast The popularity of Si Doel throughout Indonesia has influenced the composition of the acting crew as well. From the third series onwards, the producer added a number of particularly Javanese actors to his cast. Writing characters from various ethnic backgrounds into one’s scenario is not an unusual strategy in the sinetron business. In practice, producers (who want a substantial part of the national audience to watch their television serial) and advertisers (who are interested in reaching as large an audience as possible with their commercials) are especially keen on taking the Javanese, the nation’s largest ethnic group, into account. Thus whereas in Si Doel 1 Mas Karyo is the only Javanese character of importance, in later series the Sabeni family’s neighbour gets company from Pak Bendot (Mas Karyo’s father-in-law) and Mbak Nunung (Mas Karyo’s sister). Two actors of the same name play both characters. The late Bendot was a friend of Rano Karno’s father Soekarno M. Noor and Basuki’s father Pete. Bendot started his career as an actor in ketoprak, a type of Javanese theatre, but gained fame on a national scale with his performance in Srimulat, incidentally the same group that had brought fame to Basuki. Bendot also acted in several movies and television ads. He typically played an old, naive villager, 22

Conversation with Maudy Koesnaedy on the set of Si Doel, 12 November 1997.

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easily pushed around by other people. It was indeed for qualifications like this that Karno cast him to perform as Mas Karyo’s father-in-law in Si Doel. Because Bendot was skilled in singing Javanese songs, his presence was also to add a Javanese touch to the Betawi setting of the sinetron. The role of Mas Karyo’s coquettish sister Nunung is played by Tri Retno Prayudati, an actress who is better known by her artist’s name, Nunung. Nunung joined the Srimulat group in 1982. She became known to a national audience through the Srimulat performances which were aired weekly on national television by broadcaster Indosiar in the late 1990s. Apart from the Central Javanese characters, some major Sundanese characters from West Java include Kang Mamang, a petty trader of household appliances, and Cecep, the husband of Mandra’s ex-girlfriend Munaroh. Because the serial also proved popular with the elite segment of society, the director decided to create some characters with which this part of the audience could easily identify. This resulted in the creation of characters like Sita and her husband Anto. Sita is a beautiful businesswoman, played by a former model. Katon Bagaskara, the lead singer of the Indonesian pop group ‘KLA Project’, plays her husband. Rano Karno’s son Raka, incidentally, plays the couple’s son. Karnos Film and its crew When I attended some of the shoots of Si Doel 4 (between October 1997 and May 1998), Si Doel 5 (from May through June 2000), and Si Doel 6 (August 2002), around forty or fifty people were working at Karnos Film (Figure 3.2 depicts part of the crew at work during the production process of Si Doel 4; Figure 3.3 shows Rano Karno working as the director.) As before, the name Karnos Film still evoked the notion of family business. When Si Doel 4 was produced, Rano Karno’s mother Istiarti was the company’s commissioner, while Rano Karno himself was still the chairman of the board. His older brother Rubby Karno was now executive producer, while Tino Karno still combined his role as the actor playing Sapi’i with the position of production manager. Rano Karno’s oldest sister Santi was in charge of make-up during the production of Si Doel 4, and performed administrative and promotional tasks for the company during the production of later series. Rano Karno’s youngest brother Nurly Karno had been promoted to cameraman for the shoots of Si Doel 4, and was producing his own sinetron between the shoots of Si Doel 5 and 6. Suti Karno played the character Atun in all sequels; during the shootings of Si Doel 6, Rano Karno’s sister was promoted to vice-director. During the shoots of Si Doel 4, some people who had been there in the beginning were still present: hajji Nana Suryana (unit manager), hajji Atim (set photographer), and hajji Nahali (artistic director). It was remarkable that

Figure 3.4 Relaxing in between scenes. From left to right: Maudy’s personal assistant, Maudy Koesnaedy, Suti Karno, Hj. Aminah (courtesy of Karnos Film)

Figure 3.5 Editor Haerun La Ode Ghowe in the editing room of Karnos Film

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apart from the actresses the crew included few women – in fact, only three. One of them was clapboard assistant Ida Kartikawati, who had written her undergraduate thesis (Kartikawati 1997) on Rano Karno before she came to work for Karnos Film. The others were Rano Karno’s sister Santi Karno, who was in charge of make-up, and Rano Karno’s wife Dewi, who headed the catering service, named RAKA after their son. Generally, crew members were promoted with each series of episodes. For instance, Susilo Hardjo, boom operator during the shootings of Si Doel 4, was promoted to assistant soundman in its sequel. In addition, some crew members were given the opportunity to develop their acting talents, though in minor roles. For example, clapboard assistant Ida Kartikawati also played Sarah’s domestic servant, and Lustra Karo of the lighting department played one of Mandra’s colleagues in the public transport sector (Si Doel 4, episode 4). Karnos Film was not only a family business in a literal sense; the company also attempted to create a family atmosphere among its crew members. For instance, the company lent money to crew members planning to get married or buy a house. Karnos Film also used the phrase Keluarga Besar Si Doel (‘Extended Si Doel Family’) to address all those involved in the production of the sinetron. The shoots of each new series of episodes were preceded and concluded by a selametan, which, it was hoped, all members of the ‘Extended Si Doel Family’ would attend. The management style of the company was furthermore characterized by the Islamic orientation of Rano Karno and his family. To celebrate the success of Si Doel 2, for instance, in December 1995 Karnos Film treated all crew members and actors to a short religious trip to Mecca. After the production of each sequel, a leading Si Doel actor was invited to make the pilgrimage to Mecca at the expense of Karnos Film. For the production of Si Doel 6 there were no longer shoots on Friday, the holy day for Muslims. Because he was getting older, Rano Karno wanted to devote more time to his religion, so he decided to dedicate this day solely to religious activities. Henceforth the pool billiard table at Karnos Film was temporarily removed from the office on Friday afternoons to create a place where religious classes on the Koran could be taught. It was Rano Karno himself who taught these classes, and all members of the Extended Si Doel Family were explicitly invited to participate. Several crew members confirmed that there was a family atmosphere at Karnos Film. Indeed, during the shoots of Si Doel 4 the office often looked more like a friendly hotel, with people playing pool and others hanging around or sleeping on the floor, than a business. Others however drew attention to the disadvantages of this type of management. The company’s willingness to lend money, for instance, created relations of dependency that made it more difficult for employees to leave the company.23 In addition, the 23

Brandon (1967:211-12) makes a similar observation with regard to traditional theatre groups in Indonesia and other parts of Southeast Asia.

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un-businesslike management style of Karnos Film made it difficult to ask for salary raises. During the production of Si Doel 5, this issue once led to a joint protest by the crew. Their act was at least partly successful, as it resulted in a small rise in income for all protesters. Shooting the sequels to Si Doel 1 A few days after the selametan that precedes the production of each new sequel – which, contrary to its typical Western counterpart, the post-production party, is not only a post-production activity for Karnos Film (see Small 1997) – the production of a new series of Si Doel begins. Before the shootings take place, the crew receives the ‘flow of scenes’, a scheme that specifies the order in which scenes are to be recorded, the names of the actors needed for each scene, the location where the footage is to be recorded, and a short description of the activities that will take place. Colours are added to the flow of scenes, indicating whether a scene occurs early morning, late morning, at daytime, or in the evening; this helps the crew make decisions about lighting. During the production of Si Doel 4, 5, and 6, the crew usually starts dressing the set, setting up the lighting equipment, and preparing the cameras around 7 or 8 a.m. They are instructed to pack up the equipment after the shootings; as a rule, this is around 5 or 6 p.m. For the actors and actresses who perform in the first scene to be recorded, shooting start at approximately 10 a.m. Around 4 or 5 p.m. the last recordings are made. While preparing the shoots, the crew mostly works silently. If they are already on the set, actors relax during these preparations, catch up on the latest gossip, or make calls on their mobile phones (Figure 3.4). If the scenarios have already been distributed, actors may read or reread their part of the script. Unlike Multivision, Karnos Film preferred shooting with a single camera. According to Rano Karno, the main advantage of the single camera is that it stimulates creativity, resulting in more ‘artistic’ shots than one usuall­y obtains by using a multiple-camera system. Ali Shahab, director of the production company Fokus Studio and a well-known Indonesian media professional, denies this line of reasoning. For Shahab, the efficiency of using multiple camera­s is his main reason for employing that system.24 Using but one camer­a indeed implies that the production process of Si Doel is time-consuming, as the same scene has to be shot several times in order to take both a long shot of the whole scene and close-ups of the faces of the various characters. To save time, Karnos Film once tried using multiple cameras, but as Rano Karno was unsatisfied with the quality of the images, the single-camera approach 24

Interview with Ali Shahab, 15 December 1997.

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was eventually resumed. Si Doel is shot on Betacam tape, while the sound is recorded directly during the shootings, a principle that is known as ‘Direct Sound’. Around noon, lunch is served by RAKA catering for actors and crew members alike, and around teatime snacks are usually provided by the same catering service. Shoots are heavily dependent on a number of factors, such as the appropriateness of the weather for a certain scene, whether the call for prayer does not disturb the recording of a scene, and whether the actors arrive on time. If the script demands an evening scene, this is usually recorded around 9 p.m. Shoots are daily (except, as noted, for Si Doel 6) and take place throughout the day, but the lunch break on Friday afternoons is long enough to allow the crew members, most of whom are Muslim, to perform their religious duties at the mosque. There are no shoots during religious holidays, and occasionally the producer decides to give the crew a day off. Adding the final touch: Post-production Editing The next step in the production process of Si Doel is post-production, which encompasses the process of editing. Editing has a decisive impact on the shape and appeal of a programme, for [t]his is the stage when the two-dimensional fragmented shots are reassembled into an illusion of three-dimensional space by bringing together different perspectives on the same scene, and by balancing the visual and the aural, the graphic and verbal. It is the editing which constructs the narrative or flow of every programme by creating sequences and linking those sequences into a structured shape. Editing decisions guide the audience through the movement of sound and images that make up an evening of television. (Holland 1997:91.)

Rano Karno recognizes the importance of editing too. The editors, notably chief editor Mas Tony, are held in high esteem, both by Rano Karno and by other crew members, to wit the greater professional freedom an editor enjoys in comparison with other crew members. Mas Tony is moreover mentioned in both the credit titles that precede an episode of Si Doel (and which feature only the main actors and people who fulfil major production roles, such as Rano Karno) as well as in those that follow it. The rest of the crew, by contrast, is only mentioned in the latter credit titles. Karnos Film has been in the possession of its own, well-equipped editing studio since Si Doel 2, enabling the company to perform the entire production process by itself. After the shoots, the Betacam tapes are taken from the

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location to the Karnos Film studio. Because scenes have been recorded in random order, the first step in the post-production process is to reconstruct the narrative flow from the heap of recorded material. Time codes added to all images and sound strips during shooting help the editor to put the images in roughly the right order. The editor may also turn to the scenario in order to unravel the thread of the narrative, and furthermore has to carefully review the recorded material to select the best take for each recorded scene. In the case of Si Doel 4, Rano Karno and his right hand man Zulkarnain usually did the off-line editing; for Si Doel 5, Zulkarnain was entrusted to do it alone. Once the images have been put in the right order, the tape is handed to one of the main editors for the next stage in the editing process: the on-line editing. On-line editing implies transforming the raw version of an audiovisual production into a programme that is suitable for broadcasting. At Karnos Film, Mas Tony (who has been working as a permanent employee of Karnos Film since Si Doel 2) or Haerun La Ode Ghowe (who worked at Karnos Film during the shoots of Si Doel 4 and 5) did the on-line editing (Figure 3.5). Both editors confirm that in general they create their final product based on the off-line version rather than the scenario. While they do not really need the script, they sometimes read it before or during the editing process to get inspiration. Chief editor Mas Tony moreover explains that he occasionally pays a visit to the set to get a feel for the atmosphere during the shoots. He sometimes gives suggestions to the cameraman as to the angles at which and techniques with which to record a particular scene. In general, however, Mas Tony tries to maintain some distance from the production process, attempting instead to position himself as an ‘ordinary’ viewer. While editing, Mas Tony enjoys much creative freedom. It was for instance his idea to modernize the visuals of the title song of the fourth series of Si Doel. The American hit movie Titanic inspired him to record the black-and-white footage of Jakarta.25 By digitally mixing in the scratches that characterize old film prints, Mas Tony aimed to add a touch of history to the ‘modern’ images of Jakarta as shown throughout the signature tune. In consultation with Rano Karno, the editors also provide subtitles for those dialogues that are uttered in a foreign or a regional language other than Jakarta Malay. To enhance the Betawi atmosphere of the serial, these subtitles are deliberately in Jakarta Malay instead of the national language (DVD no. 35 and no. 36). The editors moreover make a short compilation of scenes, which is used to remind viewers of the previous episode (Minggu Lalu, ‘Last Week’) or to prepare them for what they are going to see in the next episode (Minggu Depan, ‘Next Week’). Finally, the editors determine at which place to cut the narrative for the broadcaster to insert its commercials. The position of these commercial breaks is in fact already described in the script, but as the script 25

Conversation with Tony Siswanto in the editing room of Karnos Film, 16 May 2000.

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often differs from the final recordings the editors have to re-evaluate the best position for a commercial break. Beforehand, the editors receive instructions regarding the number of commercial slots that they are to take into account. During the shoots of Si Doel that I attended, editing took place mostly from the afternoon until late in the evening or even the following morning, partly because it was only in the evenings that the raw footage shot during the day became available for further editing, and partly because this allowed the editors to work undisturbed.26 Musical illustration After the online editing of one or two episodes has been completed, but before any sound effects have been added, a videotape with time code is prepared for Purwa Caraka, the musician in charge of the musical illustration of Si Doel since the first series of episodes. The video is meant to allow Kang Purwa, as he is called, to preview the story in its basic outline to develop ideas about the musical illustration. After the editors have finished the entire editing process for three to four episodes, they invite the musician to the studio. Because he has been preparing the musical background of the sinetron since it was first produced, Kang Purwa knows what is expected of him and fulfils his task seemingly without effort. It takes one evening and sometimes the following night to produce the music that accompanies the images of some three to four episodes. Kang Purwa insists on using his own synthesizer. On this expensive instrument is latest technology, such as a high-tech computer, which allows him to produce all kinds of melodies and sound effects. After the instrument is carefully installed and tested by his two assistants, the process of adding music to the images can begin. Usually Rano Karno is present during these sessions too, according to the producer to chat and make fun with his old friend, but probably also to maintain control over his production at this final stage of the process. In addition, one of the editors, often Mas Tony, is there to assist with the technicalities. As a rule Kang Purwa watches the images once or twice before he starts composing a tune, though sometimes he adds the music straight away. Although he admits to working intuitively most of the time, some recurrent patterns can be detected. For instance, most characters are still accompanied by the characteristic ‘sound’ that Kang Purwa created for them during the post-production phase of the first series. Hence a Chinese-sounding tune always precedes the arrival of the character A Hong, while the Sundanese vendor usually makes his appearance under the accompaniment of soft West 26

Conversations with Tony Siswanto and Haerun La Ode Ghowe in the editing room of Karnos Film, 16 May 2000.

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Javanese gamelan music. The character Doel is often accompanied by a melody that is derived from the title song, which is indeed about him. The pace and colour of this and similar mood music depends on the situation and mood in which characters are portrayed; a sad Doel for instance inspires Kang Purwa to compose a slow and heavy version of the title song. When Doel is happy, in contrast, images of him are accompanied by a light-footed melody (compare DVD no. 17 and DVD no. 27).27 The broadcast station When some five to seven episodes of Si Doel have undergone the entire postproduction process, a tape is prepared for the broadcast station that will air the programme. It is here that the serial undergoes some final changes. For instance, whereas Karnos Film provides space for the commercial slots, on occasion the broadcaster needs more slots to accommodate all its commercials. This is because the marketing department has often succeeded in selling more airtime to advertisers than was anticipated beforehand. When this happens, the editors prefer that the broadcast station return the tape to Karnos Film so that they can re-edit the story. If time does not allow for it, they are willing to discuss over the telephone where to make these extra cuts. Remarkably, broadcaster RCTI in particular felt entitled to make these extra cuts in the narrative without prior consultation. But even if the broadcaster sticks to the agreed number of advertisements, the commercial blocks still have a visible influence on the narrative, demonstrating how texts generate meaning in juxtaposition with other texts. In the words of Rano Karno: I am not particularly proud or happy if for instance Si Doel is filled with so many commercials; actually, those commercials disturb the viewing rhythm. Yes, [but] I cannot interfere in that part. [The commercials] disturb the viewing rhythm, because their cutting is fast, you know… their duration is thirty seconds, [so the cutting is like] ‘tack tack tack tack tack’, dynamic. And then when you return to the main story, it becomes slow, you know. Well, that influences the flow of the story, so that you get the impression that the story of Si Doel is slow.28

27

Conversation with Purwa Caraka in the editing room of Karnos Film, 11 February 1998. ‘Bukan juga bangga atau bukan juga seneng kalau misalnya Si Doel itu dipenuhi oleh sede­ mikian banyak iklan, tapi iklan itu sebetulnya mengganggu ritme tontonan. Ya itu bagian yang nggak bisa Abang ikut campur. Itu mengganggu ritme tontonan [karena] cutting-nya cepet, ya durasinya tiga puluh sekon tek tek tek tek tek, dinamis. Sehingga begitu masuk ke dalam cerita menjadi lamban, gitu. Nah, itu mempengaruhi jalan cerita, sehingga orang lihat … kesannya cerita Si Doel itu lamban.’ Interview with Rano Karno, 23 August 2002. 28

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Figure 3.6 Banner announcing the selametan (here rendered as ‘slametan’) that preceded the making of Si Doel 6

Before broadcasting, the station also checks whether the sound and image quality of the sinetron meets its broadcasting standards. If the station encounters any mistakes – video drop or audio low, for instance – it will return the tape to Karnos Film. Mas Tony explains that as long as the problems concern the quality of the sound or images, he is always prepared to fix them. If the broadcaster tries to interfere with the story itself, however, he will refuse to make any changes. He sees Si Doel as a work of art, whose shape is partly determined by his creativity. Mas Tony remembers that RCTI once called him to talk about a scene in which Doel is pondering over his life. RCTI wanted Mas Tony to add music or sound effects to this scene, but the editor explained that he had deliberately refrained from doing so. The complete silence that accompanied these images was to emphasize that Doel was truly sad, and that his mind was totally blank. In the end, the station agreed to air the serial without any adjustments.29 When at last Si Doel is broadcast, the programme is framed by a narrator who announces, often in an authoritative male voice, the beginning and ending of the sinetron. Scrolls and advertising icons may be shown at the bottom or in the upper corners of the screen. The station has the option of subtitling the sinetron, but it has never been used in Si Doel.30 Finally, the station can decide to interrupt the broadcasting of the sinetron when something comes up which is considered more important. This happened on 16 May 1998, when the fifth episode of Si Doel 4 entitled Keputusan (The decision) was aired. During a romantic scene between Sarah and Doel, RCTI suddenly interrupted the sinetron for a newsflash announcing that President Soeharto considered withdrawing from his presidency. Though Mas 29 30

Conversation with Tony Siswanto in the editing room of Karnos Film, 22 August 2002. Interview with Erwin Ariodarma, 3 December 1997.

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Tony understood that for the average viewer this breaking news was more important than the encounter between Sarah and Doel, he nevertheless felt that his artistic creation was ruined and asked Rano Karno to complain to RCTI. On that same date, incidentally, another important decision was made that would affect the functioning of the Indonesian television industry. The armed forces had for some time been annoyed by private stations’ coverage of the unremitting student demonstrations throughout Indonesia, notably in Jakarta. On 16 May 1998, General Wiranto’s office therefore notified the Minister of Information that the Indonesian army would shut all private stations unless they would cease covering the demonstrations (Sen and Hill 2000:130-1). Henceforth commercial broadcasters were only allowed to cover riots and student demonstrations if a TVRI camera crew shot the footage. ‘It was a last-ditch and ineffective attempt’, Sen and Hill (2000:130-1) conclude, ‘ to replace close-up pictures of chaos with modulated long shots taken by the national broadcaster’. Such interventions in the Indonesian mediascape remind us that despite all efforts by Rano Karno to painstakingly monitor the production process of his serial, it is the broadcaster, or even the Ministry of Information, who ultimately holds the power to decide if and in what shape a programme will be broadcast. The multiple authorship of Si Doel implies that people and institutions beyond the scope of Karnos Film ‘overrule’ the episode that the production company so carefully constructed. Regardless of Rano Karno’s attempt to keep control over his creation, this is the shape in which the television text is finally presented to the audience, and this is the version of Si Doel that viewers will judge. The best thing for Karnos Film to do at this final stage of the production process, then, is to organize a selametan to celebrate that the production of yet another sequel has been completed (Figure 3.6).

Part II The languagescape of Si Doel

CHAPTER IV

The languagescape of Si Doel Creating an illusion of reality

[T]he only reason that characters talk to one another in television texts is so that the viewer can listen to them; not, as in real conversation, so that they can listen to each other. (Marshall and Werndly 2002:78.)

In critical discourse analysis researchers are particularly interested in the ways in which texts, including media texts, are constructed and in the specific purposes that these constructions serve (Fairclough and Wodak 1997). Critical discourse analysts as a rule investigate language use in a non-fictive context, focusing on ‘“real-world data” which has not been edited or sanitized’ (Barker and Galasiński 2001:63). Though the language of Si Doel does not fit these criteria – it is shaped in a fictional context – Karnos Film does strive to create realistic monologues and dialogues. In doing so, the production company is not unique. Television dramas and comedies try to represent natural language so that audiences believe they are ‘eavesdropping on private conversations’ (Marshall and Werndly 2002:79). This is not to suggest that viewers actually believe that the scripted dialogues, which Marshall and Werndly call ‘represented talk’, that actors perform are authentic; rather, it is to emphasize that the enjoyment of watching television is partly constituted by ‘the text’s ability to offer the viewer an illusion of reality’ (Marshall and Werndly 2002:86). Represented (or mediatized) talk should be distinguished from face-to-face (or unmediatized) conversations in daily life. Whereas interlocutors as a rule make a genuine effort to understand each other in natural conversations, the main purposes of mediatized talk are character development and narrative progression (Marshall and Werndly 2002:80). The verisimilitude of the languagescape of Si Doel is indeed a major attraction for audiences throughout the archipelago. Viewers describe the language as ‘genuine’, ‘spontaneous’, and ‘vivid’, adding that it truly reflects ‘how the Betawi talk in daily life’. It is the creation and, at times, disruption of this ‘illusion of reality’ that will occupy us in the next two chapters.

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The notion of ‘languagescape’ In using the term ‘reality’ I do not allude to an uncomplicated, objective truth, a factual world which all human beings perceive in the same way. On the contrary, though I do not deny the existence of reality as such, I do question, like others, ‘its objectivity, its accessibility, its representability, and, therefore, its naturalness’ (Fiske 1987:41-2). To deny the concept of reality a role in discussions about television, however, would mean failing to acknowledge its importance as a discursive category by means of which millions of viewers of Si Doel make sense of and take pleasure in this television text. Fiske (1987:21) calls television ‘an essentially realistic medium’ because it is capable of constructing and transmitting ‘a socially convincing sense of the real’. Realism is ‘not a matter of any fidelity to an empirical reality, but of the discursive conventions by which and for which a sense of reality is constructed.’ I therefore interpret the phrase ‘illusion of reality’ loosely to mean the ‘appearance of naturalness’ (Fiske 1987:28). The term ‘languagescape’ is coined on the model by Appadurai (1996), who attached the scape suffix to keywords that represented certain universal phenomena he wanted to describe. Drawing attention to the ‘fluid, irregular shapes’ (Appadurai 1996:33) of these phenomena, Appadurai created neologisms such as ‘ethnoscape’ and ‘mediascape’. He also used the suffix -scape to underscore that like landscapes, these phenomena change in shape over time and at times in unexpected directions. Appadurai moreover wanted to emphasize ‘the dilemmas of perspective and representation’ (Appadurai 1996:48) that face observers of these phenomena. The -scape suffix had to accentuate that mediascapes and ethnoscapes look different from various viewpoints and just like a natural landscape, different people and institutions experience them differently. Applying the landscape metaphor to the phenomenon of language opens interesting perspectives on language use. One may for instance speak of a languagescape because like a natural landscape, the silhouette of a languagescape too may be fluid and irregular. The Indonesian languagescape, for instance, consists of hundreds of tongues from different language groups and language families, some of which have as little resemblance to each other as Dutch and Russian or English and Bengali do (Steinhauer 2001:9). Next to the national language Indonesian, which is used for official and state communication, a myriad of regional languages are used in written and spoken form throughout the archipelago. Additionally many Indonesians are bilingual or multilingual, meaning that they speak more than one language fluently. Furthermore, like Appadurai’s-scape terms, a languagescape is experienced differently by different people and institutions. The national language Indonesian will have different connotations for a primary school teacher of this language who lives and works in the capital

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Jakarta, for example, than for an uneducated pedicab driver in Central Java, or for a Papuan politician. Similarly, a native speaker of Jakarta Malay will experience the language used in Si Doel differently from someone who is unfamiliar with this language variety. Just like the -scape concepts coined by Appadurai, a languagescape is dynamic and always in motion. Presently, communities of speakers of an Indonesian language are not only found within the boundaries of the archipelago, but also far beyond. Examples are the numerous Indonesians who work as domestic servants in Arabic countries and the Philippines, students and professors of Indonesian at universities outside Indonesia, and Internet communities that centre around weblogs in a local Indonesian language. The languagescape is furthermore like a natural landscape in that its composition changes over time. Whereas Dutch was an important language of communication in the colonized archipelago, it has little significance as such for contemporary Indonesians, who would rather learn English or Japanese. Like Appadurai’s neologisms, the term languagescape too has ‘certain ambiguities deliberately built into it’ (Appadurai 1996:48). These become visible when the term is used in the context of the audiovisual media. The languagescape of Si Doel, or, for that matter, any other televised languagescape, has certain features that are lacking in unmediatized languagescapes, meaning the direct, face-to-face, and unpremeditated discourse practices that dominate everyday interactions, and which obey certain spoken and unspoken rules. The languagescape of Si Doel, by contrast, can be described as ‘mediatized’ or ‘televised’. The fact that during the production process of a television serial various agents and factors influence the language of one single character can be considered a metaphor for the various forces that shape and reshape the typical landscape. Further, the spatiality of the mediatized languagescape, which is generated by the simultaneous employment of language, music, and images, is reminiscent of the three-dimensionality of a natural landscape. While Appadurai coined his terms with common suffix -scape to set up a framework for exploring and understanding global cultural flows in the world of today, my purposes are far more modest. The term languagescape is simply a tool to compare and contrast the televised languagescape of Si Doel with the unmediatized languagescape of Jakarta that the serial represents. The languagescape of Jakarta Fifteenth-century Sunda Kelapa is a good starting point from which to briefly trace the historical development of the languagescape of Jakarta. Sunda Kelapa, the harbour of the Hindu kingdom Pajajaran, was internationally ori-

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entated (Nas and Grijns 2000:13). Merchants frequented the city on their various trade routes to buy and sell goods such as pepper and gold and to restock their provisions. Particularly the arrack and the drinking water of Sunda Kelapa were well known (De Haan 1922:2; Wallace 1976:7). In 1527, Sunda Kelapa was conquered by Falatehan (also known as Fatahillah), a devout Muslim from Sumatra who had previously conquered Banten on the northwestern tip of Java and converted its leader to Islam. Falatehan renamed his conquest Jayakarta, which can be translated as ‘achieved victory’ (its meaning in Sanskrit) or ‘prosperous victory’ (its Javano-Sanskrit meaning) (Wallace 1976:9). In 1619, the Dutch, who had been searching for a place for their new headquarters after their old trading post in Bantam had come under attack, defeated Falatehan. They changed the name of the city to Batavia, after their presumed ancestors (the Batavieren). In 1950, the name of the capital of the new Republic of Indonesia changed for the last time: Jakarta regained its precolonial name, albeit in a shortened version. According to some, Jakarta is ‘the only Indonesian town in the nation, since there people from all over the archipelago meet’ (Abeyasekere 1989:xvii). The population of Jakarta has indeed always been a mixture of people. Up to the early nineteenth century, the vast majority of the inhabitants of Batavia consisted of Balinese slaves (Lekkerkerker 1918:5), but slaves and freemen from other regions and countries were living in the city as well. The various ethnic groups inhabiting Jakarta were at first strictly separated in different districts, but gradually these groups amalgamated and formed a melting-pot society. In the twenty-first century too, Jakarta is home to many ethnic groups and different nationalities. In the mid 1970s, Wallace describes the majority of Jakarta’s population as consisting of Sundanese, Javanese, and Betawi. Three decades later, this is still true. As an international city, Jakarta is inhabited by people from all around the world, as well as from all over Indonesia. The majority of its residents however have, and always have had, roots in Java (Nas and Grijns 2000:10). Then as now, other major groups of immigrants include people of Chinese descent (either first-generation migrants (totok) or people of mixed ancestry (peranakan)), the Minangkabau (western Sumatra), Batak (northern Sumatra), Menadonese (northeastern Celebes), and Ambonese (Moluccas). Most immigrants are drawn to the capital in search of work (Wallace 1976:38; Abeyasekere 1989:xvii). Because immigrants bring their own cultural and linguistic background to the city, the languagescape of present-day Jakarta consists of an impressive number of languages. Jakarta is home to the national government and other official administrative bodies; hence the national language, Indonesian, makes up an important part of its languagescape. In informal situations in daily life,

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the language of the native inhabitants of Jakarta (known as Jakarta Malay or Betawi Malay) and the languages of major groups of immigrants (such as Sundanese and Javanese) also play a significant role. The languagescape of Jakarta furthermore encompasses some foreign languages, among them Arabic, Dutch, and English. Arabic is the vehicle of Islam, the main religion in Jakarta as in Indonesia at large. Some of the older inhabitants of Jakarta speak Dutch. The numerous expatriates who live and work in Jakarta use English, and Jakarta’s young executives increasingly speak it. Portuguese, an important language in Batavia, is of little significance in present-day Jakarta. In the first decades of the twentieth century it was still commonly used in some of the rituals of the orang Betawi who live in Tugu, North Jakarta, many of whom have Portuguese ancestors (Ganap 2000:222). The languagescape of Si Doel is a partial reflection of the unmediatized languagescape of Jakarta. Jakarta/Betawi Malay Terminology and historical development In everyday speech, the languages spoken by the Betawi community and other long-term residents of Jakarta are known by the following terms: Betawi dialect or language, Jakartan dialect or language, Jakarta Malay, Bataviaas Maleis (Dutch for ‘Batavian Malay’), Betawi Malay, colloquial Indonesian, or Omong Jakarta (‘Jakartan Talk’). Though these terms may be used interchangeably in daily conversations, they have acquired specific connotations in academic discourse. Throughout this book the phrase Jakarta Malay, a generic and allencompassing term (Wallace 1976:23), will be used to allude to those dialects of Malay that native Betawi and other long-term residents of Jakarta speak. An exception will be the national language, Standard Indonesia, and a variety of Indonesian I call, after Wouk (1989), Spoken Jakarta Indonesian. There is an academic dispute about the historical roots of Jakarta Malay. For most scholars, Jakarta Malay is a continuation of a Malay lingua franca that was spoken in Batavia alongside Portuguese until the second half of the eighteenth century. After Portuguese as a lingua franca had disappeared, this Malay lingua franca eventually developed into the first language of the orang Betawi (Wallace 1976:22, 101; Ikranagara 1988:2-3). Others argue that Jakarta Malay should be placed among the languages that are direct continuations of Proto-Malayic (see for instance Adelaar 1992; Nothofer 1995). Based on linguistic evidence, Nothofer suggests that there must have been an indigenous, pre-VOC community of speakers of Jakarta Malay.1 This discussion is 1

Nothofer (1995) argues this based on the close resemblance of Jakarta Malay with a number of Malayic dialects in other areas of Indonesia, notably in south and southeastern Sumatra.

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important because it addresses the issue of how exactly to characterize the orang Betawi and their native language. Defining Jakarta Malay adequately is not only an issue in academic circles: Betawi authority Ridwan Saidi uses Nothofer’s linguistic evidence to dismiss the claim that the orang Betawi are descendants of slaves, a hypothesis proposed by Castles (1967).2 Whereas Jakarta Malay and the national language of Indonesia are closely related (both are varieties of Malay), Jakarta Malay carries certain connotations that distinguish it from the national language. Anderson (1966:107) already pointed to the rough and humorous as well as ‘intimate, jazzy, and cynical’ character of Jakarta Malay as opposed to official Indonesian. Wallace (1976:119) adds to this that the type of speech that he characterizes as Modern Jakarta Malay has an image of being ‘with-it, urbane, and metropolitan’ as opposed to the ‘stuffy’ image of the national language. My research into the reception of television language suggests that Jakarta Malay at the turn of the twenty-first century is still stereotyped by native and non-native speakers as a funny, straightforward, and democratic language. Linguistic description of Jakarta Malay The major linguistic differences between Jakarta Malay (henceforth JM) and the national language bahasa Indonesia (henceforth SI, for Standard Indonesian) are in the fields of phonology, morphology, syntax, and lexicon (Wallace 1976:29-33).3 An important phonological feature of JM, and one that most people with only a basic knowledge of this language variety know, is that it has more than one correspondence to SI word-final /a/. The rule of thumb is that JM has word-final /e/ where Indonesian has /a/ (for instance JM die alongside SI dia, ‘he, she, it’), but there are exceptions. For instance, some JM words, such as bawa (‘to bring’) and juga (‘also’) always have word-final /a/, realized as either [a], [aq] or [ah]. According to Wallace (1976: 73, 104), these ‘exceptional forms’ are relics which suggest that the Malay lingua franca from which JM is said to derive originally had word-final /a/. JM and SI also employ different morphological processes for the formation of verbs. Most notably, the JM verbal suffix -in unites the functions of SI -i (locative, intensive, iterative) and -kan (causative, benefactive, instrumental). Wallace (1976:30) notes that in JM the prefixes N-4 or zero correspond to SI 2

Interview with Ridwan Saidi, 12 February 1999. The following description is mainly based on Wallace (1976). There are also descriptions of Jakarta Malay in Muhadjir 1964, 1979 and 2000; Chaer 1976; Ikranagara 1988; Wouk 1989; Grijns 1991; Adelaar 1992; and Nothofer 1995. Steinhauer 2001 is a valuable introduction to Standard Indonesian. 4 N- stands for a nasal addition to or replacement of the initial sound of the stem (Steinhauer 2001:60). 3

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meN- (for instance JM nemenin alongside SI menemani, ‘to accompany someone’). Others, among them Wouk (1989:14) and Adelaar (1992:28), rightly point out that JM also frequently employs the prefix nge- (for instance JM ngelestariin alongside SI melestarikan ‘to conserve something’). Where SI uses the verbal prefix ber- (intransitive, reflexive, reciprocal), several morphological processes are in use in Jakarta Malay. These are realized as zero, be- or ber-, N- or -an (for instance JM betingke alongside SI bertingkah, ‘to act strangely, to put on airs’; JM keringetan alongside SI berkeringat, ‘to sweat’). SI moreover forms the comparative degree through a construction with lebih, whereas JM uses the suffix -an (for instance JM tuaan alongside SI lebih tua, ‘older’). In addition, a JM excessive is formed with the circumfix ke- -an where SI has a separate particle terlalu (for instance JM kepanasan alongside SI terlalu panas, ‘too hot’). Whereas JM as a rule uses paling to form a superlative, SI uses both ter- and paling (for instance JM paling tua alongside SI tertua, ‘oldest’). The most remarkable syntactic difference between JM and SI is that JM as a rule puts the demonstrative before the noun, whereas SI places the noun before the demonstrative (JM ini oplet alongside SI oplet ini, ‘this minivan’). Lexical differences are also plentiful, as JM ‘has many humorous, homey, coarse, slangy, and expressive forms which do not usually occur in [Indonesian]’ (Wallace 1976:31). These vocabulary differences reflect the various languages that have had an influence on the historical development of JM, namely Balinese, Sundanese, Javanese, Arabic, Portuguese, Dutch, and Chinese.5 Examples of the Chinese influence are the use of the pronouns lu or elu(h) (SI kamu, ‘you’) and gue (SI saya, ‘I’), and Chinese numerals for small denominations of money (for instance JM goceng, SI lima ribu, ‘(a banknote of) five thousand’). Subdivisions of Jakarta Malay Jakarta Malay can be subdivided into two main varieties, which used to respect clear geographical boundaries: Urban Jakarta Malay (UJM) and Rural Jakarta Malay (RJM). UJM is known in Indonesian as Betawi Tengah (‘Central Betawi (Malay)’), as it was traditionally spoken in the heart of the city. This language variety is characterized by the frequent occurrence of word-final /e/ where Standard Indonesian (SI) has /a/. Major languages that influenced UJM are Balinese and Javanese (Wallace 1976:148). Rural Jakarta Malay is also referred to as Betawi Pinggir or Betawi Pinggiran (‘Border Betawi (Malay)’), as it was traditionally spoken outside the city proper on the border with the Sundanese-speaking area. Speakers of UJM often refer 5

Adelaar (1992:33) also mentions Sasak, which is spoken on the island of Lombok. Milone (1966:253) does not mention Sundanese.

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to this language variety as Betawi Ora (‘No’ Betawi), after a Javanese negative used by some speakers of Betawi Pinggir. Typical of RJM is the frequent occurrence of word-final /a/ (realized as either [a], [aq] or [ah]) alongside SI word-final /a/. In addition, its vocabulary and structure show other traces of Sundanese, the language spoken natively by the majority of the people in West Java. The fact that RJM as a rule provides a vowel in phrase-final position with a glottal catch, for instance, is ascribed to the influence of Sundanese, which ‘does not tolerate phrase-final vowels’ (Wallace 1976:111). Some three decades ago, Wallace predicted that RJM would give way to its urban counterpart. As he phrased it: ‘It seems that the movement of urban dwellers to the countryside, the movement of rural dwellers to the city, and the expansion of the built-up area are going to entail shrinkage and possible eventual disappearance of rural Jakarta Malay’ (1976:100). At present, the difference between UJM (or Betawi Tengah) and RJM (or Betawi Pinggir) is indeed not as clear as it once was, but the distinction is retained by Betawi and non-Betawi researchers and by the Betawi community at large (see for instance Shahab 1996). Because the oppositional pair Tengah/Pinggir often appears in discussions about the languagescape of Si Doel, I too retain it in the following. Based on social variables such as ethnicity, socio-economic class, and native language, Wallace (1976:65) further subdivides UJM into West Jakarta Malay (WJM), Traditional Jakarta Malay (TJM), and Modern Jakarta Malay (MJM).6 West Jakarta Malay (WJM) is only spoken in two Jakartan districts, Tanah Abang and Kebon Pala. It is believed to represent the oldest form of JM. The main linguistic feature of WJM is that is has word-final schwa or /ĕ/ where SI has /a/. The difference between speakers of TJM and MJM is in part ethnic. TJM is the language variety that is traditionally spoken by native Betawi, particularly older people, outside the two districts mentioned above. MJM, on the other hand, is used by members of other ethnic groups, that is, people from outside Jakarta who were born and raised in Jakarta and first-generation migrants. In addition, inspired by their non-Betawi peers, many younger Betawi have also adopted this variety (Wallace 1976:69, 76). The main linguistic difference between TJM and MJM is that TJM has word-final /e/ in all word classes, except for a restricted number of words (the ‘exceptional words’ that I mentioned above). By contrast, MJM displays word-final /e/ only in certain 6

Chaer notes that native inhabitants of Jakarta often characterize the speech of other speakers of Jakarta Malay in reference to the district in Jakarta that they originate from. Hence they distinguish, for instance, the speech of Mester (after Meester Cornelis, now Jatinegara), Tanah Abang (including Petamburan), Karet (including Senayan, Kuningan and Menteng), and Kebayoran (Kebayoran Lama, Pasar Rebo, Bekasi, and other regions on the border of Jakarta) (Chaer 1976:xviii). See also the map of Jakarta in Figure 1.2. Because discussions on the language of Si Doel revolve mainly around the difference between Betawi Tengah and Betawi Pinggir, I do not allude to Chaer’s classification.

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categories, namely pronouns (for instance gue, ‘I’), question markers (for instance ape, ‘what’), and particles (for instance aje, ‘only, just’). In the other word classes, that is to say numerals (dua, ‘two’), nouns (rumah, ‘house’), and verbs (begaya, ‘to make an action’), MJM maintains word-final /a/. The Malay languagescape of Jakarta According to Wallace (1976:33), the Malay varieties used in Jakarta should be considered a diglossic continuum that ranges from Traditional Jakarta Malay through Modern Jakarta Malay to Standard Indonesian. Wallace prefers to use the term diglossic continuum rather than the traditional term diglossia, because the boundary between Jakarta Malay and Standard Indonesian is not clear. Others have objected to such a categorization, among them Wouk (1989), who suggests that Betawi Malay,7 Standard Indonesian, and yet another variety that she terms Spoken Jakarta Indonesian (SJI) should not be seen as points on a continuum but rather be treated as separate languages. One of her main arguments is that SJI has more verbal affixes than the other two varieties (Wouk 1989:12). Whereas Wallace’s concept of a diglossic continuum is more in agreement with the fluid and unstable languagescape of Jakarta as I envision it, I agree with Wouk in that, at least theoretically, one can indeed distinguish another Malay language variety, that is to say Spoken Jakarta Indonesian, alongside the Malay varieties Wallace describes. Wouk (1989:9) defines speakers of SJI as follows: These people, especially those in the educated middle and upper classes, have full command of the standard variety […] and use it as the situation demands. However, this is not the variety used in colloquial settings by those with a native command of Indonesian. […] In Jakarta this population of non-Betawi, non-Chinese native Jakartans, the children of immigrants from other parts of the country, use natively a colloquial variety which I call Spoken Jakarta Indonesian.

Figure 4.1 is a two-dimensional representation of the Malay varieties. Just like genre, the different language categories act as organizing principles and orienting frameworks rather than neat entities with fixed characteristics. Therefore the different language varieties would better be represented as three-dimensional spheres centred on prototypical instances of speech. The further away one moves from the centre, the less prototypical the speech that one encounters and the closer this speech may resemble the spheres of neighbouring language varieties. Whereas Figure 4.1 is an oversimplification of the Jakarta Malay languagescape as I envision it, which does no justice to its flexibility and changeability, it may serve its modest purpose of clarifying 7

Wouk (1989:7) uses Betawi Malay where Wallace (1976) uses Jakarta Malay.

MALAY INDONESIAN

Standard Indonesian (SI)

Spoken Jakarta Indonesian (SJI)

JAKARTA MALAY (JM)

Urban Jakarta Malay (UJM) or Betawi Tengah (Central Betawi Malay)

West Jakarta (Betawi) Malay (WJM)

Traditional Jakarta (Betawi) Malay (TJM)

Rural Jakarta Malay (RJM) or Betawi Pinggir (Border Betawi Malay)

Modern Jakarta (Betawi) Malay (MJM)

Figure 4.1 Schematic rendering of the relationship between Standard Indonesian, Spoken Jakarta Indonesian, and Jakarta Malay

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how the different varieties of Indonesian and Jakarta Malay, as I defined them above, interrelate. As can be deduced from Figure 4.1, JM can be subdivided into two main varieties, Urban Jakarta Malay (UJM) and Rural Jakarta Malay (RJM). The former variety can be further subdivided into West Jakarta Malay (WJM), Traditional Jakarta Malay (TJM), and Modern Jakarta Malay (MJM). Whereas speakers of RJM, WJM, and TJM typically belong to the Betawi community, Modern Jakarta Malay is spoken by both native Betawi (typically those who are familiar with Standard Indonesian) and migrants. The main difference between SJI and MJM is that SJI is based on Indonesian, whereas MJM is derived from Jakarta Malay. In addition, whereas SJI is associated with middle- and upper-class people, when used by non-Betawi speakers MJM is linked to people of lower socio-economic status. However, in practice the difference between a speaker of JM using Indonesian and a native speaker of Indonesian using SJI is difficult to discern: both speakers may for instance alternate between verbs with SI affixes -kan or -i and JM -in. Still, as Wouk explains, for a speaker of JM this behaviour ought to be classified as a form of code-switching between JM and Indonesian. A speaker of SJI, by contrast, would use these different affixes as a standard part of his or her language (Wouk 1989:238-9). ‘Jakarta Malay’ indicates this language variety in a general or geographical sense. In specific situations, such as when this language variety relates to the Betawi as an ethnic group, either this term or ‘Betawi Malay’ (BM) is appropriate. The term Betawi Malay can refer to all varieties categorized as either Rural Jakarta Malay or Urban Jakarta Malay, except for the form of Modern Jakarta Malay that non-Betawi residents of Jakarta speak. This variety is Jakarta Malay in its narrow sense. I furthermore retain the expressions that my informants use, be that Betawi Malay or Jakarta Malay. Using both terms may seem inconsistent and confusing, but it has the great advantage of reflecting how both non-Betawi and Betawi informants conceive of this language and use it to construct their identities. This in turn may provide some information on the position and significance of Jakarta/Betawi Malay in present-day Indonesia. The languagescape of Si Doel The Jakarta Malay characters Lela and Sabeni Traditional Jakarta Malay is most vividly represented in Si Doel through the characters Lela and Sabeni, who are among the most prominent Betawi

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characters in the serial. Viewers are told that Doel’s father Sabeni was born and raised in Senayan, a neighbourhood in the centre of Jakarta. Like many other native inhabitants of this city, Sabeni’s parents were forced to sell their land and Sabeni moved to Karang Tengah, a neighbourhood in the south of Jakarta. There he married Lela, a native Betawi woman from Condet, an area in southeast Jakarta. The following conversation is representative of the way this traditional Betawi couple talk to each other (DVD no. 34): Sabeni: Lela: Sabeni: Lela: (Sabeni: Lela: Sabeni: Lela:

Gue bingung ame si Doel. Ude sepulu ari mundar-mandir mundar-mandir, belon juga dapet kerjaan. Cari kerjaan sekarang kudu sabar, Bang. Pegimane kurang sabar, ha? Usahe ude, sembahyang ude, selametan ude, puase ude, ape lagi? Iye, kali masi ade yang kurang. I’m confused about Doel. He’s been going to places for ten days, but he still hasn’t found a job. Nowadays one has to be patient to find a job. Haven’t we been patient enough? We’ve made an effort, we’ve prayed, we’ve given a ritual meal, we’ve been fasting, what else can we do? Well, we’ve probably missed something.)

As speakers of Traditional Jakarta Malay, Sabeni and Lela frequently use word-final /e/ alongside SI /a/. The clearest example in the dialogue above is Sabeni’s account of the things he has done to help Doel find a job: pegimane (SI bagaimana, ‘how’), usahe (SI usaha, ‘effort’), ude (SI sudah, ‘already’), puase (SI puasa, ‘to fast’), ape lagi (SI apa lagi, ‘what else’). Another feature of Traditional Jakarta Malay displayed in this excerpt is loss of word-final /h/ (for instance ude, masi) where SI maintains its final laryngeal (sudah, masih). Finally, Sabeni and Lela use several words that are not found in the SI vocabulary, such as the first person pronoun gue (SI saya, ‘I’) and the verb kudu (SI harus, ‘to have to’), which is derived from Javanese or Sundanese. Doel and Atun While the ‘represented talk’ of Babe Sabeni and Nyak Lela is Traditional Jakarta Malay, the speech of their children is a representation of Modern Jakarta Malay. Like their parents, Doel and Atun are speakers of Urban Jakarta Malay. Because they were educated in the national language and are more outgoing in their social contacts, it makes sense that they speak its modern variety. This implies that their language use displays word-final /e/ only in certain categories, whereas in the other word classes word-final /a/ is maintained.

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Engkong Ali and Mandra Rural Jakarta Malay is represented in the serial by Lela’s brother Mandra and their father Engkong Ali. Like Lela, Mandra and Engkong are said to originate from the Condet area in southeast Jakarta. An example of their idiosyncrasies is the following dialogue. Before this dialogue, Mandra has told his father that he will soon propose to his girlfriend Munaroh (DVD no. 23). Engkong’s reaction is one of surprise: Engkong: Mandra: Engkong: Mandra: Engkong: Mandra: Engkong: Mandra: Engkong: (Engkong: Mandra: Engkong: Mandra: Engkong: Mandra: Engkong: Mandra: Engkong:

He Mandra, emang elu udah yakin bakal diterima lamaran elu ama dia? Ya ampun Babe, kalau belum pasti ngapain sih Babe sayah suruhdateng ke sono? Bukan begitu, Ndra. Kan gue kenal siapa tu si Ja’im. Orangnya alim, tekun. Apa dia mau punya mantu elu? Nah, elu sembahyangnya aja nggak lempeng. Ya, Babe. Nyang penting kan Munaroh mau ama sayah. Urusan Babe ni sih sebodo amat. Bener juga ya. Eh iya, sekalian bawa oleh-oleh buat Munaroh, ya. Oleh-oleh? Ya, apa aja dah oleh-olehnya. Ya dah, ntar gua ke pasar, sekalian beliin cincin buat Rodiah. Mandra, are you sure that your proposal will be accepted? Come on, Dad. If I wasn’t sure, what would be the point of asking you to go there? That’s not what I mean, Ndra. But I happen to know that Ja’im is a devout and serious man. Does he want a son-in-law like you? You can’t even perform your prayers properly. Come on, Dad. The important thing is that Munaroh wants me. I couldn’t care less about her father. You have a point there. By the way, could you also bring a present for Munaroh? A present? Yes, it doesn’t matter what kind of present you bring. All right, I have to go to the market anyway to buy a ring for Rodiah.)

As this excerpt illustrates, the language used by Mandra and Engkong is characterized by the frequent occurrence of /a/ (often realized as either [aq] or [ah]) in word-final position (for instance ama, compare UJM ame, SI sama, dengan, ‘with’; dia, compare UJM die, SI dia, ‘he, she, it’). In addition, both Mandra and his father tend to use the first person pronoun gua or guah rather than gue. Particularly Mandra alternates the use of gua with sayah (SI saya, ‘I’). The dialogue between Mandra and Engkong illustrates that whereas UJM is known for its loss of word-final /h/ (compare Sabeni’s use of ude alongside

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SI sudah), RJM generally maintains its laryngeal in phrase-final position (Wallace 1976:99). Another example from the excerpt above is suruh, which in UJM is usually realized as suru. Mandra’s speech also betrays influence of Sundanese in the constructions that he uses. For instance, Mandra often uses the Sundanese particle mah in phrases such as gua mah kagak (‘I (as opposed to others) don’t’). The SJI characters Hans, Sarah, and Ati Hans, Sarah, and Sarah’s best friend Ati are portrayed as representatives of the language variety that Fay Wouk (1989:xii) termed Spoken Jakarta Indonesian (SJI), that variety of the national language ‘spoken by native speakers of Indonesian who were born and grew up in Jakarta’. Viewers are not presented with detailed information on Sarah’s language background, but some information can be deduced from the narrative. Sarah was born and raised in an Indo family (her father is part Dutch). She speaks Indonesian with her parents, who also speak Indonesian with each other. Sarah’s lifestyle furthermore betrays that she belongs to the upper socio-economic class. The character therefore fits Wouk’s description of prototypical speakers of SJI, and so does her language use. The main difference between Atun and Doel’s speech (MJM) and that of Sarah and her friends (SJI) is that the native language of Atun and Doel is Jakarta Malay, while Sarah and her friends’ native language is Indonesian. The area in which this difference is most clearly exposed is the use of personal pronouns. Doel as a rule uses the JM personal pronouns (e)lu (‘you’) and gue or, alternatively, the respectful term aye (‘I’). Sarah and friends, by contrast, use the SI equivalents kamu and saya, except in certain situations. Doel employs the JM terms of address; hence he calls his father and mother ‘Babe’ and ‘Nyak’. Sarah on the other hand addresses her parents with the Indonesian or Dutch equivalents, Bapak or Papi (‘Father’) and Ibu or Mami (‘Mother’). The following dialogue has been taken from the scene in which Sarah and Doel first meet, that is, when their cars collide in the first episode of the first series of Si Doel (DVD no. 4). This dialogue shows plainly that speakers of JM and SJI – Mandra speaks RJM, Doel MJM, and Sarah and Ati SJI – have no difficulty understanding each other. During her quarrel with Mandra, Ati even starts using words from the Jakarta Malay vocabulary herself (for instance nyap-nyap, SI bermaki-maki, ‘to use abusive language’): Mandra: Ati: Mandra: Ati:

Aduh-aduh. E, udah nabrak, nyap-nyap lagi elu. E, pantas dong gue nyap-nyap. Tu lihat tu mobil teman gue, ah! Ye, yang pantas nyap-nyap bukan elu, gua. Huh.  Terus, gimana ini urusannya kalo udah begini?

IV The languagescape of Si Doel Doel: Mandra: Ati: Mandra: Sarah: Mandra: Ati: Sarah: Mandra: Sarah: Ati: Sarah: (Mandra: Ati: Mandra: Ati: Doel: Mandra: Ati: Mandra: Sarah: Mandra: Ati: Sarah: Mandra: Sarah: Ati: Sarah:

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Maaf, saya menghindar orang nyebrang. Hah, ngapain elu minta maap, dia yang nubruk! Lho, nggak bisa gitu dong, Bang. Abang kan brenti sembarangan. He, masak gua mao brenti, gua kudu bilangin elu. Emang gua saudara elu?! Udah, udah. Ni berapa saya musti ganti? Sejuta dah. Enak aja, ngomong sejuta, sejuta! Eh Bang, itu harga opletnya aja nggak sampe segitu. Ngomong lagi sejuta! Ya udah, ya udah, gini aja. Opletnya Abang benerin di bengkel, nanti ongkosnya saya ganti di rumah, ya. Saya kasih alamat saya. Sayah ni aja nyang megang. Sayah nyang megang. Maaf ya, kita uda musti pergi nih. Sarah, ngapain amat sih, kamu ganti. Udah, ah. Ouch. Hey, isn’t it enough that you hit us. Now you have to start yelling as well. I believe I’m entitled to yell. Look at my friend’s car Actually, you’re not the one who’s entitled to yell, I am. So what are we going to do about this situation? Sorry, I tried to avoid someone who was crossing the street. Why should you apologize? She’s the one who hit you! You can’t say that. You stopped just like that, you know. As if I’m supposed to tell you when I want to stop. Am I your relative or something? Stop arguing. How much do I have to pay you? One million will do. You have some nerve, asking for one million! Listen, friend, your oplet doesn’t even cost as much as that. One million! Anyhow, enough talking, let’s do it like this. You have the oplet repaired in a garage, and then you come to my home where I willpay you back. Here’s my address. Let me have it, let me have it. Sorry, but we must be on our way. Sarah, why on earth are you paying them? Never mind.)

In addition to other JM words, Ati also uses the first person pronoun gue (SI saya, ‘I’) in her quarrel with Mandra. As an explanation of this particular use of gue Grijns (1983:38) suggests that to determine whether a person speaks Jakarta Malay or SJI (although he does not refer to this language variety by that name), it is important to consider whether the use of typical JM words is marked or unmarked, that is to say whether speakers use them in standard situations or only in certain circumstances. Grijns mentions gue as an example. Though this word is an unmarked equivalent of SI saya in Jakarta Malay (I would say in Urban Jakarta Malay; in Rural Jakarta Malay this personal

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pronoun would be pronounced as gua), it can also be used by speakers of SJI to create a specific stylistic effect. This is the way in which Ati seems to have used the word in the example above, probably in an effort to show that she is not impressed by Mandra’s verbal attack. In an unmarked situation, that is to say when talking to Sarah after she has promised to pay for the damage, Ati changes back to the unmarked SJI personal pronoun kamu (‘you’). The other ‘regional’ characters Mas Karyo The use of Jakarta Malay in Si Doel sets the serial apart from mainstream sinetron in which, judging from my own viewing experience, most actors speak either SI or SJI. But the languagescape of Si Doel includes other languages as well. Reflecting the composition of contemporary Jakarta and its languagescape, the serial also features some other regional languages and a small number of foreign languages. In the sinetron, the ethnic background of each character is clear from his or her speech behaviour. The fact that the character Mas Karyo is a Javanese, for instance, is not only highlighted by the cultural icons he possesses, such as his clothing, his social behaviour, and the fact that he keeps a costly singing bird as a pet. Moreover, Mas Karyo’s language use and his way of talking link him to this ethnic group as well. When Karyo speaks Indonesian, his idiolect is marked by a heavy Javanese accent. His speech is interspersed with Javanese phrases and grammatical constructions. And when on his own or in the company of Javanese friends or relatives, Karyo immediately switches to his native tongue. An example of the first situation is the following excerpt (DVD no. 35). Babe Sabeni has threatened to expel Mas Karyo from his premises if Mas Karyo does not pay the rent at once. That evening, Karyo tries to borrow money from Atun. As he sneaks to her room, he quietly starts talking to himself in Javanese. This monologue was later subtitled (SUB) in Jakarta Malay by one of the editors: Mas Karyo: SUB SUB SUB SUB SUB

Gawat, kalau aku jadi diusir, aku tidur mana? (switch to Javanese) Wah, ora isa turu aku. Wahh .. nggak bisa tidur deh gue... Babe kurang ajar sontoloyo. kurang ajar sontoloyo Babe Tuwekan ra ngerti. Udeh tua juga nggak tahu diri. Urip neng Jakarta rekasa. Susah amat idup di Jakarta. Muga-muga kanca-kancaku aja enek sing neng Jakarta... Semoga temen-temen gue diJakarta (sic) nasibnye lebih baik dari gue. Jakarta rekasa golek dhuwit. Tun…

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Susah amat nyari duit diJakarta (sic).8

(Mas Karyo: It would be awful if I were chased away. Where would I sleep? (switch to Javanese) I can’t sleep. This damned Sabeni is so impolite. He may be older, but he doesn’t understand. Living in Jakarta is difficult. I hope that none of my friends come to Jakarta. It’s difficult to make a living in Jakarta. Atun.)

Here is another scene that exposes the native language of Doel’s neighbour (DVD no. 36). Karyo and Atun return home after an afternoon of shopping in the city. They are talking in Jakarta Malay when suddenly Sofia, Karyo’s wife (soon-to-be ex-wife) ‘from Java’, interrupts the conversation. Addressed in Javanese, Karyo is triggered to respond in Javanese too. This Javanese dialogue was also subtitled in Jakarta Malay: Atun: Nanti jadi nonton besok? Karyo: Oh iya, sore aja. Atun: Iya. Jadi ya? Karyo: Iya. Sofia: Saka ngendi wae ta, Mas? SUB Dari mane aje sih bang!, Yah mene kok baru mulih, kesel aku nunggu kowe. SUB gini hari baru pulang, cape aye nungguin. Karyo: (switch to Javanese) Lho...anu...Bune... Kowe kapan tekan Ibune? SUB Lah...lah kamu kapan nyempenye? Sofia: Ditakoni durung jawab kok malah ganti takon. SUB ditanya belon jawab malah balik nanya. (Atun: Karyo: Atun: Karyo: Sofia: Karyo: Sofia:

Are we still going to the movies tomorrow? Yes, but let’s go in the afternoon. All right. So we’re going, aren’t we? Yes. (addressing Mas Karyo in Javanese) And where have you come from? Coming home at this hour! I’m tired of waiting for you. (switch to Javanese) Er… er… when did you arrive? You haven’t even answered my question and you’ve already begun asking me questions.)

Mas Karyo, the immigrant from Central Java who according to a Karnos Film 8

As the JM subtitles are not an accurate representation of the Javanese monologue, I have followed the speech of the characters in my English translation.

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press release ‘stands with one foot in Java, and the other in contemporary Jakarta’, is but one of the typical non-Betawi inhabitants of Jakarta that are represented in Si Doel. While these immigrants all have different language backgrounds when they come to Jakarta, research suggests that most of them, with the possible exception of Indonesians of Chinese descent, show little loyalty towards their mother tongue and start learning a variety of Malay soon after their arrival in the city. What is more, children of these migrants who are born in Jakarta tend to show little interest in acquiring more than a passive knowledge of their parents’ mother tongue (Wallace 1976:35-6, 38). Yet polyglossia and multilingualism rather than monolingualism are the norm in Indonesia, as in many other countries (Wardhaugh 1998:100). Learning a variety of Malay therefore does not mean replacing one’s mother tongue. In fact, it often means adding an extra language to one’s linguistic repertoire. Mas Karyo seems to represent this type of immigrant: fluent in Indonesian and used to speaking Jakarta Malay with members of the Sabeni family, he will immediately switch to his native language, Javanese, if and when the occasion arises. Kang Mamang The typical semi-permanent resident of Jakarta is embodied in Kang Mamang, a Sundanese hawker of household appliances (Figure 4.2). Kang Mamang lives and works in Jakarta, but returns regularly to his family, who reside in a village in West Java. Viewers are led to believe that Kang Mamang’s native language is Sundanese. For instance, like Mas Karyo, Kang Mamang also switches to his native language in certain circumstances. And when ­facing a non-Sundanese interlocutor, Mamang’s idiom and his frequent use of Sundanese words and grammatical constructions (italicized in the example below) reveal his language background. The following conversation is taken from a scene in which Mamang pays a professional visit to the Sabeni family (DVD no. 31): Ke-re-dit! Anyar nu hebat, impor, aya segalana. Eee, ke mane aje, Bang, kok lama banget baru nongol? Ape nggak inget ye ame tunggakan aye? Kalo orang utang sama saya mah Bu, tidak ada lupanya, karena ada catatannya. Lela: Iye ke mane aje si, Bang? Pulang mudik ye? Kang Mamang: Sumuhun, Ibu. Abis di kampung teh mertua saya, anak saya, istri saya, semuanya teh pada sakit. Atuh saya tidak bisa ninggalin. Eh, ngomong-ngomong si Doel atos beres sakolahna? Lela: Iiii, si Abang, ketinggalan jaman. Kelamaan si Abang nggak ke mari. Sekarang si Doel ude jadi tukang insinyur.

Kang Mamang: Customer: Kang Mamang:

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The credit man! Great new and imported goods. I sell everything. Where have you been, it’s been a long time since I last saw you. You have probably forgotten about my loan, haven’t you? I never forget a loan, I write them all down. Yes, where have you been? Did you go back to your village? Yes, because back in the village my parents-in-law, my children, and my wife were all ill. I certainly couldn’t leave them alone. By the way, has Doel already finished school? You’re way behind. You see, it’s been too long since you were here. Doel has already got his engineering degree.)

This excerpt demonstrates that in spite of their different language backgrounds, the various interlocutors have no difficulty understanding each other. Still, language confusion sometimes does occur in the serial. Such is the case in the following dialogue between Mas Karyo and Kang Mamang. In this example, Mas Karyo asks Mas Mamang in Javanese for a plaited mat (klasa). Because he does not understand the question, Mamang asks in Sundanese what klasa means. In doing so, he uses the Sundanese question particle naon (SI apa, ‘what’). Mas Karyo, who thinks that the Mamang takes the word klasa to mean ‘neon light’, subsequently misinterprets this phrase. Slightly irritated by the inability of his interlocutor to understand him, Mas Karyo then switches to JM in order to get his message across. Below both the Javanese and the Sundanese words are italicized (Si Doel 2, episode 12, broadcast on 23 December 1994): (Mas Karyo: Eh, situ bawa klasa ora? Kang Mamang: ‘Klasa’ eta naon? Mas Karyo: Neon… Tiker!)

Mas Karyo: Hey, did you bring a ‘klasa’ [plaited mat] or not? Kang Mamang: What is a ‘klasa’? Mas Karyo: Not neon… A plaited mat!

Another example of linguistic confusion is found in the following conversation, which is held by the same two characters. Here Mas Karyo at first seems to struggle with the word salapan. Salapan means nine in Sundanese, but it resembles the Indonesian word sarapan, which means breakfast. Within a few seconds it becomes clear that Mas Karyo understands what Mamang is saying, and is only making fun of him. This example also illustrates how in Si Doel realistic and melodramatic

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dialogues are alternated with ways of talking that betray the influence of traditional performing arts. In this scene Mamang calculates the prices of his merchandise by singing a specific melody. This is a habit that many Sundanese vendors have, as singing helps them to memorize the amount of money that customers have to pay.9 When Mas Karyo hears Mamang singing, he responds according to his own cultural background. His way of singing and the stylized gestures that he makes with his hands and body resemble the melodies and movements found in Javanese theatre traditions such as wayang wong (DVD no. 31): Kang Mamang: (singing) Dua puluh lima rebu, dua puluh lima rebu ditampah tempat sana. Lima rebu lima ratus jaradi tiga puluh ribu lima ratus Nyak: Si Abang, ngitung mau jadi dalang. Kang Mamang: Atuh biasa, Ibu. Customer: Ini berape ini? Kang Mamang: Itu bulanan laen mingguan. Customer: Nanyain aje. Mas Karyo: (singing) Eee Abang kredit, tolong itung punya saya semua berapa? Kang Mamang: (singing in response) Kompor sareng ketel, ketel ketel ditambah sama termos, tempat nasi. Tempat nasi ditambah sama ieu teh gantungan baju. Saya pingin jumlah sama utang Mas Karyo yang dahulu. Jaradi… salapan rebu rebu lapan ratus. 10 Mas Karyo: Eee, masa semuanya begini, kok sarapan… sarapan … salapan puluh delapan ratus. Itu bagaimana, apa nggak salah lu? Kang Mamang: Masa iya salah ngitung atuh. (Kang Mamang: (singing) Twenty five thousand for that winnowing tray... and five thousand five hundred… makes thirty thousand five hundred. Nyak: You are calculating as if you want to become a puppeteer. Kang Mamang: Well, I’m used to it. Customer: How much is this one? Kang Mamang: Depends on whether you pay in weekly or monthly instalments. Customer: I was just asking. Mas Karyo: (singing) Hey mister credit. How much will you charge me for these goods? Kang Mamang: (singing in response) A stove and a kettle, to this kettle I add a thermos bottle and a rice basket. I add the rice basket to this hanger. I will add this to your previous loan. In total that makes… ninety (salapan) thousand eight hundred.

9

Interview with Rano Karno, 23 August 2002. Judged from Mas Karyo’s response, the phrase that should have been uttered by Kang Mamang is ‘salapan puluh rebu lapan ratus’. 10

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Mas Karyo:

How is it possible that these goods have breakfast (sarapan) … er… cost ninety thousand eight hundred? Haven’t you made a mistake? Kang Mamang: How could I make a mistake in calculating?)

The ‘foreign’ characters Hans’ mother, Sarah’s father, A Hong The number of foreign characters in Si Doel is quite small. Hans’s mother, who only occurs once in person, is a Dutch woman who speaks Indonesian. Sarah’s father is not a foreigner but an Indo. He is played by the late Indonesian actor Ami Priyono, who sometimes intersperses his Indonesian with Dutch phrases. Mandarin Chinese is only spoken in the scene in which the Taiwanese businessman A Hong negotiates with Doel’s father (DVD no. 10). In later episodes, A Hong typically speaks Indonesian. Some foreign languages are also represented, though limitedly, through the Indonesian characters. The use of Arabic is restricted to stretches of Islamic discourse, such as prayers or sayings from the Koran. These are particularly found in the discourse of the members of the Sabeni family (see DVD no. 15 and DVD no. 29). English is only used in a few subtitles and in some isolated stretches of dialogue, which are often uttered by Doel explaining English expressions to Mandra or his parents. Other elements of discourse characterizing Si Doel Represented talk, or ‘mediatized’ language as I prefer to call it, ‘can never be a faithful or accurate reflection of actual conversation’ (Marshall and Werndly 2002:78). This is because unlike real conversations, which are generally unscripted and spontaneous, televised speech has to have narrative purpose or be relevant to characterization (Marshall and Werndly 2002:78). Unlike in real talk, irrelevant conversations rarely occur in televised language (Marshall and Werndly 2002:79). Similarly, silences, which often arise in real conversation, are virtually only constructed if they serve a particular purpose (Marshall and Werndly 2002:81). In addition, there are rarely elements of discourse (whereby discourse is defined in its narrow, linguistic sense of the word) such as interruption, interjections, backtracking, and hesitation (Marshall and Werndly 2002:83). Leitner (1997) also emphasizes the artificiality of television language. Discussing the language policies of certain media, notably with respect to factual genres such as news, he concludes that ‘the premise that media language comes close to being “real”, i.e., nonmonitored language performance […] is clearly wrong’ (Leitner 1997:202). If the above observations may hold some truth for television language

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Figure 4.2 Kang Mamang (with towel), Doel, and Mas Karyo (courtesy of Karnos Film)

in general – and one may indeed argue that television produces rather than reflects language – they are less applicable to language use in Si Doel than to those instances of media language that are entirely scripted and heavily monitored. The language of the Si Doel characters resembles that of unmediatized conversations in that the speech of all the characters reveals their socio-cultural background. In addition, characters as a rule make an effort to understand the language of their interlocutor, even if he or she employs a language variety that is not the character’s own. If necessary, characters even adapt their speech to that of their interlocutor to communicate more effectively. Though these efforts of the Si Doel characters to communicate are successful most of the time, linguistic confusion and code-switching do occur, as they do in natural conversations. And although the language of Si Doel is scripted, some actors, mainly those with a background in traditional theatre, tend to improvise their lines. The spontaneity that characterizes ‘real’ conversation is therefore to a certain extent reinstated in the language of Si Doel. Code-switching Another discourse element occurring in the serial, one which strengthens the illusion of reality, is code-switching. The term ‘code’ is used as a neutral term

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for any system of communication. Code-switching is to be understood as switching from one language variety to another. Speakers may be triggered to do so for a number of reasons, among them solidarity with listeners, choice of topic, and perceived social and cultural distance (Wardhaugh 1998:103). When Karyo suddenly finds himself in the presence of his Javanese wife, he is triggered to switch from Jakarta Malay to Javanese for that reason. There is another example of code-switching in the following excerpt, where Doel discusses the socio-economic impact of technology with his fellow students at the university (DVD no. 3): Gunawan: Doel:

Tapi dampak negatifnya terlalu besar Doel. Itu merupakan resiko, Wan. Seperti kita ketahui, setiap perjuangan pasti memerlukan pengorbanan. Student 2: Ah, itu sih slogan basi, Doel. Edi: Aku sih setuju saja dengan pendapat kau Doel. Tapi seperti apa yang Gunawan bilang tadi bahwa dampak negatifnya itu terlalu besar. Kau bayangkan saja berapa banyak korban pengangguran akibat dari kemajuan teknologi ini. Doel: Mangkenye harus dicari jalan keluarnya. Tapi bukan berarti kendala tadi menghambat kemajuan itu sendiri. Hans: Hebat, diskusi kalian itu memang berbobot. Doel: (switch to more informal register) Wah… dari mane aje elu, udah sebulan ngilang. Gunawan: Ah, dia kan kuliah cuma nyari status aja Doel. Hans: Enak aja elu sembarangan. Doel: Eh, elu sih gila ? Ini kita udah mau ujian ini. Hans: Justru gua tau mau ujian, gua balik. Kalau nggak, gua masih di Holland. (Gunawan: Doel: Student 2: Edi:

But its negative impact is too great, Doel. That’s the danger, Wan. We all know that every struggle requires sacrifices. That slogan is old, Doel. I agree with you, Doel. But just like Gunawan said, its negativeimpact will be too great. Just imagine how many people will become unemployed because of this technological progress. Doel: We will indeed have to find a solution for that. But that doesn’t mean that this obstacle must get in the way of progress itself. Hans: Excellent, you’re really having a quality discussion. Doel: (switch to more informal register) And where did you come from? You disappeared for a month. Gunawan: Following classes is only a matter of prestige to him, Doel. Hans: Watch what you’re saying. Doel: Hey, are you nuts or what? Our exams are in one month. Hans: I only came back because I knew that the exams were coming. Otherwise I’d still be in the Netherlands.)

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Unlike his parents, who speak Jakarta Malay on virtually every occasion, Doel switches back and forth between Indonesian and Jakarta Malay, depending on the situation in which he finds himself. In the example, Doel finds himself in a formal setting (a classroom), discussing a formal topic (a particular technological development). Hence Doel uses Standard Indonesian with his interlocutors, except for the word mangkenye, the (colloquial) pronunciation of which would be makanya or mangkanya in Indonesian. When his fellow student and best friend Hans, a native speaker of SJI, enters the classroom, Doel is triggered to switch to a more informal register. In this friendly atmosphere, Doel uses a language variety that is more appropriate for the occasion. Incidentally, the speech of the character Edi, one of Doel’s interlocutors in this particular scene, clearly betrays his ethnic background. Although he speaks Indonesian, Edi’s intonation and accent reveal that he is of Batak (north Sumatran) descent. Particles and interjections Contrary to Marshall and Werndly’s observation that televised language seldom makes use of interjections, the language of Si Doel is full of interjections and particles, those words that ‘express feelings and attitudes of the speaker’ (Ikranagara 1975:93). While particles and interjections may be defined in various ways, a general distinction is that particles form part of the sentence, whereas interjections stand on their own. S.R. Siegers-Samaniri (2000) has shown that all common Jakarta Malay interjections and particles are used extensively in the first series of Si Doel. From my own viewing experience, I know that the characters use plenty of interjections and particles in the latter series too. Particularly main Betawi characters such as Babe Sabeni, Mandra, and Engkong Ali often react emotionally to their interlocutor or the topic of discussion. Hence they frequently employ particles and interjections that emphasize feelings of anger, indignation, fear, or surprise. In addition, all Si Doel characters use particles and interjections to mitigate their speech. SiegersSamaniri (2000:9) distinguishes eleven particles and eight interjections, the particles being da/de, dong, kan, kek, kok, ni, si, tu, aja, emang, and juga (and their related phonetic realizations). The interjections are (w)adu(h), ah, he, ha, gi, na, wa, and ya/ye (and their related phonetic realizations). The meaning of these particles and interjections depends on the context in which they are uttered. Particles and interjections are used, for instance, in the scene in which Doel and Sarah first meet (DVD no. 4). After the car crash, particularly Mandra and Ati are strongly emotional (they are angry) towards each other. In the following, I have italicized all Jakarta Malay interjections and particles:

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Mandra: Aduh, aduh. E, udah nabrak, nyap-nyap lagi elu. Ati: E, pantas dong gue nyap-nyap. Tu lihat tu mobil teman gue, ah. Mandra: Ye, yang pantas nyap-nyap bukan elu, gua. Huh. […] Ati: Lho, nggak bisa gitu dong, Bang. Abang kan brenti sembarangan. Mandra: He, masak gua mao brenti, gua kudu bilangin elu. Emang gua saudara elu?! (Mandra: Ouch. Hey, isn’t it enough that you hit us. Now you have to start yelling as well. Ati: I believe I’m entitled to yell. Look at my friend’s car Mandra: Actually, you’re not the one who’s entitled to yell, I am. […] Ati: You can’t say that. You stopped just like that, you know. Mandra: As if I’m supposed to tell you when I want to stop. Am I your relative or something?

Terms of address and personal pronouns Yet another discourse feature that increases the realism of the languagescape of Si Doel is the serial’s use of terms of address and personal pronouns, which are important since many viewers commented upon the ways in which the characters address each other. In addition, these words in particular ‘constitute and express social and personal relations’ (Barker and Galasiński 2001:74). Pronouns are interesting for critical discourse analysts for the information they provide on agency (Barker and Galasiński 2001:75); terms of address are investigated because they show how relationships are defined ‘on the axis of power and solidarity’ (Barker and Galasiński 2001:78). These elements of discourse are moreover important for their ethno-symbolical value. The non-Betawi characters are, for instance, consistently spoken to with the term of address used in their region of origin. Like most speech communities (Wardhaugh 1998:255), the Betawi community values the use of correct terms of address in social interactions. This concern is reflected in Si Doel too. Doel calls his parents Babe (‘Father’) and Nyak (‘Mother’), and his grandparents Engkong (‘Grandfather’) and Nyai (‘Grandmother’). Zaenab’s parents, who are close friends of the family, are addressed as ‘Uncle’ (Encang) and ‘Aunt’ (Encing). By contrast, Doel addresses Mandra, who is his real uncle, as Abang (‘Older Brother’). The proper use of personal pronouns is another important aspect of discourse in Indonesia mirrored in the serial. In conversations with their parents, Doel and Atun always refer to themselves using their proper name or aye (‘I’, formal) to show their respect (this last term, incidentally, is reserved for use in relation to one’s direct family; outside this setting, the correct term would

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be saye).11 The colloquial JM term of address for ‘you’ is (e)lu(h). It can be used to address a long-term acquaintance of the same age or any person younger than oneself, provided that one is to some degree on intimate terms with this person. Some Betawi refuse to use this term, even to address their own children, as they consider it too coarse. Sabeni however addresses all members of his nuclear family, including his wife, with lu. Lela on the other hand addresses her husband, as is common throughout Indonesia, with ‘Older Brother’ (Abang or Bang). In conversations with him she also uses the respectful first-person pronoun aye in reference to herself. To Lela’s consistent use of respectful terms of address in the presence of her husband, I have encountered only one exception in the whole series, but one that is telling. This scene is also interesting from an ideological point of view, as it shows how the disruption of normal patterns of gender and sexuality creates chaos in the Sabeni family. For the reader to be able to fully understand the dramatic impact of this example, it is necessary to know what the regular pattern of communication between Sabeni and his wife is. In many Betawi families the husband is considered the head of the household and his position is viewed as more powerful than that of his wife. The Sabeni family is no exception in this respect. Babe’s more powerful position for instance implies that he is expected to make a speech at formal occasions, such as the selametan that is held for Doel’s graduation (DVD no. 15).12 Generally speaking, Babe’s discursive behaviour can be characterized as active, as opposed to passive. In encounters with his wife, it is usually he who opens the conversation, asks questions, and gives orders (Figure 4.3). Lela’s language behaviour is aptly described as reactive: as a rule, she follows orders and answers questions (see for instance DVD no. 2). Lela furthermore mitigates her husband’s speech when he is angry and defends people whom he talks about negatively in their absence (DVD no. 25). Babe’s idiosyncrasy is expressed in interrogative phrases of the type ‘what do you think you are doing?’ (‘Ngapain lu?’). Doel’s father is intolerant of diverging opinions; hence he often snaps at whomever dares to contradict him, saying they talk too much. For instance, Babe frequently accuses his wife of being too talkative (bawel), and one time, when Doel asks him whether he wants to change his clothes before driving the oplet, he replies that Doel is just as annoying as his mother (bawel kaye nyak lu aje) (DVD no. 2). Lela’s vocabulary, by contrast, is interlarded with conciliatory words. The word sabar (‘be patient’; used to calm down her husband or to comfort someone whom her husband has snapped at) belongs to her daily and frequently used language repertoire (DVD no. 2 and DVD no. 21). 11

Interview with H. Tabroni, 19 May 2000. Note that Sabeni, as is common in Indonesia, welcomes those present at the selametan by mentioning first the men and then the women in the audience, whereas in the West one is used to the opposite order. 12

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Clearly Babe Sabeni has more ‘discursive rights’ than his wife: he has the privilege of starting or ending a conversation, shifting the topic of discussion, and interrupting other speakers (Barker and Galasiński 2001:79). Lela’s accommodating attitude does not imply that her husband represses her, nor does it mean that she holds a powerless position. In fact, behind the scenes Lela is very successful at influencing Doel’s father and turning things her way. In addition, Babe often relies on her advice (DVD no. 29 and DVD no. 34). This does not mean however that Lela has an equal say in things. For instance, although both Lela and Sabeni sustain the family financially – Doel’s father generates a modest income operating the oplet, while his wife probably earns more money by running her warung – Babe Sabeni makes it appear as if he is the one who feeds the family. On the other hand, Sabeni is not the bully he appears to be at first sight, and he is actually very fond of and caring for his wife and children. When he forbids Doel to take the job in the Natuna archipelago (DVD no. 21), for instance, one of his arguments is that Doel as the only son of the family is expected to take care of his mother in case something should happen to him. In Babe’s view, Doel would not be able to take upon him this responsibility if he worked far away from home. More equal interactions between Sabeni and Lela can be seen when Doel passes his final exams, and Sabeni suggests to his wife that he tell their neighbours the good news (DVD no. 15). When the land in Cisalak is sold to Sarah and Doel’s father pretends that the profit is his, Lela is quick to correct her husband and reminds Sabeni that the money actually belongs to her father, not to him (DVD no. 13). Whereas the relationship with her husband is thus more equal than appears at first sight, in general Doel’s mother does not dare contradict her husband in decisive matters. An example is her silence after Babe has forbidden Doel to take the Natuna job. When she feels that her marriage is at stake, however, Lela feels justified in raising her voice (DVD no. 31, DVD no. 32, and DVD no. 33). The plot of the excerpts in which Lela addresses her husband disrespectfully begins when various people tell Lela that Babe is seeing another woman (DVD no. 31 and DVD no. 32). Initially Lela refuses to believe these rumours, but then she picks up some clues herself. For instance, her husband suddenly wears cologne (minyak wangi), whereas his normal scent is motor oil (minyak mobil). To find out the truth, Lela decides to pay her husband a surprise visit when he is operating the oplet (DVD no. 32). With a determination that viewers have not seen of her earlier, Lela flags down a taxi to take her to the bus stop where Babe waits for passengers. Mandra, who does not agree with his sister’s unusual and costly action, accompanies Lela. ‘Look at this’, he criticizes her behaviour, ‘the husband operates an oplet, but his wife travels by taxi’.13 Meanwhile, Babe is shown waiting in his oplet at the bus stop. 13

Mandra: ‘Ya, laki naik oplet, bini naik taksi.’

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Even though a considerable number of passengers have already got into the car, Babe does not seem in a hurry to leave. This is not like him at all, and it suggests that he is indeed still waiting for his mystery passenger. Lela and Mandra then arrive at the bus stop, from where they secretly observe the oplet. Suddenly Mandra spots the special passenger. Upon seeing this other woman, Lela crosses the street and walks quickly towards the oplet. She gets into the car just a few seconds after the special passenger. Babe, who does not know who has just got into the oplet, starts yelling at a person who turns out to be his own wife: Sabeni: Lela: Sabeni: ‘Girlfriend’: Sabeni:

Ee, di depan ude penu, di belakang lu! Di depan kan bisa betiga! Hah, eh…lu, La. Kok… dari mane? Kenalan Abang? Iye kali.

(Sabeni: Lela: Sabeni: ‘Girlfriend’: Sabeni:

Hey, the front seats are already occupied, get in the back! There is room for three people in the front, isn’t there?! Oh, it’s you Lela. Why … er… Where did you come from? An acquaintance of yours? I suppose so.)

Lela has caught Babe in the act and is furious (DVD no. 33). For days she refuses to talk to her husband. She declines to cook for her family, leaving some money on the table instead. Lela does not want to share a bed with her husband and prefers to sleep in her daughter’s room. This situation continues for some time until one night Lela wakes up and seizes a coil of rope. With this coil in her hand, Lela remembers all the happy and sad moments that she has had with her family – her children, Doel’s graduation, the moment she caught her husband with another woman – while the background music builds up the tension. The next morning Mas Karyo is the first to discover what has happened. His eyes wide open because of what he sees, Karyo can only murmur how terrible it is. It then appears (after the commercial break, of course) that Babe’s oplet has been hung in a tree. When Babe discovers that his car has ‘committed suicide’, as he phrases it, he furiously inquires who is responsible. Babe accuses Mas Karyo, but when he denies any involvement, Lela reveals that she did it. Yelling at her husband, who looks down in shame, Lela explains why she vented her anger in this way (DVD no. 33): Sabeni: Mandra: Lela:

Ni, mobil digantung dicopotin. Siape lagi kalo bukan ini orang? Ngaku eluh! Gue! Gue nembusin itu ban. Gue juga yang iket tu oplet ke pohon jambu. Kenape? Mare?

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Wah, wah. Gawat ni urusan, runyem jadi. Ee, minggir, minggir, minggir, minggir. […] Jangan sembarangan ame perempuan. Mentang-mentang aye diem disembarangin aje. Sabar sabar, Lela. Sabar sabar sabar. Aye kurang sabar ape sih, Bang? Eh, semut aje kalo diinjek ngegigit! Siape bilang lu semut ni? Gue sale ape sampe begitu? Sale ape, sale ape. […] Eh, masi untung ni oplet butut digantung, kagak dibakar! Sabar lu Lela, jangan begitu. Sabar, sabar. Aye kurang sabar apa si ame Abang? Sejak kite kawin, ape pernah aye brani nglawan Abang? Tapi Abang sekarang udah keliwetan, keliwetan. Sakit ati saye Bang, sakit.

(Sabeni:

Here, look at my car. It’s hanging there and parts have been re­­mo­ ved. (Looking at Mas Karyo) It must have been him who did this! Mandra: You’d better admit it. Lela: It was me (gue)! It was me who stabbed that tire. And I was also the one who tied your oplet to the jambu tree. So what? Do you have a problem with that? Mandra: This could get rough, this means trouble. Let’s get out of the way. […] Lela: Don’t treat women as you please. Just because I don’t speak up it doesn’t mean you can treat me as you please. Sabeni: Patience (sabar), Lela. Lela: Patience! Have I (aye) ever been impatient with you? Even an ant will bite if you step on it. Sabeni: Who says you’re an ant? What have I done to deserve this? Lela: What have you done! (…) Lela: Hey, you are lucky that I hung your oplet instead of burning it! Sabeni: Be patient, Lela. Lela: Be patient. Have I ever been impatient with you? Have I ever dared to contradict you since we married? But now you’ve gone too far. Too far. This hurts, this really hurts.)

In a carnivalesque performance, Lela has turned the tables. For once it is her turn to raise her voice, be angry, and use the colloquial first-person pronoun gue instead of the respectful pronoun aye when talking to her husband. Sabeni, by contrast, is left with no other option than to tone down his wife’s speech and asking her to be patient. After she has sufficiently vented her anger, Lela tempers her voice and starts using respectful language towards her husband again. With this ludicrous act, Lela shows her strength and makes clear that as a woman and a spouse, there are certain things she cannot tolerate. And with success: her husband is clearly ashamed of his behaviour and eventu-

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Figure 4.3  A characteristic facial expression for Babe Sabeni (courtesy of Karnos Film)

ally apologizes. After a while, then, the marriage is back to its former state of harmony – relatively speaking, that is, for just like a ‘genuine’ Betawi couple, Babe and Lela still have much left to quarrel about. This final example shows that while critical discourse analysts are generally concerned with language use in a non-fictive context, CDA can also be applied to mediatized language. A CDA analysis of a fictional television text can also reveal the intricate relationship between language, identity, and power. Conclusion The languagescape of Si Doel is a partial reflection of the unmediatized languagescape of Jakarta. For instance, the different ethnic and cultural backgrounds of the Si Doel characters are expressed through their linguistic idiosyncrasies. The languagescape of the serial offers viewers the illusion of reality, which they tend to appreciate. For instance, when two or more Si Doel characters of different language backgrounds meet, they generally make an

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effort to understand their interlocutor’s speech. As in unmediatized situations, they do not always succeed in their efforts, so at times linguistic confusion occurs. Linguistic confusion is often created deliberately as a means to establish a dramatic or comical effect, but sometimes it is the result of a spontaneous conversation between two or more actors. In addition, when two characters of the same language background meet, they often switch to their mother tongue, or switch codes. Other situations in which code-switching occurs is when the characters find themselves in a situation that changes from formal to non-formal or vice versa, or when speakers become emotional about the topic being discussed or with their interlocutors. In the latter case, they may also resort to using emphatic language. Moreover the languagescape of Si Doel reflects certain elements of discourse that have been reported as lacking in other televised languagescapes. Among them is the use of interjections and particles, notably in the discourse of the Betawi characters. The use of terms of address and pronouns shows that, in accordance with rules of politeness of society at large, the characters adapt their speech to the social status of their interlocutor. In extreme situations they may ignore these rules and allow themselves to be carried away by their emotions and the type of speech that comes with it, as one might do in an unmediatized situation. On the other hand, Si Doel also represents some ‘alluring’ (Arps 1992) forms of language – such as when characters suddenly start singing – that are more likely to be found in dramatic genres than in face-to-face conversations in daily life. It is the unique blend of artificiality and realseemingness that gives the languagescape of Si Doel its exceptional position within the Indonesian languagescape

CHAPTER V

From script to broadcasting

Producing the languagescape of Si Doel

Texts are constantly recycled, appearing in an endless succession of texts-abouttexts, readings of readings of readings of readings. In order to understand this process we need to be able to see it in reverse, and read texts as writings of writings of writing[s] of writings in a similarly open series of transactions, developing an archaeology of each text that links, however uneasily, with the histories of its future. (Hodge and Kress 1993:181.)

The realseemingness of the language in Si Doel is a major attraction for audiences throughout the archipelago, and viewers describe the language as ‘genuine’, ‘spontaneous’, and ‘vivid’, adding that it truly reflects ‘how the Betawi talk in daily life’. Yet the languagescape of Si Doel only partly conveys the unmediatized discourse of the inhabitants of the Indonesian capital; it is also a complex construction which takes shape over time and involves many ‘authors’. The language of Si Doel is manipulated before, during and after the shoots, and by numerous people, ranging from actors to editors. Moments in the production process where there are differences in power result in a particular kind of language use, and as Hodge and Kress (1993:159) have noted, pointing these out uncovers the ‘fossils of power preserved in linguistic amber’. Writing the script If the languagescape of Si Doel partly reflects the unmediatized discourse of the inhabitants of the capital, it is at the same time a language construction produced by Karnos Film. One major difference between the languagescape of Si Doel and unmediatized languagescapes is the temporality of both forms of communication. The monologues and dialogues in the television text are not spontaneous utterances of the characters. Rather, discourse is shaped in a time-consuming process that involves multiple authors during various stages

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of the production process. The construction of this televised languagescape starts with the writing of the script. In the span of years in which Si Doel was produced, Rano Karno wrote the scripts for all series together with various scriptwriters. There are scenarios written by Rano Karno and Ida Farida (Si Doel 1), Rano Karno and Harry Tjahyono (Si Doel 2 and 3), Rano Karno and Mas Soegeng (Si Doel 4, first six episodes), and Rano Karno and Harry Tjahyono (Si Doel 4, from episode six onwards). Rano Karno wrote the fifth series, for which in an initial phase Ida Farida had been contacted, alone. Karnos Film used a slightly different formula for the writing of the sixth series. Rano Karno discussed the plot of a certain scene with Nestor Rico Tambunan, his fellow scriptwriter. Basing himself on the conversation he had had with Rano Karno, Nestor Rico Tambunan, a scriptwriter of Batak descent, then wrote the scenario, including the characters’s dialogues. After once more discussing this version with Rano Karno, Nestor Rico Tambunan finalized it. Each scenario contains written dialogues as well as descriptions of the actions of the characters. It also describes the setting of a particular scene and the kind of atmosphere that the production team must create. Scripts furthermore provide clues for the production team as to what camera techniques to use for each take (fade out/fade in, close up, freeze, etc.). Each script contains the title of that particular episode, which is shown in bright colours at the start of the sinetron. At times, a post-script from the hand of the scriptwriter or scriptwriters ends the script. Both the descriptive passages and the instructions for the crew are written in Standard Indonesian. The dialogues of the characters, by contrast, are written so as best to resemble the daily language of the character in question. This implies that the lines of the Betawi characters are written in Jakarta/ Betawi Malay, whereas the text of the Javanese characters shows the influence of that language. The following example, in which preparations were being made to hold a selametan to celebrate Doel’s safe return from Switzerland, is illustrative: EXT/INT. FRONT TERRACE DOEL RESIDENCE – AFTERNOON The sun is becoming yellow, refracting through the foliage casting its shadow on the Doel residence. Karyo and Mandra emerge from the house, followed by Doel’s grandfather (Engkong). Engkong: Mandra: Engkong:

You two, … lift the bench … move it to the front, over there… And bring these chairs over there as well … Come on, Dad… how many people are coming anyway… Do I have to move every bloody thing? And I also haven’t eaten yet, Dad … Do you think I’ve already eaten?! Come on, lift it!

Mandra is rather lazy. Karyo is looking for compliments.

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Come on now, brother Mandraa … if an elderly person gives you orders, you’d better follow them uuup. Come on, come on… I lift this side, you lift that side! As if you’re the one who’s arranging it! Well, actually Granny is the one who’s arranging it, that’s how it is. Isn’t it, Granny? Stop talking and lift it!

Mandra and Karyo try to lift the bench. But they can’t. Mandra grumbles. Mandra: Engkong: Mandra: Engkong: Karyo: Engkong: Mandra:

It’s heavy, Dad… The two of us can’t do it …. You’re only making excuses! Try using your inner power! My, it’s heavyyyyyy! Where is Doel? Doooeeeeeel. Well, that guy is really upsetting me. I have to help him when he needs it! But if I need anything, he doesn’t help me at all. Stop complaining…. Lift it! Yes, Brother Mandra… please don’t be selfish. (Jv. mbregudul) Shut up! Mbregudul, what the heck is mbregudul? Dooeel… Dooeelll…..

Doel in-frame. Doel: Mandra: Doel:

What’s up, Brother… What’s up, what’s up… give us a hand! This happens to be your party! So stop sleeping…. Who’s sleeping? I was helping Atun.1

1 0.1 EXT/INT. TERAS DEPAN RUMAH DOEL – SORE / Matahari sudah mulai menguning membias dari dedaunan yang meneduhi rumah Doel. Karyo dan Mandra keluar dari dalam rumah diikuti Engkong di belakangnya. / Engkong: Lu bedua, … angkat tuh bale,… pindahin ke depan sono…Kursi juga lu angkat sono… / Mandra: Ya’ila Be… emangnye yang dateng berape orang sih…, pake semua-mua diminggirin… Lagian aye belon makan nih Be… / Engkong: Emang lu kira gua udah makan?! Ayo angkat ! / Mandra rada males. Karyo nyari muka. / Karyo: Ayo to Mas Mandraa [sic] …, kalo disuruh orang tua mbok ya nuruut [sic]. Ayo, ayo…, saya angkat sini, kamu angkat sebelah sana! / Mandra: Sok ngatur lu! / Karyo: Lho…, lha yang ngatur Engkong gitu lho…. Ya kong [sic] ya? / Engkong: Udah lu jangan ngikut nomong…, angkaaat! [sic] / Mandra dan Karyo mencoba mengangkat bale. Nggak kuat. Mandra ngedumel. / Mandra: Berat ini, Be…. Berdua nggak kuaat [sic]…. / Engkong: Alesan aje lu! Pake tenage dalem lu, dong! / Mandra: Ah.., beraaat [sic]! Si Doel mana, sih. Duuuuuul! Enak aja tuh anak! Giliran keperluan die aja gua suruh bantuin! Giliran keperluan gua kagak dibantuin sekali. / Engkong: Udah lu jangan ngomel…. Angkat! / Karyo : Iya lho, Mas Mandra…, mbok ya jangan mbreguduuul… / Engkong: Diem lu! Mbregudul, mbregudul apaan lu…. / Mandra: Duuuuul… duulll….. / Doel in-frame. / Doel: Apaan sih bang… / Mandra: Apaan, apaan…, bantuin! Ni kan slametan elu! Enak aja lu molor…. / Doel: Siape yang molor, sih? Orang gua bantuin si Atun. The quoted excerpt was taken from the script Meniti batas mimpi (‘Exploring the borders of a dream’), which was written as episode 8 of Si Doel 4, but was eventually broadcast on 6 June 1998 as episode 7 under the title Di sini ragu, di sana rindu (‘Doubt here, desire there’).

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It is remarkable that Mandra’s written dialogue displays features of Urban Jakarta Malay, such as the incidence of word-final /e/, whereas this character is actually known for his use of Rural Jakarta Malay. The example illustrates that information about how certain sentences are to be uttered is also included in the script. The length of certain words and the tone in which they are to be spoken, for instance, are indicated by the extra vowels that have been added to the specific word. Rano Karno instructed subsequent scriptwriters of Si Doel not to let their own language background interfere with the dialogues of the characters. He also made sure that they understood that the scripted dialogues should be suitable for ‘televisualization’. It was not sufficient for a dialogue to look good on paper; rather, the scriptwriter had to keep in mind that this dialogue was going to be articulated in front of the camera. Rano Karno considered Harry Tjahyono, who was in charge of the scripts during three subsequent series of episodes (Si Doel 2, 3, and 4), a veritable master in this art.2 Harry Tjahyono was born in Madiun, East Java, and lived in Yogyakarta, Central Java for a long time. At the time of scripting Si Doel, he was living in Jakarta, where he ran the magazines Tabloid and Bintang, and wrote short stories and novels. This background and his sensitivity for language proved valuable once Harry Tjahyono came to assist Rano Karno in writing the scripts for Si Doel. One member of the production team praised Harry Tjahyono for his ability ‘to write scripts that already make you laugh or move you when you read them, let alone when they are performed’.3 Ida Farida, who scripted the first series of Si Doel, claimed that Benyamin S. liked her dialogues better.4 While crew and actors considered the dialogues that Harry Tjahyono wrote to be humorous, they seldom survived the first take unscathed. Several crew members explained to me that this was because his scripts created the right atmosphere for actors to improvise. The scripted scene mentioned above, for instance, was eventually rendered as follows: Engkong emerges from the house and inspects the front terrace. Engkong: Karyo: Engkong:

At what time do the guests arrive? Is it tidy yet? Karyo! Mandra! Yes, Granny. Come here!

Mandra and Karyo emerge running from the house. 2

Interview with Rano Karno, 19 January 1998. ‘[M]enulis skenario yang … dari skenario aja udah bisa ketawa, bisa terharu, apalagi kalau dimainkan.’ Personal communication with clapboard assistant Ida Kartikawati during the shootings of Si Doel 4, 20 January 1998. 4 Interview with Ida Farida, 17 March 1999. 3

V From script to broadcasting Engkong: Karyo: Engkong: Mandra: Engkong: Mandra: Karyo: Engkong: Karyo: Engkong: Mandra: Karyo: Engkong:

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My my, you don’t have to come running when I call you. Are we doing the wrong thing again? No, you’re not. Hey, you two, lift that bench, bring it to the front! Come on, Dad, what do you want to do, and how many guests are coming anyway? Do I have to lift every bloody thing? It doesn’t matter how many people are coming. If I say that you have to lift it, you will lift it! I don’t have strength yet; you see I haven’t eaten yet. Don’t (aja, Jv.) contradict him! I also haven’t eaten yet, now do it! Lift it, lift it, right Granny? Which one, Granny? This one here! That’s what you’re good at huh, looking for compliments. As if you’re the one who’s arranging it! Well, actually Granny is the one who’s arranging it, aren’t you, Granny? Yes, I’m arranging it.

Karyo points to a chair at the front terrace. Karyo: Engkong: Karyo: Mandra:

This one, right, Granny, and where do I put it? Bring it to the front! It’s light (enteng, Jv.), it’s really light. Hey Doel, stop sleeping, give us a hand; it’s for your friends!

Doel emerges from the house with a broom in his hand. Doel:

Who says I’m sleeping? I’m busy sweeping the floor!5

In the speech of the characters during the shoots, compared with the scripted dialogues, a slight transformation has taken place: the characters convey the basic meaning of the scripted language, but use different words to do so. Engkong’s confusion around the Javanese word mbregudul, for instance, is lost 5

Enkong emerges from the house and inspects the front terrace. / Engkong: Tamu dateng jam berapa? Rapi apa? Karyo! Mandra! / Karyo: Iye, Kong. / Engkong: Sini! / Mandra and Karyo emerge running from the house. / Engkong: Duh, kalau dipanggil kagak perlu lari-lari. / Karyo: Salah lagi? / Engkong: Bukan salah. Ee, lu-lu bedua angkat ni bangku, bawa depan! / Mandra: Ya ampun, emang Babe mau ngapain sih, lagi tetamunya berapa orang sih bahwa semuanya mau diangkat-angkatin semua? / Engkong: Ya mau berapa orang kek, kalau gue bilang angkat, angkat! / Mandra: Tenaganya belon ada, pan gua belon makan. / Karyo: Lho, aja… jangan bantah! Engkong: Gue juga belon makan. Sana! / Karyo: Angkat, angkat ya Kong, ya. Yang mana, Kong? / Engkong: Ini nih! / Mandra: Paling bisa lu nyari muka, paling bisa. Sok ngatur lu! / Karyo: Yang ngatur tu siapa? Kong gitu ya Kong, ya? / Engkong: Ya, Engkong yang ngatur. / Karyo: Ini ya, Kong, taruhnya di mana? / Engkong: Bawa depan! / Karyo: Enteng, lho, enteng. / Mandra: He Doel, jangan molor aja lu, bantuin nih, ini buat sahabat lu! / Doel emerges from the house with a broom in his hand. / Doel: Siapa yang molor, sih? Orang lagi nyapu!

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in the final dialogue, but the Javanese character Mas Karyo still intersperses his Jakarta Malay with other words from his native language. In addition, Mandra adapts the UJM sentences to suit his native language variety, RJM. Moreover, Mandra and Karyo run to Engkong Ali when he calls them, whereas the script has all three characters emerge together. The idea that Mandra and Mas Karyo emerged running from the house rather than walking came from actor Basuki, who suggested to Rano Karno that this would make the scene more dynamic and the producer agreed. Such relatively small transformations in the process from script to performance are characteristic for virtually all scenes in Si Doel that feature actors with a background in traditional theatre. Repeatedly, however, the characters changed their scripted dialogues more substantially. Notably Basuki, performer of Mas Karyo, and, to a lesser extent, Mandra, were famous for their spontaneous digressions. At times, this resulted in takes having to be shot again, as fellow actors or members of the crew burst into laughter during their performance. The person who replaced Harry Tjahyono during the first six episodes of Si Doel 4 was considered less successful at writing vivid dialogues. According to the producer, this was because he did not know the characters of Si Doel well enough to immerse himself in them. His dialogues felt ‘flat’ and the words failed to stimulate the actors to improvise. This was one of the reasons why the shoots of the first episodes of Si Doel IV did not run smoothly.6 Performing the script Like the television text, the languagescape of Si Doel is not a ‘self-evident unity’, but ‘a relatively accidental site that marks where a series of discursive processes have briefly collided’ (Hodge and Kress 1993:181). The various uses of the script are among such discursive processes. As a rule, the script was finished at least one or two days before shoots were about to take place. During the shoots of Si Doel that I attended, some scripts were distributed only hours before that particular script was to be shot. Scripts were distributed among both actors and crew members. While the actors obviously used the script to read the story and memorize their lines, members of the production team read the script to prepare the shoots in other ways. Crew members for instance used the scenario for instructions about the location where shoots were to take place and the kind of shots the director preferred. The crew used both the script and the flow of scenes to make decisions about lighting and the order in which scenes were to be recorded. Before the actual shoots began, scripts were used to determine the best position for camera and microphone. Several positions for the recording equip6

Interview with Rano Karno, 19 January 1998.

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ment were tried by having stand-ins read the scripted lines; this they would do as a rule in a soft, monotonous voice. Only after the crew had determined the right position from which to shoot a certain scene were the actors asked to make their appearance. Karnos Film normally worked with one single camera, which meant that most scenes had to be recorded several times, first using a long shot to capture the setting in which characters performed, and then close-ups to highlight the faces of the characters. For the close-ups, the actors involved in these scenes were called one by one to perform their part of the dialogue. Meanwhile, members of the crew would read aloud the lines of the other actors from the script. In this way, a natural dialogue could be produced without having to ask major actors to repeat their lines. This particular use of the script underlines the artificiality of the languagescape of Si Doel. Some dialogues are mediatized without any actual communication taking place between the characters who are involved in the dialogues. The Si Doel actors used the script as they pleased. Both Cornelia Agatha (Sarah), whose background was in television, and Maudy Koesnaedy (Zaenab) memorized their lines quite literally. But whereas Cornelia played someone of her own background (a member of the Jakarta elite), Maudy played a traditional Betawi village girl. More familiar with the culture and language of West Java – both her late father and her mother were Sundanese – Maudy nevertheless claimed that she had no difficulties producing the speech of her character Zaenab. The actress explained that first she would try to stay close to the scripted dialogues, and when she had to improvise she would rely on her daily life experience with Betawi Malay. As Maudy explained, she was born and raised in Jakarta and had many Betawi friends. Maudy trusted that if she made a language mistake during the shoots, the Betawi members of the production team or one of her Betawi colleagues would correct her. While attending the shoots of Si Doel, I repeatedly witnessed how this ‘correction mechanism’ functioned. For example it occurred during the shoots of the wedding ceremony of Atun and Karyo for Si Doel 5. On this occasion, Zaenab was the master of ceremony. Because he had had too little time, Rano Karno had only scripted an outline for this episode, and Maudy was therefore expected to improvise her lines. In her role of Zaenab, Maudy was to invite the wedding guests to congratulate the bride and groom. In so doing, she used the phrase selametin (‘please congratulate them’), which for its suffix -in sounded sufficiently Betawi to her. Several bystanders considered this expression incorrect and protested. Eventually Mandra interrupted the shoot and suggested that Maudy use another sentence. The phrase he proposed was coba kasih selamet

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deh (‘go ahead, give [them] your blessings’). Mandra was convinced that native Betawi would use such a phrase on this occasion.7 Aminah Cendrakasih, the actor playing Doel’s mother, explained that she normally read the script twice. First at home, where she carefully read the whole story, and then on the set, where she reread the lines of her character Nyak Lela. Aminah’s view on the language of her character was similar to that of Maudy. Although she was an ethnic Javanese, Aminah had been living in Jakarta since her childhood, so she considered herself quite competent in rendering her character’s native language realistically. When in doubt about how to say something ‘the Betawi way’ (cara Betawi), she would not hesitate to consult Mandra, who was a native speaker.8 Despite his background in the unscripted theatre genres lenong and topeng, Mandra too claimed to memorize the lines of the script. During the shoots, however, I often witnessed the actor improvising on his text, as he would do when playing in a lenong or topeng performance. The dialogue that Mandra, Engkong, and Mas Karyo have whilst preparing the selametan for Doel is illustrative of this matter. This dialogue also demonstrates the improvisational talent of the late hajji Tile. The actor playing Engkong confronted the production team with yet another challenge, as he was illiterate and therefore could not read the script. To make it possible for him to memorize his text, a member of the production team would record his lines on audiocassette. By listening to the tape, hajji Tile was able to practise his lines at home and learn his text by heart.9 Alternatively, the producer or a prompter told the actor what to say during the shoots, in which case he had to rely on his improvisational qualities. At times, this interference of other people with Engkong Ali’s speech produced interesting forms of language. For instance, in the serial Doel’s grandfather alternated between the first person pronouns gua and gue. As a native speaker of Rural Jakarta Malay, hajji Tile in his unmediatized contacts used the personal pronoun gua rather than gue, but in the sinetron he often used the urban variety gue (see DVD no. 23). According to Mandra, this was partly because of the person who prompted hajji Tile during the shoots. Sometimes this person was a native speaker of Jakarta Malay, but that depended on which crew member was available for prompting during the shoots of a particular episode. The prompter was sometimes unaware of the difference between gua and gue; hence while reading the scenario to hajji Tile, he or she might use the two at random. Imitating the prompter who read him his 7

Conversations with Mandra and Maudy Koesnaedy on the set of Si Doel, 2 June 2000. This episode, entitled Kawinan (‘Marrying’), was broadcast on 4 September 2000. DVD no. 42 contains a compilation of the production process of this episode. 8 Conversation with Aminah Cendrakasih on the set of Si Doel, 2 June 2000. 9 Conversation at the set of Si Doel with H. Tile, 10 January 1998.

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scripted dialogues, hajji Tile would automatically repeat this term instead of the word form that he would have chosen in an unmediatized situation.10 It is also apparent from the scripts that Rano Karno and Harry Tjahyono were rather insensitive towards the difference between the two subdialects, as the scripted dialogue for Pak Tile often had gue instead of gua. Improvisation Rano Karno believed that the improvisation talent of some major actors greatly increased the verisimilitude of the languagescape of Si Doel. Though Si Doel made use of scripted monologues and dialogues, particularly actors with a background in traditional theatre were inclined to improvise on their text. Such was the case with Mandra and Engkong, the Betawi actors that had a background in lenong or topeng, and with Basuki, whose roots were in the Javanese Srimulat theatre. As can be expected, other Si Doel actors with a background in traditional theatre relied on improvisation as well. Among them was Pak Bendot, the actor playing Karyo’s father-in-law (called Pak Bendot as well; Figure 5.1). Pak Bendot explained that he found it difficult to memorize his lines, as he was used to improvising his text on the basis of a one-sentence instruction. In a ketoprak or Srimulat performance, his brief might for instance be: ‘A person comes to your house to propose to your daughter. You behave as if you don’t understand his request’. According to Pak Bendot, such a simple instruction could result in a ten-minute dialogue. Admitting that he was not used to memorizing a dialogue that was written out sentence for sentence, Pak Bendot explained that sometimes ‘the words would come out all wrong’. He believed, however, that Rano Karno understood this – at least the director, whom he often referred to by the name of his character Doel, often encouraged him to improvise in his native language: PB:

KL: PB: 10

And sometimes, I am even instructed, so that it is visible that I am not a Betawi, like that … so Doel [says] ‘just act like you do in Srimulat’ (Srimulatan saja) and with that he means that I may do it in Javanese, like that. In Srimulat [language use] is free, right, it’s all improvisation, that’s it. Therefore, what Doel… what Rano means is: ‘Just [improvise]’. And do you like that better? Oh yes!11

Conversation at the set of Si Doel with Mandra, 2 June 2000. PB: ‘Itu kadang-kadang saya itu malah disuruh, supaya kelihatan kalau ini bukan orang Betawi begitu… sama si Doel itu … jadi, ‘Srimulatan saja’. Itu maksudnya ‘Jawaan saja’, gitu. Kalau di Srimulat kan bebas, improv semua, nah itu. Jadi maksud si Doel itu… maksud Rano itu: 11

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Whereas Pak Bendot still tried to stay close to his scripted lines, Basuki, the actor playing Mas Karyo, admitted that his background in Srimulat theatre had made him quite insensitive to scripts. Basuki claimed to have hardly ever read a scenario of Si Doel. Instead, upon leaving for the location of the shoot (a onehour drive), he would ask his assistant – like all major Si Doel artists, Basuki had a personal assistant – to fill him in on matters such as the episode that was about to be recorded and the dialogues that he, as Mas Karyo, was to utter. His assistant then read him his lines to give him a basic idea about his text, but during the shootings Karyo would mainly rely on his improvisational qualities.12 Pak Bendot, who compared his language use in the sinetron to that of Basuki (whom he referred to by the name of his character Karyo), noted the same: PB:

Karyo uses a great deal of Javanese, Karyo uses more Javanese than I do. My speech follows the script, except for one or two words, but Karyo uses a lot of Javanese. But they already trust him, you see. I still have to be careful, but Karyo has been set free, he is in a really good position, [whereas] I try to use the national language, as the script requires. My improvisation is still restricted, I only improvise when I am forced to, if I am having a difficult time, if I really don’t remember, only then do I improvise. As long as I remember, well, I use the national language.13

Asked for his view on language use in Si Doel, director Rano Karno explained that he never instructed his actors as to which language to use. As all actors were aware that Si Doel represented several ethnicities, he expected them to make an effort to perform the language of their character as well as they could. Karno acknowledged that he allowed and at times even encouraged the actors, particularly those who had already proven their improvisational skills, to play with their text. He saw to it, however, that the nucleus of the scripted dialogues was conveyed. The director was also aware that various actors played characters whose language background was different from their own native language (see Table 5.1). Whereas some actors, such as the late Benyamin S. and Mandra, used their native language during the production of Si Doel, others had to use a language or dialect of which they were not themselves native speakers. For instance, some of the Betawi characters ‘Bebas aja’. / KL: ‘Dan Pak Bendot lebih suka itu?’ / PB: ‘Iya ya ya’. Interview with Pak Bendot, 2 June 2000. 12 Conversation at the set of Si Doel with Basuki, 2 June 2000. 13 ‘Karyo kan banyak bahasa Jawanya, lebih banyak Karyo daripada saya. Saya masih menyesuaikan skenario kalau saya, kecuali satu dua kata saja, tapi kalau Karyo buanyak buanget … tapi dia sudah dipercaya sih. Kalau saya masih mesti hati-hati, kalau Karyo dibebasin, sudah enak sekali, kalau bisa saya ya nasional sesuai skenario. Improv masih terbatas. Kalau terpaksa… sulit bener, saya nggak hapal-hapal, baru improv. Tapi kalau hapal, ya nasional.’ Interview with Pak Bendot, 2 June 2000.

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were played by non-Betawi actors. Rano Karno, the actor playing the main character Doel, was born in Jakarta but was not a native Betawi. In addition, Aminah Cendrakasih, who played the Betawi Lela was an ethnic Javanese, while Maudy Koesnaedy, whose roots were Sundanese, played the Betawi Zaenab. The opposite also happened: both the Batak character Edi and the Sundanese character Mamang were played by two Betawi actors. Both actors, Edi ‘Oglek’ (the actor playing Edi) and Acir (the actor playing Mamang), had a background in traditional Betawi theatre. Meanwhile Adam ‘Stardust’, who played Sarah’s cousin Hans, a speaker of SJI, was a native Malaysian. H. Salman Alfarizi, the actor playing the Chinese character A Hong, was a peranakan Chinese. He had some knowledge of the language of his ancestors, but his native language was Indonesian. Editing the languagescape of Si Doel At this final stage of production the script serves yet a different function. Particularly during the off-line editing phase, the editor uses the script as a mnemonic: whereas all images and sound strips bear a time code, the script is used to follow the main thread of the narrative. In addition, during the process of on-line editing the editors sometimes read the scenario to get inspiration. They may do so for instance when they have to cut certain scenes or dialogues. The editors may then use the script in order to ensure that they capture the main idea of the dialogue or scene. They are also to ensure that the flow of the dialogue is not interrupted. Though there are many ways in which crew members and actors made an effort to create ‘realistic’ language during the production process of Si Doel, the addition of subtitles and other graphics during the final production stage disturbs this illusion of reality and highlights a major difference between the languagescape of Si Doel and that of unmediatized Jakarta. By cutting dialogues and adding subtitles, the editors establish themselves as important co-authors of the languagescape of Si Doel, adding yet another layer to Hodge and Kress’s notion of multiple authorship. Graphics Graphics occur mainly at the start and ending of the sinetron. During the opening sequence of Si Doel, credit titles, which introduce the production company and its actors, complement the title song (DVD no. 1). Editor Tony Siswanto, who designed the credit titles after Rano Karno’s idea, indicates that the use of Jakarta Malay was not intended to emphasize the Betawi background of the sinetron; rather, the titles were designed to be both funny and

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different from the credit titles of other sinetron.14 Nevertheless, these graphics strengthen the Betawi atmosphere of the serial, because except for the introductory phrase Karnos Film mempersembahkan (‘Karnos Film presents’), which is in Standard Indonesian, the opening and closing titles all use Jakarta Malay. For instance, the credit titles have JM nulis instead of SI menulis, ‘to write’, as well as JM ngedandanin instead of SI mendandani, ‘to dress someone’. From a socio-linguistic point of view, the use of Jakarta Malay in the credit titles is not entirely consistent though. For instance, the opening titles render the relative pronoun (‘which, who’) once in its JM form nyang (nyang nulis cerita, ‘the scriptwriter’), whereas the remaining relative pronouns are rendered as Standard Indonesian yang (yang ngejagain kamera, ‘the cameraman’; yang nyambungin gambar, ‘the editor’). In the closing titles too, the JM form nyang is used only once (nyang ngedukung, ‘those who supported us’). The occurrence of both the Indonesian form semakin (‘increasingly, the more’) and its JM counterpart semangkin in one of the opening titles that precede an episode of Si Doel also illustrates this casual attitude towards JM (DVD no. 28). The opening title reads Semakin tue, semangkin manje (‘The older one gets, the more spoiled one becomes’). In addition, the correspondences with Standard Indonesian word-final /a/ are sometimes rendered as /e/ (produser ame sutradare, ‘producer and director’), sometimes as /a/ (cerita, ‘story’). Whereas in the 14

Conversation with Tony Siswanto in the editing room of Karnos Film, 22 August 2002.

Figure 5.1 Pak Bendot reads the script during the shoots of Si Doel 5

Table 5.1 Ethnic and linguistic background of main Si Doel actors and characters Character

Actor

Native language of character

Native language of actor*

Ethnic background of

Ethnic affiliation of actor**

character Babe Sabeni

Nyak Lela

(the late) H.

Urban Jakarta

Urban Jakarta

Benyamin S.

Malay

Malay

Hj. Aminah

Urban Jakarta

Indonesian,

Cendrakasih

Malay

Javanese and

Betawi

Betawi

Betawi

Indonesia

Betawi

Betawi

Betawi

Betawi

Betawi

Indonesia and

Jakarta Malay Engkong Ali Mandra Doel

Atun

Sarah

(the late) H.

Rural Jakarta

Rural Jakarta

Tile

Malay

Malay

Mandra

Rural Jakarta

Rural Jakarta

Malay

Malay

Modern Jakarta

Indonesian and

Malay

Jakarta Malay

Modern Jakarta

Indonesian and

Malay

Jakarta Malay

Cornelia

Spoken Jakarta

Indonesian and

Agatha

Indonesian

Spoken Jakarta

Rano Karno

Suty Karno

Jakarta Betawi

Jakarta

Jakarta

Jakarta

Betawi

Sunda and

Indonesian Zaenab Mas Karyo

Maudy

Modern Jakarta

Indonesian and

Koesnaedy

Malay

Sundanese

Basuki

Javanese

Indonesian and

Jakarta Java 

Java, Solo

Javanese Kang Mamang

Acir

Sundanese

Jakarta Malay

West Java

Betawi

Bung Edi

Edi Oglek

Batak

Jakarta Malay

North Sumatra

Betawi

Engkoh A

H. Salman

Mandarin

Indonesian

Taiwan

Indonesia

Hong

Alfarizi

Chinese

and Mandarin Chinese

* This category mentions the major native languages of the actors as I experienced them during my fieldwork. As I have not been able to observe carefully the language behaviour of all actors, this column must be read with some caution. Its main purpose is to illustrate that often the native languages of actors and those of their respective characters do not coincide. ** I give the ethnic ‘label’ that the actors themselves used when I asked them to which ethnic group or geographic entity they felt they belonged. Even though Benyamin S. had already passed away when I first attended the shoots of Si Doel, his affiliation with the Betawi community is obvious from other sources.

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various subvarieties of Jakarta Malay a mixed vocabulary with both wordfinal /a/ and /e/ does occur, the credit titles do not display the ‘correct’ mixture. If the credit titles were meant to represent Traditional Jakarta Malay, for instance, the noun cerita (‘story’) should have been rendered as cerite. If they were meant to represent Modern Jakarta Malay, on the other hand, the noun sutradare (‘director’) should have been rendered as sutradara. Clearly there is ample suggestion that Karnos Film is here exploiting the entertainment function of Jakarta Malay rather than trying to represent it accurately. .

Subtitles The use of subtitles must be viewed in a similar way. As a rule, the editors subtitle all dialogues or monologues that are uttered in a language other than Standard Indonesian, Spoken Jakarta Indonesian, or Jakarta/Betawi Malay. Hence both the Chinese dialogue between Hans and Koh A Hong (DVD no. 10), Mas Karyo’s Javanese monologue of (DVD no. 35), and the Javanese quarrel between Mas Karyo and his wife Sofia (DVD no. 36) are subtitled. Interestingly, these subtitles are rendered in Jakarta Malay rather than Standard Indonesian, as one might expect considering that the serial is broadcast to a nationwide audience. In addition, I once even encountered a scene in Si Doel that was subtitled in English. Rano Karno explains that he chose to subtitle Si Doel in Jakarta Malay because, once again, he wanted his production to stand out from other sinetron. Besides, using Jakarta Malay obviously suits the story of Si Doel, which portrayed the inhabitants of Jakarta.15 Nonetheless, like the other graphics, the subtitles too use a type of language that native speakers of JM would probably frown upon. For instance, Mas Karyo and his wife Sofia quarrel because he was not home to welcome his wife when she arrived in Jakarta (DVD no. 36). In response to this, Mas Karyo defends himself as follows: Karyo: Aku ya ra ngerti nek kowe arep teka. Suk meneh nek arep teka, kirim layang. SUB Aye kaga’ tahu kalo elo mau dateng, besok lagi kalo mau dateng, kirim surat. (Karyo:

I didn’t know that you were coming, did I? Next time you want to come, send me a letter.)

Karnos Film subtitled the Javanese dialogue between Mas Karyo and his wife into Jakarta Malay. This subtitled dialogue merits attention for the fact that Karyo employs the personal pronoun aye (‘I’, formal) and the personal pronoun lu (‘you’, colloquial (here rendered as elo)) in one sentence. In unscripted 15

Interview with Rano Karno, 19 January 1998.

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discourse, using both terms at once while addressing the same person would be highly improbable. Besides, it would be unusual for a husband to use the polite personal pronoun aye (‘I’) in conversations with his wife. A more ‘correct’ translation would therefore have the Javanese pronoun aku translated as gue instead of aye. According to Mas Tony, who produced most subtitles, viewers do not care whether the subtitles are an exact rendering of the spoken monologues or dialogues. In his view, they merely consider the subtitles as a helpful tool by means of which to understand the essence of what is being said. For Mas Tony, a rough translation of the speech that the characters utter therefore suffices. Incidentally, the editor, who was born and raised in Jakarta, is a neither native speaker of Betawi Malay nor of Javanese. His native language is Modern Jakarta Malay.16 The reason for the remarkable use of Jakarta Malay in the graphics and subtitles of Si Doel is that the graphics were merely created ‘for fun’, whereas the subtitles were provided as an extra service to viewers. Director Rano Karno indeed heartily admits that during the production of Si Doel it is the creation of a Betawi atmosphere rather than an accurate representation of the language and culture of the Betawi community that he aims for. Acknowledging that the languagescape of Si Doel displays a mixture of Jakarta Malay varieties – a mixture he jokingly refers to as Betawi Absurd (‘Absurd Betawi (Malay)’) – the producer nonetheless uses his artistic license to represent the orang Betawi, including their language, in a way that suits him. The multimodality of the television text Si Doel Yet another difference between unmediatized and mediatized languagescapes relates to their use of various semiotic modalities. Though both television discourse and unmediatized discourse are multimodal (in that they combine different semiotic modes, such as sound, music, gesture, and language) and multimedial (in that they address multiple senses) (Kress and Van Leeuwen 2001:67), multimodality and multimediality manifest themselves differently in both forms of communication. Exploring the languagescape of Si Doel for its multimodality links this analysis to social semiotics, the approach to CDA that studies language in relation to other modes of discourse (Hodge and Kress 1993:209). Social semiotics is particularly interested in the construction, interpretation, and circulation of signs in their wider societal and political context (Hodge and Kress 1993:158-9). Social semiotics evolved from semiotics, the study of signs and the ways in which signs generate meaning. Signs ‘signify’ or stand for something else; 16

Conversation with Tony Siswanto in the editing room of Karnos Film, 22 August 2002.

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they are created when objects, sounds, or images are invested with meaning. It is through signs that people interpret and give meaning to the world around them (Rowe 1995). The Swiss linguist Ferdinand de Saussure laid the foundation for semiotics (or semiology, as he referred to it) in his famous Course in general linguistics (1986). Saussure divides the linguistic sign into the signifier (the element that one perceives), and the signified (the idea or feeling that it provokes). He argues that the relationship between signifier and signified, and between sign and referent, is arbitrary. Meaning is produced through relations of difference, through combination and selection, and through cultural and historical convention (de Saussure 1986). Adapting this model to cover expressions of popular culture rather than language, the semiotician Roland Barthes adds another level to Saussure’s schema. Interested in processes of signification, or the ways in which meanings are produced and disseminated (Storey 2001:64). Barthes introduces his notion of a second-order semiological system and argues that the sign on the primary level of signification (or denotation) becomes the signifier on the second level of signification (or connotation), producing signifieds on a higher, ideological level (Barthes 2000:114-5). Barthes (2000:143) uses his model to critically address the political assumptions underlying texts and images, pointing out how signs are constructed to naturalize historical contingencies, such as ‘French imperiality’. Post-structuralists, chief among them Jacques Derrida, propose that every signified in fact only generates meaning in relation to other signifiers. Rather than producing signifieds, signifiers therefore only produce more signifiers. Derrida rejects the idea that meaning is generated by underlying structures, as Saussure and structuralists such as Barthes would have it. He argues that meaning cannot be fixed; it can only be momentarily arrested (Derrida 1976). Closure of meaning can only take place when words and phrases are ‘located in a discourse and read in a context’ (Storey 2001:73). While the theoretical debate on the sign is important for the insights it provides on the production of meaning, the semiotic framework proposed below is mainly concerned with the relationship between linguistic and non-linguistic signifiers (defined here as the material form of the sign) in the television text. Scholars of media and popular culture have examined the interaction between different signifiers in specific texts at some length. Writing in the early sixties, Barthes’ (1977) assessment of the relationship between linguistic text and photographic or filmic image is a pioneering study. Barthes also notes the changed relationship between text and image. Images are no longer used to simply illustrate the text; rather, the language surrounding the image significantly alters or determines its meaning (Barthes 1977:26). Television scholars emphasize the importance of studying television language within its signifying context. Marshall and Werndly (2002:27) for instance declare

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that the meaning of television texts is produced through a mixture of ‘language – mainly spoken – and visual signification’. Critical discourse analysts argue that one should examine how ‘other semiotic modalities interact with language in producing meanings, and how such interactions define different aesthetics for different media’ (Fairclough 1995:38). Until fairly recently, few scholars examined in detail how these different semiotic modalities interrelate in the case of television. The semiotician Christian Metz (1974:16), in his groundbreaking work on language and cinema, distinguished ‘five signifying codes’ in cinematic discourse, namely ‘the visual image, the musical sound, the verbal sounds of speech, sound effects, and the graphic form of credits’. Though these signifying codes are certainly important elements of cinematic discourse, such a classification fails to unravel the intricate relationship between for instance subtitles (which Metz would classify in the category of ‘the graphic form of credits’) and the speech of the characters (which would be classified in the category of ‘the verbal sounds of speech’). With the development of academic disciplines such as social semiotics, research on the multimodality and multimediality of media texts has increased significantly. Kress and Van Leeuwen (2001) for instance are concerned with developing a multimodal theory of communication. While Kress and Van Leeuwen provide a general framework for understanding multimodal communication, here the multimodality of Si Doel is examined to show how issues of power seep into the language of television. The framework that is proposed here involves eight semiotic modalities, each encompassing three ‘discursive channels’, as I will term them. Each channel in turn takes one of two possible values. Hence I distinguish the channel of communication (which is either sonic or visual), the discursive value of the signifier (which is linguistic or non-linguistic), and the relationship of the signifier with the story (this relationship is either diegetic or non-diegetic). Channel of communication In the case of television, the channel of communication is either sonic or visual. The sonic channel (or ‘soundscape’) of the sinetron Si Doel consists of the monologues and dialogues that the characters produce, as well as the music that accompanies the television serial. Other examples are the call for prayer (azan) or the sound of the running motor of the oplet. The visual channel (or ‘imagescape’), by contrast, comprises all the information that is presented visually to the viewers. By nature – the visual channel of the sinetron is virtually always present – all images depicting scenes in Si Doel belong to this category. Subtitles and other graphics, icons, and fade-to-blacks contain valuable information on power differences in the relationship between broadcaster and audience.

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Discursive value Each signifier may or may not contain a language component. Music without lyrics is an obvious example of a non-linguistic signifier, as are silent gestures by the characters. I call these signifiers non-linguistic, as they generate meaning without resorting to language. The sound of the running motor of the oplet is non-linguistic, as is the singing of Mas Karyo’s birds. The fadeto-black preceding and following a commercial block or in-between scenes is also non-linguistic. Linguistic signifiers, those sounds and images that, partly or wholly, generate meaning through language, are for instance the dialogues and monologues of the characters and the lyrics of the title song, the subtitles and additional graphics such as the opening title, the closing remark, and the credit title. The plate with the Arabic inscription ‘Allah’, which Babe Sabeni places in the ridge of the house as a symbol of the family’s religious devotion, is a linguistic signifier too, and so is the azan, which is chanted in Arabic. While signifiers that belong to the linguistic imagescape (for example, subtitles) are less frequently encountered than their sonic counterparts (for example, dialogues) they may provide significant information on the ways in which production houses and broadcasters construct their audiences. Relation to story A signifier is moreover either diegetic or non-diegetic: it is part of the story that is narrated, or it is not. In relation to film and, by extension, television, diegesis is taken to mean ‘events that are presumed to have occurred and actions and spaces not shown on screen’ (Bordwell and Thompson 1993:493). Accordingly, diegetic sound is any ‘voice, musical passage, or sound effect presented as originating from a source within the film’s world’, while non-diegetic sound is described as ‘sound […] represented as coming from a source outside the space of the narrative’ (Bordwell and Thompson 1993:493, 495). A diegetic signifier is thus part of the actual narrative, in this case the sinetron Si Doel. All actions by the characters as well as the speeches they utter are diegetic. Although the sound of the azan is not recorded directly during the shoots – it is added later by one of the editors – the sound is presented as if it originates from the story world, namely a mosque near the premises of the Sabeni family; hence it also belongs to the diegetic soundscape. Another example of a diegetic signifier is the religious plate placed in the ridge of the house, for the characters can see it. By contrast, non-diegetic signifiers are those elements which are extraneous to the story world and which cannot be heard or read by the characters. The running text, or ‘scroll’, which is sometimes shown at the bottom of the television screen during Si Doel, and the logo of broadcaster RCTI (or from the fifth series of episodes onwards, its competitor Indosiar) at the upper right or left corner of

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the television screen are examples in this category. On a higher level, the commercial blocks that frequently interrupt the narrative of Si Doel are non-diegetic inserts. The subtitles that translate the speech of the characters when this is not Jakarta Malay, Standard Indonesian, or Spoken Jakarta Indonesian also belong to this category, as they are beyond the characters’ perception. However, subtitles may actually also be considered semi-diegetic: while the characters cannot see them, they represent part of the diegetic speech they utter. An advantage of distinguishing diegetic from non-diegetic signifiers is that non-diegetic signifiers draw attention to moments in the television text where the production company or broadcaster explicitly intervenes. In this way, most signifiers that shape the television text can be categorized under one of the following headings (see Table 5.2): linguistic diegetic sound (for instance, speech of the characters); linguistic non-diegetic sound (the voice-over that announces the sinetron Si Doel); non-linguistic diegetic sound (the whistling of the birds of Mas Karyo); non-linguistic non-diegetic sound (mood music that accompanies the movements of the characters); linguistic diegetic image (plate with inscription ‘Allah’ in the ridge of the house of the Sabeni family); linguistic non-diegetic image (running text at the bottom of the screen (scroll) which announces another television programme); nonlinguistic diegetic image (movements of the characters); and non-linguistic non-diegetic image (fade-to-black at the end of a commercial block). Some signifiers fall between categories. As noted, the subtitles that render the diegetic speech of the characters can be considered semi-diegetic. Besides, it is not always possible to establish whether a certain sound or image is meant to be perceived by the viewer as belonging to the story world or not. Whereas the following schematic framework is less rigid than its appearance suggests, then, it is nonetheless useful for unravelling the abundance of semiotic material that the television text offers to its viewers. The Idul Fitri scene Analysing the use of different semiotic modalities deepens one’s understanding of the television text and its production process. Here I examine the use of the eight semiotic modalities at one particular moment in the television text (DVD no. 37). The excerpt under scrutiny is the prologue to a stand-alone episode of the sinetron, which was produced for the occasion of Idul Fitri, the end of the fasting month of Ramadan. This episode was broadcast on 5 March 1995 in between regular screenings of Si Doel 2. This reading activates the semiotic framework proposed above in order to reveal some particularities of the languagescape of Si Doel that would probably go unnoticed in an interpretation at face value of the serial’s language use.

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The use of the eight semiotic modalities in the Idul Fitri scene Non-linguistic diegetic image: The excerpt starts with a medium shot of a mosque drum, an instrument played extensively in mosques and – mounted on a moving vehicle – in streets throughout Indonesia the night before Idul Fitri. This is known as the takbiran ritual, as participants praise the greatness of Allah (allahu’akbar). Linguistic non-diegetic image: Against this background, a short excerpt from a religious text is projected. The excerpt is in Indonesian and explains the meaning of three subsequent periods in the month of Ramadan: ‘Rasulullah S.A.W. bersabda: Allah memberikan pahala bagi orang yang memberikan makan untuk berbuka puasa sekadar kurma atau seteguk susu. Dan bulan ini (Ramadhan) adalah Bulan yang 10 hari pertama merupakan Rahmat, 10 hari kedua merupakan Maghfiroh. Dan 10 hari terakhir merupakan Pembebasan dari api neraka.’ (Hadist [sic] Riwayat Ibnu Khuzaimah) (‘The prophet, the blessings of God be upon him and peace, has spoken: Allah rewards those people who supply food to break the fast, be it a date or a sip of milk. And the first 10 days of this month of Ramadan signify God’s mercy. And the second 10 days signify Forgiveness. And the final 10 days signify the Liberation from the Fires of Hell.’ (Hadits17 Riwayat Ibnu Khuzaimah))

Linguistic diegetic/non-diegetic sound: Meanwhile, a voice is sounded that endlessly repeats the Arabic phrase Allahu’akbar allahu’akbar la illaha illallah (God is great and there is no god but God). This is the sonic counterpart of the takbiran ritual. Though no images are shown of the people who recite this phrase, the sound is presented as though it originates in the story world and therefore I consider it diegetic. Alternatively, one may argue that the soundtrack does not suit the images and is therefore non-diegetic. Non-linguistic diegetic image: Shot of people, particularly children, who are beating a mosque drum. Non-linguistic diegetic sound: Sound of the beating of a mosque drum. Although the rhythm is slightly 17

The term Hadits refers to the traditional collection of stories relating words or deeds of the prophet Muhammad.

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Table 5.2 The eight semiotic modalities of television language Semiotic modality value

Discursive value of the signifier linguistic

Linguistic diegetic sound

+

Linguistic non-diegetic sound

+

Non-linguistic diegetic sound Non-linguistic non-diegetic sound

Signifier-story relationship

nonlinguistic

diegetic

+

+

+

Linguistic diegetic image

+

Linguistic nondiegetic image

+

nondiegetic

+

+

+

+

+

Non-linguistic non-diegetic image

+

sonic

visual

+

Speech of character

+

Voice-over that announces sinetron Si Doel

+

Whistling of Mas Karyo’s birds Mood music that accompanies the movements of the characters

+

+

+

Non-linguistic diegetic image

Example from Si Doel

Channel of communication

+ +

+

Plate inscribed with the word ‘Allah’ in the ridge of the house of the Sabeni family Scroll that announces another television programme

+

Movements of the characters

+

Fade-to-black at the beginning and end of commercial breaks

different from the rhythm that is portrayed in the imagescape, this sound is clearly meant to be understood as originating from a source in the story world, namely the people who are beating the drum. I therefore consider this signifier diegetic. Non-linguistic non-diegetic image: Fade-to-black. Non-linguistic diegetic image: Shot of two major Si Doel characters, Pak Bendot and Mas Karyo, sitting on their knees at the front terrace of the Sabeni residence. Both are wearing a kopiah. Pak Bendot has a prayer mat slung over his shoulder, which suggests that he is either about to go pray or has just finished praying. Linguistic diegetic sound: Pak Bendot and Mas Karyo start speaking. In name of the Keluarga Besar Si Doel (‘Extended Doel Family’), Pak Bendot wishes all viewers a happy Idul Fitri and asks them for forgiveness. Mas Karyo then introduces the coming episode of Si Doel, saying he hopes the viewers will enjoy it. Both characters speak Javanese.

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Linguistic semi-diegetic/non-diegetic image: The Javanese speech of the characters is subtitled with a translation in English (SUB). PB: SUB PB: SUB MK: SUB:

Keparenga matur wonten ngersanipun para pamriksa RCTI oke ingkang minulya Please allow me to speak to the respected audience of RCTI oke Kula pinangka wakilipun keluarga besar Si Doel Anak Sekolahan ngaturaken kalepatan lahir lan batos, minalaidin walfaizin. I, on behalf of the Doel Anak Sekolahan big family, say ‘mohon maaf lahir dan bathin’ Lan mangga ta para sedaya pamirsa RCTI oke, Si Doel Anak Seko­ la­han badhe nggelar khusus cerita lebaran, inggih punika Si Doel Anak Sekolahan. Let us all of audience of RCTI oke, will presenting the special episode for lebaran is ‘Si Doel’ [sic]

Linguistic diegetic/non-diegetic sound: Meanwhile, the sonic counterpart of the takbiran ritual is still sounded. While this sound harmonizes with the atmosphere of the episode that is about to be presented, it is unclear whether viewers are supposed to believe that Mas Karyo and Pak Bendot can hear this sound in the story world that they inhabit or not. While I suspect that this is what Karnos Film intended, I am unable to determine with certainty whether this signifier is diegetic or non-diegetic. Non-linguistic non-diegetic image: Fade-to-black. Non-linguistic diegetic image: Close-up of a bamboo plait, which viewers of Si Doel will recognize as part of the Sabeni family’s house. Linguistic non-diegetic image The words ‘Karnos Film’ appear in blue. Linguistic non-diegetic sound: The first stanza of the Jakarta Malay signature tune of Si Doel is sounded. Reading of the Idul Fitri scene Two languages, Arabic and Javanese, dominate the soundscape of the excerpt at hand. Whereas the Arabic seems to function mainly as a background sound,

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interacting with the images to create a religious atmosphere, Javanese is used to address the audience directly. The imagescape, on the other hand, features Indonesian and English. The national language is used in a religious text, which is projected over images that portray the takbiran ritual the evening before Idul Fitri. The characters’ Javanese speech is translated into English. Within the course of one minute (the duration of this excerpt), the viewer is thus exposed to four languages: Arabic, Javanese, Indonesian, and English. It is striking that Jakarta Malay, the language for which Si Doel is well-known, is absent until the title song introduces the actual episode. This is particularly remarkable in view of the occasion for which this episode was produced: for most Indonesian Moslems, Idul Fitri is among the most important religious days of the year. Still, the main part of this scene (in which Pak Bendot and Mas Karyo address the audience) is unintelligible to native speakers of Jakarta Malay unless they are able to speak Javanese or English as well. Asked to comment upon this remarkable language choice, Rano Karno responded that he had no specific reason for using Pak Bendot and Mas Karyo. He also claimed to have asked his editor to subtitle the excerpt in English as a sort of joke. Alternatively, the reason that Rano Karno decided to have his major Javanese characters represent the Extended Doel Family is that they embody the largest ethnic group of Indonesia. By addressing its Javanese viewers in their native language on this special occasion, the makers of Si Doel chose to please this important part of the audience at the expense of the Jakarta Malay-speaking audience, again with exception of those viewers who also spoke Javanese or English. In view of the target audience of broadcaster RCTI, the decision to subtitle this excerpt in English may be seen differently. Then, as now, the programmes of RCTI were not only targeted at an upper-class Indonesian audience: through its broadcasting of foreign ‘quality’ movies and a breakfast news programme in English, RCTI also aimed to attract the attention of expatriates living in Jakarta. Because Si Doel was RCTI’s most celebrated local programme, its English subtitles may be interpreted as an extra service offered by Karnos Film to this segment of the audience, if only for a few seconds. Certainly an analysis of the use of and interaction between various semiotic modalities reveals how socio-economic factors may influence the language of television. Conclusion Kress and Van Leeuwen (2001:20) note that ‘production and distribution produce their own layers of signification’. An analysis of the production of language in Si Doel unravels these layers of signification.

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Critically looking at the creation and manipulation of language during the production process leads to the discovery of an important difference between unmediatized and mediatized language, namely that mediatized language has a different temporality. When the languagescape of Si Doel is analysed from a diachronic perspective, it becomes evident that though the parameters for language use in Si Doel are set by the scriptwriters, who produce scenarios with fully written-out dialogues and monologues, actors may ‘overrule’ their scripted text through improvisation. In addition, not only do scriptwriters, producers, and actors have a decisive influence on the televised languagescape, but so do people with less powerful or visible positions, such as prompters and editors. The ‘fossils of power’ that Hodge and Kress (1993:159) aim to uncover from the ‘linguistic amber’ of the text are not necessarily produced by people who have many discursive rights in other areas of the production process. Because some actors are not native speakers of the language that they are presumed to represent, they sometimes fail to produce the appropriate linguistic utterance or grammatical form, even though they try to perform the native language of their character to the best of their ability. Though native speakers often correct these linguistic slippages during the production process, the correction mechanism sometimes fails. To compare, in unmediatized discourse conversations are normally unscripted, and, as a rule, no third party will interfere with what a person says to his or her interlocutor. Another principal difference between the televised languagescape and the ‘real talk’ that characterizes unscripted discourse is the multimodality of the televised languagescape. Unlike interlocutors in unmediatized situations, television has eight semiotic modalities with which to communicate meaning. Si Doel’s languagescape is semiotically abundant, and the distinctive Jakarta flavour of this serial is created by both its soundscape and its image­ scape. The serial’s soundscape is also made up of a number of regional languages: Javanese, Sundanese (idiom), and Batak (accent). Foreign languages only make up a small part of the languagescape: the soundscape of Si Doel includes Dutch, English, Mandarin Chinese, and Arabic, while its imagescape includes a few English subtitles. Only a thorough investigation of television language, meaning one that takes into account its verisimilitude, the fact that it has a different temporality, and its multimodality, will reveal the discursive potential of the television text. Such an approach will moreover clarify the ways in which broadcasters and production companies choose to address, and with that, imagine and construct, their audiences.

Part III Framing Si Doel

CHAPTER VI

Si Doel as a broadcasting asset At this point, the ‘discursive elaboration’ (Thompson 1995:110) of Si Doel, meaning the various ways in which people talk and write about this sinetron during and after its screening, will be explored. In doing so, the television serial will be considered the ‘primary text’, whereas the texts that people generate when they appropriate this primary text will be termed ‘secondary texts’. Secondary texts may take various forms and may appear across various media and genres; they include radio columns, short stories, and advertisements. Secondary texts are produced in a multitude of discourse practices and through a number of ‘framing discourses’, whereby discourse is defined in the broad sense of the word as ‘socially situated forms of knowledge about (aspects of) reality’ (Kress and Van Leeuwen 2001:20). Framing discourses influence or indeed ‘frame’ one’s way of speaking, the topics one speaks about and neglects, and the perspective from which one speaks (Mills 1997:14; Fairclough 1995:94). Viewers are clearly not bound to one particular framing discourse. Far from that, they may draw on various discourses when making sense of the serial, in the process shaping and modifying the framing discourses at hand. Viewers may also activate different framing discourses on different occasions and in different circumstances. A member of the Betawi community may for instance criticize the representation of Betawi culture in Si Doel in his capacity as spokesperson of the Institute for Advancing Betawi Culture. In this case, his statements are produced through what will be termed here ‘Betawi discourse’. When speaking from his or her position as a broadcast professional at the television station RCTI, however, that same person may praise the serial through ‘broadcasting discourse’ for its high viewing figures. Part III juxtaposes different framing discourses in order to highlight some of the dominant ways of talking and thinking about national television and national culture in late New Order Indonesia. Examining the framing discourses can uncover issues of authority, access, and exclusion. Certain mechanisms support a particular framing discourse as do the institutions that produce it and keep it in circulation. Finally, the productivity of these framing discourses (Foucault 1998:12; Mills 1997:37;

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Danaher, Schirato and Webb 2000:79) is examined by focusing on some of the secondary texts that they generate. My main purpose in examining these secondary texts is to chart to what extent and in what ways they appropriate and recycle certain aspects of Si Doel, notably its languagescape. Broadcasting in Indonesia In Indonesia, as elsewhere, commercial television is not merely there to entertain its viewers. Rather, its ultimate goal is to maximize profits, despite frantic efforts of the industry to conceal this underlying principle (Allen 1992, Ang 1991). While enjoying one’s favourite sports programme or soap opera one might easily forget this profit-making axiom. Incidents such as the monetary crisis that struck Indonesia in the autumn of 1997, however, are a reminder of the money-orientated character of the broadcasting industry. The krismon affected the television industry as profoundly as it affected other aspects of society, partly because advertisers decided to cut their advertising expenditures drastically. Since in Indonesia, as in many parts of the world, most of the advertisers’ budget is spent on television (Subakti and Katoppo 1996:27), the commercial broadcasters were hit hard by this policy – all the more so because at the same time the import of foreign programmes became far more expensive for the stations, as the purchasing power of the Indonesian rupiah had declined while imported programmes had to be paid for with costly U.S. dollars. In addition, a recent government ruling ordering all foreign non-English programmes to be dubbed into English and then subtitled into Indonesian imposed a heavier burden on the television stations in terms of workload and additional expenses. As a result of this situation of both increased costs and decreased income, television stations at first broadcast cheaper programming formats, such as stock programmes or locally produced sinetron and quizzes. When this policy turned out to be insufficient to cope with the krismon, stations reduced their broadcasting hours, particularly during those parts of the day considered less profitable (Achjadi and Katoppo 1999:43). Broadcaster Indosiar, for instance, decided to temporarily close down from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. and from midnight to 6 a.m., a nearly 50 per cent reduction in its broadcasting hours. To attract more advertisers, stations reduced the cost of a unit of airtime to the advertisers’ new budgets,1 and tried to save money on operational costs.2 1

Personal communication with Widi Hartono via e-mail, 17 October 2001. For an overview of subsequent economizing measures that were taken by the television stations, see for instance Ana, ‘Hadapi Krisis Moneter: TV Pilih Tayangan Ulang, Ketimbang Kurangi Jam Tayang’, Republika Online, 10 January 1998; Cp, ‘Kemungkinan Jam Tayang TV Swasta Berkurang’, Kompas, 20 October 1998, p. 10; Cp, ‘TV Swasta Mulai Mengurangi Jam Tayang’, Kompas, 4 February 1998, p. 10. 2

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Notwithstanding these economizing measures, the harm wrought by the krismon on the television industry could not be prevented and some television stations ended up on the brink of bankruptcy.3 The krismon also affected Karnos Film: because of increased production costs, the company cancelled its plans to shoot footage for its fourth series in Switzerland (see figures 6.1 and 6.2). It is through such extraordinary events that one is reminded of the fact that one’s favourite commercial television programme is there by the grace of money and for the purpose of seducing its viewers to spend money on the products advertised. The rest, at least from an industry perspective, is of secondary importance. The importance of advertising leads to broadcasters, advertisers, and audiences each constructing the idea of a ‘television programme’ in a different way. Whereas one can safely assume that ‘ordinary’ viewers mainly switch on their television to enjoy a particular programme, for advertisers a programme is ‘merely the bait that is likely to lure a particular audience to the TV set’ (Allen 1992:20). Broadcasters take a slightly different position still. For them ‘programming represents a cost, not a product’ (Allen 1992:20). It is discourse practices such as broadcasting and advertising that transform the television text Si Doel from a cost into a profitable broadcasting asset. Si Doel enters the world of broadcasting When Rano Karno plundered his savings account and sold his personal belongings to fund the production of the first series of the sinetron Si Doel, little did he suspect that this television serial and its spin-offs would become the showpieces of both Karnos Film and broadcaster RCTI. Things certainly did not look very bright for the producer when he started the undertaking: one of his greatest problems was getting commercial television station interested in the production he had in mind. When Rano Karno finally succeeded in convincing RCTI to put it on the air, no production company would take the risk of producing the serial. Rano Karno therefore decided to produce Si Doel by himself. As an independent production house, Karnos Film had no financial backing from either a television station or an investor. Therefore, its director-cumproducer Rano Karno saw no alternative but to put his own money into the project. Rano Karno considered this lack of institutional support a serious obstacle for any independent production house, which severely hampered the development of the Indonesian sinetron industry.4 The financial maga3

By 2003, all stations were in full operation again. Rano Karno, at the seminar ‘Mencari Format dan Pola Produksi Sinetron Indonesia’, LP3Y, Yogyakarta 22-23 September 1994. 4

Figure 6.1 The krismon forced Karnos Film to shoot a scene about Doel in Switzerland…

Figure 6.2 …on a refuse dump in Jakarta (courtesy of Karnos Film)

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zine Eksekutif, which devoted its November 1996 editorial to the sinetron as a television genre, identified the same obstacle for this booming industry. It noted that banks were mainly interested in financing production houses with an established track record. Otherwise, the banking sector was only willing to lend money to a production house if the production house could offer proof that it had obtained a contract from the broadcaster that was going to air the production. Generally, television stations demanded a demo videotape of the sinetron offered to decide whether or not they were going to purchase it. Paradoxically, it was precisely for the production of these demos, which might cost as much as Rp 70 million (roughly US$ 30 thousand), that production houses actually needed their first financial injection.5 Production houses seldom obtained a contract without producing a demo first. Rano Karno probably managed to get one because of his exceptional track record in the entertainment industry. Once a producer was able to overcome these initial obstacles, producing sinetron was a lucrative undertaking. By 1996, it was estimated that some Rp 100 billion (roughly US$ 42 million) circulated annually in the sinetron industry. This number was expected to rise to Rp 15 quintillion (about US$ 6.315 billion) annually in the near future, provided television stations expanded their broadcasting to 20 or 24 hours and aired more local programmes. Increasing the broadcasting hours was in agreement with the new Broadcast Law, which was expected to formalize the so-called imbauan muatan lokal or ‘local-content appeal’. This government appeal requested that television stations fill at least 70 per cent of their broadcasting hours with local programmes.6 In other words, sinetron were not only the domestic answer to the abundance of foreign productions – they were also big business. From risk to guaranteed profit It is understandable that RCTI was reserved about trying the new concept that Si Doel embodied, with its focus on ordinary people and its ‘traditional’ Betawi setting. All over the world, commercial television thrives on formulaic programmes that have already proven their success. From a business point of view, the industry simply cannot afford to purchase a programme that is original but fails to deliver ‘the weekly audience’ (Feuer 1992:144), as this would mean it would also fail to return its costs via advertising revenues – after all, the broadcasting industry sees a television programme as a cost. 5

Syh, ‘Boom Bisnis Sinetron’, Eksekutif, 209, November 1996, pp. 102-5; WI, ‘Mencari Pendana Setia’, Eksekutif, 209, November 1996, p. 110. 6 Syahmuharnis, ‘Mega Bisnis Sinetron’, Eksekutif, 209, November 1996, p. 101; Syh, ‘Boom Bisnis Sinetron’, Eksekutif, 209, November 1996, pp. 102-5.

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The different financial arrangements between Karnos Film and RCTI, when RCTI bought Si Doel from Karnos Film, indicate the change in status of the serial. There are four transaction systems in use in the Indonesian broadcasting industry. The first is the jual putus (‘definitive sale’) system, in which the television station pays a fixed price to a production house and receives the product including its broadcast rights in return. Alternatively, a production house can opt for the principle of bagi hasil (‘profit-sharing’). In this system, the production house takes care of all investments regarding the production of the sinetron, while the television station develops promotional activities and attracts advertisers. Both parties share the profit. The third possibility is the ‘block time’ system, in which a production house buys airtime from the station and arranges everything else itself, from producing the sinetron to attracting advertisers. The yield that is thus obtained is entirely for the production house. Finally, a production house can sell its production ‘flat’ (jual flat), meaning that it sells the product and its broadcast rights for a certain period of time, after which it regains both the copyrights (hak cipta) and the broadcast rights (hak siaran). Alternatively, a television station can directly finance the costs of a programme that it produces itself.7 Si Doel 1 was launched during the fasting month of 1994, just after the closing of the financial year. It is infamously difficult in this period to attract advertisers, and in Indonesian broadcasting discourse it is referred to as musim kering or ‘dry season’. Moreover, in the fasting month Moslems are encouraged to perform certain religious ceremonies in the mosque during television prime time. As the majority of the Indonesian population is Moslem, during this month stations potentially lose a substantial part of their nightly audience. In anticipation of these unfavourable circumstances, RCTI offered Karnos Film to buy the serial according to the jual putus or ‘definitive sale’ system. Rano Karno however preferred to sell his production according to the principle of bagi hasil or profit-sharing. The producer proposed that RCTI receive 60 per cent of the advertising revenues against Karnos Film’s 40 per cent. Though this meant a bigger risk for Rano Karno, who thereby became totally dependent on the number of commercials that his serial would be able to attract, the producer felt he had no choice. Accepting RCTI’s offer would mean that he was sure not to reach the point of break-even. Profitsharing at least gave him a chance to break even or, better still, to make a profit.8 The serial turned out to attract a large number of advertisers, and both RCTI and Karnos Film yielded a profit. After the first series had proven successful, RCTI ordered a second series of episodes. This time, the station and Karnos Film agreed upon a different 7

Personal communication via e-mail with Vina Aubrina, media planner at media agency Mindshare, and Widi Hartono, copywriter at Ogilvy, 29 April 2002. 8 Interview with Rano Karno, 26 May 2000.

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type of financial arrangement. Karno explained that he sold the sequels to Si Doel according to the principle of jual putus because he was afraid that advertising revenues would not meet expectations. In addition, the jual putus agreement meant that RCTI would have to pay part of the money (which Karno needed to cover the productions costs of his new series) in advance, whereas sharing would imply Karno having to finance the production costs all by himself. In addition, the agreement provided Karno with what he called ‘peace of mind’, allowing him to concentrate on his artistic activities. The producer did however negotiate with RCTI that for the first run of the second series he would also receive a small percentage of advertising revenues.9 Nevertheless, the agreement was undoubtedly to the advantage of RCTI. In 1996, a 30-second commercial to be broadcast during Si Doel 3 cost Rp 14 million (US$ 5,895). On average, this series was filled with 41 commercials, meaning that RCTI earned Rp 574 million per episode on advertising revenues. Meanwhile, Karnos Film had set its target at a profit of about 20 per cent of the total production costs, which for Si Doel 3 were estimated at Rp 40-50 million per episode. Hence broadcaster RCTI cashed a profit of over Rp 500 million per episode, while Karnos Film earned Rp 8-10 million.10 The different transaction systems by which the various series of Si Doel were sold had consequences for the ownership: Rano Karno retained the broadcast rights of the first series of episodes, while RCTI obtained the broadcast rights of the second, third, and fourth series.11 That meant that, for instance, if RCTI sold the tapes to another television station in Indonesia or abroad, Rano Karno would only get a small percentage (approximately 10 per cent) of the profit, whereas the station would cash the rest. Rano Karno admits that afterwards he occasionally regretted his decision to sell his production through the jual putus system. It was not the lost income that he was most unhappy with, even though his share of the profit from the commercials would by far have exceeded the fixed price that he had negotiated with RCTI. Rather, the producer lamented having lost his voice in matters pertaining to his production. For example, in the mid 1990s the organizers of an international film festival in Japan asked RCTI for permission to show excerpts of Si Doel at their event. RCTI stated that it was willing to fulfil this request, but then asked for such a large amount of money for the selected excerpts – US$ 5,000 instead of the US$ 2,000 that the organizers had offered to pay – that the arrangements were eventually called off, leaving Rano Karno frustrated about missing this opportunity to gain international publicity. It was situa9

Interview with Rano Karno, 26 May 2000. WI, ‘PT Karno’s Film’, Eksekutif, 209, November 1996, pp. 112-13. Rano Karno confirmed that these numbers are by and large correct. 11 Broadcaster Indosiar, which aired the fifth and sixth series of Si Doel, obtained the broadcasting rights of these series. 10

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tions such as this that made the producer realize that he was no longer in control, which upset him more than the missed opportunity of making more money.12 Paving the way for local television: Gossip lenong In 1994, when RCTI aired the first series of Si Doel, local programming at the station took up a mere 10 per cent of the total broadcasting output. This low percentage reflected the station’s fear that its target audience would not be interested in local programmes. At the time, foreign programmes, mainly from the United States, India, Hong Kong, and Mexico, dominated the Indonesian television landscape. RCTI, which was set up with help of American television professionals, had a particularly American orientation. It specified its target audience as the metropolitan elite, an audience that was believed to favour foreign, technologically sophisticated productions. RCTI’s programming department judged the sinetron industry to be ‘still in its infancy’ and ‘trying to find its way’; hence its output was considered to be of an ‘inferior’ quality. The broadcaster therefore devoted little effort to sinetron, allotting only one time slot on Sunday evenings to this genre. Most sinetron that did find their way to RCTI were produced by the established production houses Multivision or Starvision. Virtually all portrayed metropolitan life.13 Whereas the broadcasting of Si Doel in 1994 was a new experience for RCTI, the station had already broadcast some other programmes with a local flavour. Most successful among these was Lenong rumpi (‘Gossip lenong’), a modern interpretation of the Betawi theatre genre lenong. Gossip lenong14 Gossip lenong started as entertainer Harry de Fretes’ birthday surprise for his good friend and teacher Guruh Soekarnoputra.15 De Fretes invited people from various backgrounds to perform in a theatre piece that he had himself scripted and which he considered a modern interpretation of the traditional Betawi theatre genre lenong. An agent who had watched the show encouraged de Fretes to continue his experiment on stage. Hence the birth of the group Lenong rumpi Jakarta (‘Gossip lenong Jakarta’), which soon conquered the world of entertainment in the capital. One day an RCTI producer attended 12

Telephone interview with Rano Karno, 26 November 1999. Interview with Mella Sabina, local programme manager at RCTI, 25 March 1999. 14 Unless stated otherwise, I obtained all information regarding Gossip lenong through an interview with Harry de Fretes on 25 March 1999. 15 Guruh Soekarnoputra is a son of former president Sukarno. 13

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one of the group’s performances. Impressed by the show, the man suggested to de Fretes that he translate his concept into a television format. De Fretes agreed, and Gossip lenong was born. Gossip lenong was launched by RCTI on 22 June 1991, the anniversary of Jakarta, ‘amid great publicity for its promotion of a regional culture’ (Sen and Hill 2000:124). RCTI’s first in-house production was directed by Harry de Fretes and broadcast for more than one year. Like lenong, Gossip lenong only made use of a scripted outline, meaning a short characterization of characters and plot development. It also favoured improvisation. In terms of genre, the series resembled a situational comedy: its main character Bo’im (played by de Fretes himself) was confronted with a new situation, ‘the funny thing that will happen this week’ (Feuer 1992:148), in every new episode. This situation varied from the flooding of Jakarta to the experience of going to an Indonesian bank in the early 1990s. With Gossip lenong, de Fretes aimed to interest the metropolitan elite for lenong, a genre that they tended to stigmatize as outdated. To reach these people, de Fretes involved a number of trendy men and women as guest actors and actresses in his production. Most of them belonged to the kelas atas or affluent part of Indonesian society and were well-known figures in the world of entertainment, but had no experience whatsoever performing in lenong. In some shows, these kelas atas actors were juxtaposed with ‘traditional’ Betawi artists, among them the topeng players Nori and Bokir. Every episode used different guest actors, so that Bo’im found himself in the company of a famous model in one episode, while another installment featured him with one of Jakarta’s top designers or an Indonesian movie star. Gossip lenong abandoned the themes commonly found in lenong for topics that were considered more relevant for contemporary viewers. In his treatment of these topics, de Fretes did not refrain from fiercely criticizing Indonesian society. Unlike the cast of a traditional lenong performance, virtually none of the Gossip lenong actors were of Betawi descent. Because all actors were required to use Betawi Malay, there were some linguistic misunderstandings. For instance, one of the guest actresses was to address Bo’im as Abang (‘older brother’); convinced that in Betawi Malay all final a’s must be replaced with e’s, she produced the form Abeng, which is meaningless. Gossip lenong became a huge success with RCTI audiences, to the point that viewers started imitating the way of speaking of one of its characters. Some of the main actors moreover coined new expressions, such as ‘EGP’ (short for JM Emang Gue Pikirin, ‘As if I would care’). The main actors became famous for their performance in Gossip lenong and featured in several commercials. In terms of viewing figures too Gossip lenong was successful: the series obtained a number-one ranking, at the expense of popular American serials such as Mac Gyver. Nevertheless, in 1992, in the midst of negotiations about a sequel

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to Gossip lenong, RCTI suddenly decided to take the series off the screen. The broadcaster’s official explanation was that Gossip lenong had lost its momentum, wasn’t funny anymore, and had become too critical. Producer de Fretes is convinced that it was his political affiliation more than anything else that made RCTI decide to discontinue the serial: during the contract negotiations he was joining the election campaign of PDI (Partai Demokrasi Indonesia), a major opponent of government party Golkar. De Fretes may have been right, for in 1999, in the wake of the Reformasi when a new political spirit had taken hold of the Indonesian television industry, RCTI reran Gossip lenong on prime time. The success of Gossip lenong proved to RCTI that a market existed for programmes that were embedded in a specific locality. According to its producer, the programme also led to a renewed interest for Betawi culture: During [the broadcasting of] Gossip lenong, Betawi culture in general became more popular straight away, in general, you see, not only television programmes, but… Betawi food, the people also wanted to know what their food was like, right, and what more, oh yes the arts, Betawi dance, it all became more popular. […] You could say that Gossip lenong caused this.16

In this atmosphere, other programmes that drew on Betawi culture could flourish, and soon Betawi-flavoured television programmes proliferated on other stations too. Some of these programmes, such as Lenong bocah (‘Children’s lenong’, TPI) and Pepesan kosong (‘Hollow talk’, TPI), also obtained high viewing figures. According to de Fretes, through Si Doel Rano Karno tried to profit from this renewed interest in Betawi culture as well. The popularity of these programmes proved something else to RCTI, namely that the language used in these productions – Betawi Malay as opposed to standard Indonesian – was unproblematic for its nationwide audience. Taking into account the broadcaster’s fear of trying something new which could fail to attract a sufficient number of viewers, the importance of the success of these previous productions for RCTI’s decision to give Si Doel a chance cannot be underestimated. The great success of local productions such as Gossip lenong and Si Doel demonstrated that airing local programmes could be at least as profitable as airing foreign productions. As a result, broadcast stations increased their amount of local content. In 1994, the local-to-imported ratio at RCTI was 10 to 90; in 1996, this number had increased to 43:57. While this was still lower than 16 ‘Waktu Lenong rumpi itu, kebetawian secara keseluruhan langsung naik, secara keseluruhan ya, bukan tayangan tivi aja, tapi… makanan Betawi, orang juga pengin tahu makanan kayak apa sih, ya kan, terus apa deh keseniannya, tarian Betawi… naik semuanya. […] Boleh dibilang tu gara-gara Lenong rumpi.’ Interview with Harry de Fretes, 25 March 1999.

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the government’s local-content appeal, it was considerably higher than when the station first started broadcasting. In addition, these figures were not very far removed from RCTI’s own target, which was 60:40 (Yohara 1997:80). These numbers indicate that after some years of operation, RCTI had clearly lost its obsession with foreign programmes and had confidence in local alternatives. The popularity of these local programmes also adds justification to the claim that viewers worldwide show a preference for products that mirror their own rather than a foreign culture (Kottak 1990:17; Moran 2004:4). Nonetheless, in the late 1990s television critics and ordinary viewers alike still criticized the quality of Indonesian sinetron.17 RCTI’s PR officer Eduard Depari concluded Si Doel owed its success to its combination of ‘quality’ television with popular appeal – a delicate equilibrium that other producers found hard to achieve. Besides, Depari also stressed the serial’s timing: it was offered to RCTI when both the broadcasting world and viewers turned out to be ready for it. In addition, he claimed that the serial would have never appealed to the elite segment of society if RCTI, with its widest coverage area and its upper-class target audience, had not been its broadcaster. Depari emphasized, however, that the success of Si Doel was not only positive for RCTI and Rano Karno: none of the programmes that Karnos Film produced between the shoots of Si Doel, for instance, were particularly successful. Rano was successful with Si Doel. But sometimes we are so focused on the success of a person that we consider him a [mythological figure]. We [RCTI] gave him the opportunity to make another film, SAR [Sarana angkutan rakyat, ‘Means of public transport’]: a failure. We had paid for thirteen episodes, but we ended it after six episodes. […] The same goes for Erte Erwe [‘RT RW’, ‘The Neighbourhood’, KL] […] Perhaps that is really his limitation. His world is Si Doel, and he shouldn’t produce something else.18

Ratings discourse In broadcasting discourse television programmes are foremostly understood as a cost, and a television show first has to prove its market value before it can be turned into a profitable broadcasting asset. An important tool to assess the market value of a television programme, in Indonesia as elsewhere, are 17

See for instance Zul, ‘Catatan dari Seminar Sehari Sinetron: Mencari Solusi Peningkatan Kualitas Sinetron, Lembar Litbang FSI, 4 December 1997, p. 6. 18 ‘Rano dalam Si Doel sukses. Tapi kadang-kadang kita terlalu terpaku pada sukses seseorang, sehingga kita melihat dia sebagai satu mitos. Kita berikan dia kesempatan bikin film lain, SAR: gagal. Kita udah bayar untuk tiga belas episode, episode keenam kita putuskan […] Erte Erwe juga sama. […] Memang mungkin dia terbatas di sana. Dunia dia Si Doel dan jangan bikin yang lain.’ Interview with Eduard Depari, 9 December 1997.

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the viewing figures or ratings that a serial obtains. In her discussion of the broadcasting industry in North America and the Netherlands, Ang (1991) points several times to their obsession with ratings discourse. Ratings are produced by specialized audience-measurement companies, and specify the ‘estimated percentage of all “television households” (that is, households, usually families, who are in possession of one or more television sets), or of all people within a demographic group, within a certain survey area who view a specific programme or station’ (Ang 1991:46). Ang ascribes the authority of ratings discourse to the broadcasting industry’s constant need to know what she describes as the ‘elusive audience’ (Ang 1991:85). In addition, ratings provide broadcasters with objective information for their negotiations with advertisers. In Indonesia too the broadcasting industry considers ratings a useful tool for measuring the popularity of a certain programme in relation to other programmes. A broadcaster also determines the price of a unit of airtime during that programme mainly on the basis of a progamme’s ratings. Ratings were introduced in Indonesia in 1991 at the request of the commercial broadcasters (at the time RCTI, SCTV, and TPI), the government station TVRI, and the Indonesian association of advertising agencies (‘Persatuan Perusahaan Periklanan Indonesia’, for short P3I). All parties agreed that the booming of commercial television increased the need for unbiased data on the viewing behaviour of audiences and on results of particular advertising campaigns. The ratings service was to be financed jointly by all parties. The broadcasters paid 75 per cent of the costs, while the P3I disbursed the remaining 25 per cent. In 1993, TVRI discontinued its subscription to the ratings service; a spokesperson explained that the broadcaster had done so because, being a non-commercial station, it did not need the expensive data on ratings.19 The company that supplied RCTI and, for that matter, all other commercial television stations in Indonesia with this knowledge is the market research firm ACNielsen.20 From 1991 to 1997, the audience-measurement company obtained its data by using what is known as the diary method, which required respondents to jot down their viewing behaviour in a diary. In response to the increasing complexity of the television industry, the ever greater variety of programmes, and a substantial number of households with more than one 19

Personal communication with Veven Wardhana via e-mail 19 February 2003. ACNielsen was established in 1973 as In Search Data, Indonesia’s first concern engaged in market and social research. In 1976, In Search Data joined the Survey Research Group (SRG), and in 1982 the company changed its name to Survey Research Indonesia (SRI). SRI united with the world’s leading research organization ACNielsen International/ Dun and Bradstreet in 1994, and from 1997 onwards the company was known as ACNielsen/SRI. A year later the name SRI was dropped, and thenceforth the company was known as ACNielsen. Starting February 2001, when ACNielsen united with VNU, its media measurement department became known as Nielsen Media Research. 20

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television set, in the late 1990s ACNielsen turned to a more advanced research device to monitor its audiences. In February 1998, it introduced the people meter, an electronic device that is connected to the TV set and is used by audience-measurement companies worldwide. Respondents must push certain buttons when they begin and stop viewing; the device then registers TV viewership automatically. The Indonesian device was able to monitor the viewing behaviour of up to fifteen people: ten household members, two guests, two servants, and, remarkably, one baby. The device had different buttons that the different viewers were expected to press (or have pressed for them) when they started watching television. Though this new method was not airtight either – viewers could forget to activate the device before they started viewing – it was assumed to be more reliable than filling in a diary afterwards. In 2000, ACNielsen measured the viewing behaviour of some 5,000 respondents distributed over approximately 1,100 households in five major cities and the areas directly surrounding them: Greater Jakarta, Greater Surabaya21, Medan, Semarang, and Bandung. Respondents were men and women, or boys and girls, aged five and older who had access to a television set. They were chosen so as to represent a segment of the population that fulfilled criteria such as age, household composition, spending habits, and income. According to ACNielsen, in the year 2000 the sample of 5,000 respondents represented 21 million viewers, meaning those inhabitants of the monitored area who owned at least one television set in their homes (the so-called ‘television households’).22 In 1999 the total viewing population in Indonesia was estimated at 130.8 million viewers (Achjadi and Katoppo 1999:59), meaning that viewing figures were only collected for approximately 16 per cent of the total television audience. Moreover, ratings were only produced for viewers in urban areas. The industry did not seem to be particularly interested in monitoring viewers in rural areas, probably because they were considered on average to have limited spending power. While ACNielsen claimed that its ratings were trustworthy, the agency was widely criticized. A frequent complaint concerned ACNielsen’s monopoly position, and in 2000, calls were being made for the establishment of a second audience-measurement company in Indonesia. Another grievance concerned the reliability of the ratings that ACNielsen produced: for instance, in 1996 the programmes that were broadcast by television station SCTV often obtained 21

Greater Surabaya encompasses Surabaya and ‘Gerbangkertasila’, or ‘Gerbang Kertasusila’ if Surabaya is included in the acronym. Gerbang Kertasusila stands for several places in East Java, namely GREsik, BANGkalan, MojoKERTO, SUrabaya, SIdoarjo, and LAmongan (personal communication with Widi Hartono via e-mail, 29 April 2002). To make the pronunciation of this acronym easier, the first three letters of Gresik have been rendered as ‘Ger’ instead of ‘Gre’; in addition, the Javanese pronunciation of an open /a/ as an /o/ in the toponym Mojokerto has been neutralized according to the Indonesian spelling, to become /a/ again in the acronym. 22 Interview with Adolf Siregar, ACNielsen, 6 June 2000.

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low ratings, and the station believed that flaws in the research method of the audience-measurement company caused this.23 Another point of criticism was the precision of the diary method. According to television critic Wardhana, the data that this research method generated were often inaccurate; as an example, he mentioned a case in which a servant was asked to remember her boss’s viewing behaviour, who had not had the time to fill in the diary. A final point of criticism, also expressed by Wardhana, is that ratings can be manipulated if one is willing to give the right person a certain amount of money. An anonymous source in the world of television claimed to have discovered a relationship between the transaction system by which a programme was sold to the television station and the ratings that a particular programme obtained. This person had observed that programmes sold according to the system of definitive sale (jual putus) often obtained low ratings. In Indonesian broadcasting discourse, these ratings are known as ratings do-re-mi or ‘ratings of one, two, or three’.24 In contrast, programmes that were sold according to the system of profit-sharing (bagi hasil) were often able to produce two-digit ratings.25 While the anonymous source could not prove his theory, his findings are nonetheless remarkable because high ratings are indeed to the advantage of producers who sell their production according to the principle of profit-sharing: the higher the ratings for their product, the more advertisements it is expected to generate, and the higher the profit producers will be able to make. While ACNielsen acknowledged that the diary method is not flawless, it firmly rejected the suggestion that ratings can be bought. One of the company’s employees interpreted this type of criticism as an expression of frustration and disappointment on the part of producers whose productions obtain low ratings. Rather than accept their failure, they take the easy way out and scapegoat the audience-measurement company instead.26 Although complaints about audience measurement still pop up now and then, most observers believe that the reliability of ratings increased substantially with the introduction of the people meter. The viewing figures of Si Doel It is understandable that television station SCTV questioned the reliability of its ratings. For one, ratings directly influence the price that one can ask for a spot to be aired during a programme. In addition, low-rated programmes 23

Syh, ‘Rating… Oh… Rating’, Eksekutif, 209, November 1996, pp. 108-9. Do-re-mi is an allusion to the musical notation used in Indonesia, for instance in schools; it uses numerals instead of staves. 25 Interview with Veven Wardhana, 23 May 2000. 26 Interview with Adolf Siregar, 6 June 2000. 24

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are feared to attract fewer advertisements (although this is not always so). It comes as no surprise, then, that broadcaster RCTI received the high ratings produced by Si Doel well. Table 6.1 outlines the viewing figures for the six series of Si Doel and their various reruns.27 In this table, the ‘cost’ column specifies the price of a unit of airtime (or ‘spot’ in broadcasting discourse) in subsequent series of Si Doel. The next column mentions the number of viewers (in millions) in the monitored area that are estimated to have watched this series of episodes on average. For instance, approximately 5.35 million viewers in the monitored area watched Si Doel 4. As the audience sample at the time represented some 25 million viewers, this meant that 21 per cent of the potential viewing audience watched the programme. This percentage is expressed in the television ratings, or TVR. TVR thus stands for that percentage of the potential viewing population in the monitored area that watched Si Doel for a certain amount of time,28 but it is also used as an indication of the percentage of viewers in the non-monitored area. While broadcast professionals are aware that such extrapolations are in fact inaccurate, these are the data they have to work with. In addition, they often use ratings loosely as planning instruments by means of which to chart certain trends in a programme’s popularity, and this purpose is adequately served by the ratings.29 The term ‘share’, finally, refers to the percentage of the actual viewing population that was tuned in to RCTI during its broadcasting of Si Doel.30 As Table 6.1 shows, particularly the first two series of Si Doel obtained high viewing figures. The average ratings for the first series were 49, while the highest ratings for that series (64) were obtained with its third episode. Si Doel 2 on average obtained even higher ratings than its predecessor, at 56. With an average of 41, ratings of the third series were less spectacular but still very good: in November 1996, Si Doel 3 topped the ranking list of 100 sinetron.31 Ratings of Si Doel 4, which was broadcast in a slightly different format, dropped to 21. The average ratings of the fifth and sixth series, which were broadcast by Indosiar, were 18 and 15. It is tempting to conclude from Table 6.1 that the decline in popularity of Si Doel started with the second series. Though it is indeed true that ratings dropped considerably between the second and the sixth series, different meas27

I calculated these figures myself based on the raw data that I obtained from ACNielsen. For the diary method, the audience-measurement company used viewing units of fifteen minutes per programme. Respondents were instructed to note a programme if they had watched it for at least eight minutes. With the advent of the people meter this criterion was discarded, as the device registered viewership semi-automatically. 29 Personal communication with Widi Hartono via e-mail, 29 April 2002. 30 Interview with Adolf Siregar, 6 June 2000. 31 ‘Peringkat 100 Sinetron Lokal (Berdasarkan Rating 1996)’, Eksekutif, 209, November 1996, p. 106. 28

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urement tools were used to obtain them: ratings for the first, second, and third series were obtained with the diary method, while ratings for later series of episodes were produced with the help of the more advanced people meter. The coverage area of broadcaster Indosiar is considerably smaller than that of RCTI: in 1999, the estimated audience of Indosiar amounted to 92 million viewers (70.4 per cent of the total viewing population), whereas RCTI reached an estimated 130.8 million viewers (100 per cent of the viewing population) (Achjadi and Katoppo 1999:59). This difference in coverage area has little effect on the height of the ratings, however, as RCTI has only a slightly higher penetration in the areas monitored by ACNielsen than its competitor. According to Rano Karno, viewing figures of later series of Si Doel reflected the increased competition the serial faced from other sinetron. To illustrate his argument, he points out that in 1998 even the most popular sinetron only obtained ratings in the range of 20 to 30.32 Whereas one cannot deduce from Table 6.1 alone that since the second series the popularity of Si Doel had been waning, the figures do indicate that the sequels did not achieve the exceptional popularity of the first two series. This conclusion is backed up by the secondary texts that were produced in large quantities in public critical discourse. Table 6.1 shows that, despite its lower ratings, the costs of advertising in Si Doel increased with each series. This suggests that the broadcaster still put its faith in the serial. The table also shows that the price for buying a television spot on Indonesian television has increased annually since 1994.33 Not surprisingly, the table shows that the various reruns of the serial obtained lower ratings than the first screenings (or ‘first runs’ as they are also called in broadcasting jargon): while the first run of Si Doel had an average rating of 56, for instance, its first rerun only obtained an average rating of seven. Nevertheless, some of its reruns still managed to obtain impressive viewing figures, so much so that one television critic remarked that ‘Si Doel is probably the only local product of which even the reruns are able to make its competition shudder’.34 In anticipation of the trend that reruns produce lower ratings than first runs, RCTI reduced the costs for advertisers who wanted to air their commercial during a rerun of Si Doel to less than 50 per cent of the price of an airtime unit to be broadcast during a first run of Si Doel.

32

Interview with Rano Karno, 26 May 2000. Personal communication with Widi Hartono via e-mail, 29 April 2002. 34 Yanto Bhokek, ‘Si Doel Pergi Ke Swiss: Siapa Yang Setia Menanti Dia Kembali’, Bintang, 316, VII, first week, April 1997. 33

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Table 6.1. Viewing figures of Si Doel 1-6* Series of Si Doel

No. of epis.a

Broadcast date

Broadcast day and time

Costb

No. of viewersc

TVRd

Shared

Si Doel 1

6

23 January 1994 – 27 February 1994

Sunday, 7:30–8:30 p.m.e

13,000

6.10

49

78

Rerun final eps. Si Doel 1

1

6 March 1994

Sunday, 7:30–8:30 p.m.

13,000

6.48

52

80

Rerun Si Doel 1

6

20–25 June 1994f

Daily, 9:30–10:30 p.m.

6,000

4.70

38

75

Si Doel 2

26

7 October 1994 – 7 April 1995

Friday, 8–9 p.m.

14,000

8.69

56

82

Rerun Si Doel 2

26

25 May 1995 – 14 December 1995

Thursday, late eveningg

6,000h

1.40

7

34

Si Doel 3

49

26 February 1996 – 10 February 1997i

Monday, 7:30–8:30 p.m.j

14,000k

8.63

41

71

Rerun Si Doel 1

6

17–24 February 1997

Weekdays, 4:30–5:30 p.m.

7,500

3.74

16

44

Rerun final eps. Si Doel 3

1

23 February 1997

Sunday, 9:30–11 a.m.

7,500

3.23

14

41

Rerun Si Doel 2

26

25 February – 1 April 1997

Weekdays, 4:30–5:30 p.m.

7,500

4.12

18

46

Rerun Si Doel 3

49

2 April 97 – 11 June 1997

Weekdays, 4:30–5:30 p.m.

7,500

4.33

19

53

Rerun Si Doel 1

6

4–13 November 1997

Tues, Wed, Thurs, 9:30–10:30 a.m.

4,000

1.87

8

45

Si Doel 4

16

18 April 1998 – 5 September 1998

Saturday, 7:30–9 p.m.l

15,000m

5.35

21

50

Si Doel 5

28

13 March 2000 – 4 September 2000

Monday, 7:20–8:30 p.m. 

16,000

4.76

18n

46n

Si Doel 6

17

18 January 2003 – 10 May 2003

Saturday, 8–9 p.m.

* a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o

No data

No data

15o

No data

This table is based on data that I obtained from audience-measurement company ACNielsen. I am grateful to Adolf Siregar, Media Services Research Manager, for his willingness to produce these data for me and for explaining their meaning. This column specifies the number of episodes of a particular series. From Si Doel 2 onwards, one isolated episode was produced for Idul Fitri, the end of the Muslim fast. Because these Idul Fitri episodes were isolated episodes which narratively speaking had no connection with the main series, I did not include them in my calculations. This column specifies the costs of an advertising spot in units of Rp 1,000. This column specifies the estimated number of viewers (in millions) on average in the monitored area that watched this series of episodes. This column specifies the average ratings of a series of episodes. Data do not include the ratings obtained by the respective Idul Fitri episodes. Except for the final episode, which was broadcast from 11 p.m. to midnight, after RCTI had finished broadcasting its Idul Fitri-related programmes. The airing of this rerun coincides with the founding day of Jakarta on 22 June. The starting time of the various episodes varied from 9:30 p.m. to 11:30 p.m. Except for the final episode, when a commercial spot cost Rp 7 million. During Si Doel 3, an Idul Fitri episode was aired on 9 February 1997 (1417 H) from 7:30 to 9 p.m. In the afternoon of 10 February 1997, RCTI aired the final episode of Si Doel 3. Except for the episodes which were broadcast on 20 May 1996, 28 October 1996, and 6 January 1997, which started at 9:30 p.m. In addition, the episode of 20 January 1997 was broadcast at 8 p.m. The final episode furthermore lasted 90 minutes instead of the usual 60, and was broadcast from 7:30 to 9 p.m. Except for the final episode, when a commercial spot cost Rp 15 million. Except for the final episode, which lasted 100 minutes and was broadcast from 7:20 to 9:00 p.m. Except for the final episode, when a commercial spot cost Rp 12 million. Based on available data. Data were available for the first eleven episodes, which were broadcast between 13 March and 22 May 2000. The data for this series were not obtained from ACNielsen but through personal communication with producer Rano Karno on 1 August 2003.

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Watching Si Doel

Exploiting the ratings of Si Doel The ratings of Si Doel were higher than those of any of its competitors, domestic or foreign. This knowledge was of great value to broadcaster RCTI, and it was used in various ways. The station’s sales department for instance exploited the authority of ratings when approaching potential advertisers and advertising agencies. The RCTI salespeople emphasized the high ratings obtained by Si Doel to convince agencies and advertisers that airing a commercial during this serial would be a sensible choice. At the same time, RCTI used these ratings to legitimize its fees: advertisers had to pay more for advertising in a Si Doel slot than for advertising in a low-rated programme during the same time slot. RCTI used ratings discourse not only in its contact with advertisers and advertising agencies, it also frequently mentioned viewing figures to impress the viewers and, equally important, make a statement to competing television stations. For example, the station claimed that the top ratings of 64 for the first series of Si Doel were the highest in the world.35 This claim is in fact refuted by literature on television-viewing worldwide: many Latin-American telenovelas obtain higher viewing figures (Vink 1988), and the Indian television version of the Mahabharata is even reported to have obtained a 90 per cent domestic viewer share (Shohat and Stam 1994:31). Nevertheless, this exceptional popularity of Si Doel was reiterated by and applauded in the press. In mentioning these figures, journalists and television critics were usually imprecise. One journalist stated that the average ratings of Si Doel 2 were 52, whereas in fact they were 56.36 Another television critic noted that the serial once obtained ratings of 73, which he considered to be ‘a record high in the history of Indonesian television’.37 Inaccuracies like these abound, suggesting that many writers did not make a genuine effort to relay exact numbers. Rather, it seems audience figures were used to add extra authority to their writings. It was not only RCTI that made use of the viewing figures of Si Doel. Producer Rano Karno exploited ‘his’ high ratings as well. Although he admitted that he did not believe in the accuracy of ratings, Karno frequently mentioned the high ratings of Si Doel in public or journalistic forums in a seemingly casual way. He would point out almost apologetically that his ratings of 64 were apparently the highest in the world.38 In addition, the pro35 See for instance kpo/zal, ‘Si Doel tanpa Benyamin, Masih Terpopuler?’, Republika, 2 March 1996, p. 7; ‘Si Doel Bakal Dilanjutkan’, Vista-TV, 13-4, March 1997, p. 108. 36 Hari A. Jauhari, ‘Tayangan Seri Si Doel III dengan Segudang Harapan’, Pikiran Rayat, 10 March 1996, p. 5. 37 Antariksawan Yusuf, ‘Indonesian Television and the Betawi Phenomenon’, The Indonesian Observer, 30 December 1997. 38 See for instance Bur, ‘Si Doel di Teve Singapura’, Republika (23-6-1996:13); Ita, ‘Rano Lirik Surabaya untuk Syuting SDAS: Merupakan Lokasi Syuting Pertama di Luar Jakarta’, Jawa Pos, 27 August 1996, p. 6.

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ducer used the knowledge that Si Doel continued to gain impressive ratings in his negotiations with the broadcasters. Si Doel 4 profits from the monetary crisis Although ratings are held in high esteem in the world of broadcasting, audience measurement and advertising, advertisers do not make decisions on the basis of ratings alone. It is equally important for them to know whether a programme is directed at a specific target audience, and whether this audience is compatible with the product that they intend to advertise. Naturally, the budget that the advertiser is willing to spend on a particular product is decisive too. If this budget is restricted, advertisers may choose to place their commercials in lower-rated but less expensive slots.39 The main factor influencing advertising strategies surrounding the fourth series of Si Doel, however, was the socio-economic crisis that had struck Indonesia and was about to reach its climax. RCTI felt the impact of the krismon particularly in the first months of 1998 when advertising figures for the February-April period were projected to drop by 60per cent. In anticipation of the consequences of this expected loss of income, RCTI took several austerity measures. Firstly, the broadcaster did not hire any new employees (although, at that time at least, it did not fire anyone either). In addition, the station reran several productions and was careful when purchasing new programmes. When the rupiah decreased in value to 17,000 to the US dollar,40 the programming department was told not to buy any foreign programmes. The station reduced its broadcasting hours and reset its targets. In the midst of these gloomy perspectives, there was one advantage for RCTI: the krismon induced many advertisers to avoid risks, provided they still had an advertising budget to spend. Most advertisers thus chose to promote their products on the same station as before the crisis, and they preferred advertising in programmes they were familiar with. Understandably, Si Doel proved to be a popular choice. Since its first three series had obtained high ratings, advertisers believed that the fourth edition of the serial would still manage to attract many of its faithful former viewers.41 Paradoxically, Si Doel 4 profited from the socio-economic crisis, which had such a negative impact on the television industry as a whole. The marketing department succeeded in selling all commercial blocks before the first episode had been broadcast. In fact, the supply of commercials scheduled 39 40 41

Interview with Thamrin Thalib, 19 December 1997. To compare, in 1996 the rate was 2,375 to the U.S. dollar. Interview with Eduard Depari, 15 April 1998.

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Watching Si Doel

to be broadcast during Si Doel 4 was such that RCTI could not place them all within the boundaries of the programme alone. So as not to have to turn down advertisers and lose precious revenues, RCTI’s marketing department decided to expand the sinetron to a quiz. This quiz was a secondary text on Si Doel, one that was generated by broadcasting discourse. The Sunsilk Quiz RCTI’s local programming manager, Mella Sabina, who co-coordinated the new broadcasting format of Si Doel 4, acknowledged that producing the quiz was a strategic move. Its main incentive was not to produce a show that allowed viewers from all over Indonesia to give their opinion on Si Doel, but rather to create as many advertising possibilities in and around the sinetron as possible.42 The quiz was recorded in one of RCTI’s indoor studios, using a setting that features a small shop similar to Lela’s warung in the sinetron. The warung was used for product placement, meaning that the products on display are paid for by the company that produces them. Compared to the sinetron warung, the quiz warung featured fewer local products and more expensive brands. It also sold cigarettes, whereas the sinetron warung did not. The main sponsor of the quiz since the third episode was Sunsilk, a well-known local hair-care product; hence the name of the quiz. Tika Panggabean, a female entertainer who for the occasion is dressed as a Betawi woman, hosts the Sunsilk Quiz. A couple of minutes before a new episode of Si Doel 4 is to be broadcast, Tika welcomes viewers to the quiz like this: ‘Hello, good evening, viewers, how do you do? Once again I, Tika Panggabean, am here to accompany you. And don’t forget as usual ‘Saturday night is Si Doel night’, come on all of you here [say] “Saturday night is Si Doel night”, that’s it.’43 After her introduction, Tika suggests that viewers watch the coming episode of Si Doel carefully so that they will be able to answer the quiz questions afterwards. The quiz host also hints at some matters that will be treated in that week’s episode (‘Who do you think is going to fetch Doel from the airport, Sarah or Zaenab?’), and reveals the passwords viewers will need to participate in the quiz. As a rule, this password is the title of that week’s episode; for example, the password for the quiz broadcast on 2 May 1998 was ‘Welcome home darling’ (Selamat datang kekasih). One or two actors, who play various types of ‘guests’ to enhance a warung-like atmosphere, 42

Interview with Mella Sabina, 25 March 1999. ‘Halo, selamat malam pemirsa, apa kabar? Kembali saye di sini Tika Panggabean menemani Anda. Dan jangan lupa seperti biasa “Malam Minggu Malamnya Si Doel”, semuanya coba yang di sini “Malam Minggu Malamnya Si Doel”, nah gitu.’ (Quiz master Tika Panggabean introduces The Sunsilk Quiz, 2 May 1998 (DVD no. 43)). 43

VI Si Doel as a broadcasting asset

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accompany Tika. During the quiz of 2 May 1998, the guest was a member of a civilian patrol group who stops by to chat with Tika. In the quiz broadcast on 8 August 1998, the guests were a parking assistant and a guitar player who hang around the warung drinking coffee and playing guitar. Tika has clearly been instructed to use Betawi Malay, just like the Si Doel characters. Judged from her fast and vivid way of talking, the presenter, a speaker of SJI of Batak descent, does not consider this assignment difficult. Native speakers of Betawi Malay, however, might frown on her language use. Tika’s perception of Betawi Malay resembles that of most non-native speakers and she sees it as a matter of using a word final /e/ where Standard Indonesian has word final /a/ – which at times she does quite emphatically. In addition, Tika often uses the verbal affix -in for SI -kan or -i, although, like other speakers of SJI, she also uses the regular SI forms. Otherwise, Tika uses few words that are distinctly Betawi Malay. What is more, in her enthusiasm to speak this language variety she also produces some hypercorrect forms. In the episode aired on 2 May 1998, for instance, Tika used BM *sambilin (meaningless) instead of the correct form ‘sambil’ (‘meanwhile, while’). One might consider this a mere slip of the tongue – and in fact, the presenter herself realized her mistake only moments later. However, little ‘mistakes’ like these are worth mentioning, because they are a reminder that Tika is trying to represent a language variety – Betawi Malay – that is not her native language. Incidentally, Betawi Malay is not the only language the host tries to speak: next to her Betawi ‘act’, the quiz host also imitates the voices and dialects of viewers that phone in to the quiz (DVD no. 43). The actual quiz The actual quiz only starts after that week’s episode of the sinetron has been aired. Host Tika makes a short comment on the episode (‘Wasn’t that exciting, viewers?’) and then asks a question related to it. To give viewers throughout Indonesia an equal chance to participate in the quiz, callers can choose between two telephone numbers, one for Jakartan viewers and one for viewers calling from outside Jakarta. Once a caller is permitted to participate in the quiz, he or she must first mention the password revealed before the showing of the sinetron. If the caller gives the correct answer, the programme host will make some small talk with him or her, inquiring for instance about where the call is made from. If a viewer admits to calling from far away from Jakarta, the programme host responds with great enthusiasm. In later editions, viewers were first allowed to participate in the quiz and then pick one of the Si Doel characters, who are displayed as life-size cardboard figures on a stage. Tika then would ask a question specifically tailored to that particular character in relation to the last

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Watching Si Doel

episode shown. Some questions were relatively easy because they are closely related to the plot of the sinetron. In the 2 May 1998 edition of the quiz, for instance, a caller had to say what present Doel brought for Sarah when he returned from Switzerland. Other questions went into such detail that only viewers who watched the sinetron very attentively would have been able to give an answer, for example the question of which song was played during a close-up of the antagonist Roy’s bald head (edition of 1 August 1998). The host replies to a correct answer (in the first example, a ring) with the phrase bungkus (SI or Jakarta Malay for ‘wrap it up’). Callers giving a correct answer receive between Rp 250–500 thousand (at the time approximately US$ 30–60). The response to wrong answers is angus (Jakarta Malay for ‘cancelled’, SI hangus), and these callers receive nothing. Viewers are furthermore invited to phone in and give their opinion on either the serial or one of its actors. One caller seized the opportunity to remark that Mandra, who was a skinny actor in the first series of Si Doel, had become too chubby to play his unemployed alter ego convincingly in the serial’s latest edition. Visibly embarrassed by this type of criticism, the host cut off this speaker right away (edition of 25 April 1998). Another caller complained that Doel should smile more often and not look so gloomy. To this the host responded that if Doel were to smile too much, people would consider him a lunatic (edition of 2 May 1998). Such responses to viewers’ honest opinions suggest that the production team was ready to deal with praise but found it difficult to appreciate more critical comments. Nevertheless, all these callers receive a small amount of money. The Sunsilk quiz also provides background information on the actors that play in Si Doel and on the making of the sinetron. It features ‘street reports’, for which the production team travels to various places in Indonesia. Each week the team asks viewers a sinetron-related question at that particular location. For example, viewers in Bogor are asked how Doel should deal with his feelings for Sarah and Zaenab, while inhabitants of Bandung must answer the question of which role they themselves would like to play in the serial if they were given the opportunity. In response to the question of who they would like to play, some respondents stated that they would like to play Doel, Sarah, or Zaenab, while others created new roles for themselves. A young woman said that she would like to become Mandra’s private teacher, so that this character would receive a proper education and get ahead in life. A young man imagined himself as Doel’s best friend, the person to whom Doel would turn for feedback, encouragement and criticism. A vendor of siomai (steamed Chinese ravioli filled with meat or fish) expressed the wish to play a siomai vendor in Si Doel. The socio-economic crisis not only determined the format in which Si Doel 4 was presented to the audience, it also directly influenced the broadcast-

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ing day of the fourth series. Si Doel 4 was first scheduled to be broadcast on Monday evenings, but because of the crisis it was moved to Saturday night. To promote this new broadcasting day, RCTI introduced the slogan ‘Saturday night is Si Doel night’ (Malam minggu, malamnya Si Doel), and programme host Tika made sure that she repeated the slogan several times during the quiz. Normally, Saturday night is not considered a good day for broadcasting, as potential viewers are expected to spend much of their leisure time outside their home – that is, not watching television. The crisis however had forced many viewers to restrict their expenditures, and staying at home watching television therefore seemed a good alternative for going out and spending money, particularly if one could actually make money watching television, for instance by participating in a quiz.44 For this reason, the format of ‘direct response telequizzes’ – such as the Sunsilk quiz which offered cash prizes to callers – became more popular during the krismon (Achjadi and Katoppo 1999:62). While RCTI considered the quiz a smart programming strategy, the new format did not please the producer of Si Doel. Rano Karno feared the quiz would make his programme less entertaining, for example because it would lessen the viewers’ desire to discuss the serial: Back then, Si Doel appeared and then it was finished, right. But nowadays it is not. They make a quiz and all sorts of things, so that it doesn’t… it doesn’t leave an impression, you know. Back then, after it had ended, right, people would ask: ‘Oh my, that poor Doel, what will become of him?’ Right, like that. But now they don’t, because it has already been discussed, so that it is not an attractive programme anymore. People watch Si Doel not only just to watch it, but also to talk about it. Don’t you think? 45

The producer moreover feared that the quiz host’s introduction to that week’s episode would ruin the surprises that he put in the episode.46 However, it was not up to Rano Karno to decide how his programme was treated, and despite his complaints to broadcaster RCTI the quiz was maintained.

44

Interview with Antariksawan Yusuf, 23 April 1998. ‘Dulu kan Si Doel itu hadir dan kemudian habis. Kalau sekarang kan tidak. Bikin kuis bikin ini, sehingga tidak … tidak meninggalkan [kesan] kan. Kalau dulu […] begitu ending, kan orang tanya: “aduh, kasihan gimana si Doel nih”. Kan begitu. Kalau sekarang nggak, dibahas lagi! Jadi udah tidak menjadi satu tontonan yang menarik. […] Orang nonton Si Doel bukan hanya untuk nonton, tapi membicarakan dia juga. Ya kan?’ Telephone interview with Rano Karno, 3 September 1998. 46 Interview with Rano Karno, 29 April 1998. 45

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Discovering the marketability of local television When Si Doel was launched, commercial broadcasters in Indonesia relied predominantly on foreign programmes and to a much lesser extent on domestic mainstream sinetron. The remarkable success of first Gossip lenong and later Si Doel convinced RCTI and other commercial television stations that domestic programmes that were rooted in a specific locality were in fact marketable. The exceptional success of these and similar programmes also proved to broadcast professionals that Betawi culture and the Betawi language were accessible for, and popular with, viewers of various ethnic backgrounds. Both programmes thus indicated that the exploration of local culture was a promising programme formula. One instrument that turned Si Doel into the showpiece of both Karnos Film and broadcaster RCTI was the instrument of ratings. When Si Doel turned out to be the first domestic television serial to score higher ratings than any other domestic or foreign programme, this turning point in the development of the Indonesian television industry influenced programming strategies on all commercial television stations. RCTI used the authority of ratings in various ways. First, the station mentioned the serial’s high viewing figures to legitimize the advertising fees it charged to advertisers wanting to promote their products in Si Doel. In addition, to maximize profits on commercials surrounding the fourth series, the marketing department of RCTI created the Sunsilk telequiz. Though the quiz was also meant to entertain its viewers, it primarily served as an extended commercial. The Sunsilk quiz copied the atmosphere of the sinetron as well as its idiom. Hence the serial employed a warung setting, and presenter Tika Panggabean tried using the language that was spoken in the serial. For RCTI, the quiz was an example of smart marketing. Producer Rano Karno, however, was anxious that the quiz would have unfavourable effects on the audience’s perception of Si Doel. The fact that RCTI maintained the quiz, in spite of the producer’s protests, proved that Si Doel had not only been transformed from a production into a profitable product that benefited both Karnos Film and RCTI, it had also become a product of which its creator had partly lost control.

CHAPTER VII

Catching ‘Doel fever’

Si Doel in the discourse of ordinary viewers and television critics

Shortly after RCTI had purchased Si Doel 1, staff members from RCTI’s programming department previewed the serial. These employees were the first critical audience of the serial – after the staff members of production company Karnos Film, that is. Even though previewing new acquisitions is a routine part of their jobs, Si Doel succeeded in impressing most previewers and became a topic of conversation. As one staff member who was present at the occasion recalls, he and most of his colleagues ‘started laughing and kept laughing until the end’. Used to the predictability of mainstream sinetron, which featured the same themes and actors over and over again, employees were reportedly delighted by the freshness of Si Doel, both in terms of atmosphere and acting. Previewers moreover appreciated the serial’s focus on ordinary life in the kampong rather than urban metropolitan life, the common setting of mainstream sinetron. They also thought the serial was truly funny, unlike other domestic serials in which actors tried to be funny but actually were not.1 While the serial had thus survived its first critical assessment, the real test was still to come. On Sunday 23 January 1994, RCTI transmitted Si Doel to the living rooms of millions of Indonesians, inserting the serial into the discourse practices of a multitude of viewers. Exposing the ways in which television critics and ‘ordinary’ viewers engaged with this television text highlights the critical debate surrounding Indonesian television in late New Order Indonesia. The term television critic refers to those people who monitor the television industry and its output critically for a living. The label of ‘ordinary viewer’, by contrast, signifies the majority of the television audience: those people who mainly switch on the television to enjoy a particular programme. The boundary between the two categories is vague, with critics also acting as ordinary viewers when watching television. As soon as they take part in the public debate, however, they take on their role of television critic. The assess1

Interview with Erwin Ariodarma, RCTI, 3 December 1997.

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ment of Si Doel in public critical discourse and ordinary viewers’ discourse reveals how this sinetron is considered exceptional Indonesian television and shows how Indonesian audiences define ‘good ‘ television at the turn of the twenty-first century. Si Doel in public critical discourse Si Doel 1: Making waves Before the showing of Si Doel, magazines and newspaper featured articles describing the production process and the idea behind Si Doel based on interviews with Rano Karno and visits to the set. Virtually all the articles sketched the media history of the figure Doel from its creation by Aman Datuk Madjoindo in 1932 to Sjuman Djaya’s movies Child of Betawi and Child of modernity. Producer Rano Karno explained that Si Doel was made in the spirit of Child of Betawi but should not be regarded as a sequel to this film. Rather, the sinetron was meant to pay tribute to the movie’s main character Doel, a role that made the young Rano Karno famous.2 In another article, Rano Karno stated explicitly that it was his aim to attain spiritual satisfaction rather than make a profit. The producer even expressed his fear that for financial reasons this production might well be his last. Rano Karno declared that he was prepared to suffer a financial loss, however, because Si Doel enabled him to realize his ‘obsession’ of reviving the character Doel. It also enabled him to fulfil his late father’s long-cherished wish that Karnos Film produce a movie about a local hero.3 Rano Karno’s concern that Si Doel might well be his last production proved unfounded. The first episode of Si Doel was fully booked with commercials, and both ordinary viewers and television critics received the serial enthusiastically. The PR officer for RCTI, Eduard Depari, in an article entitled ‘The Doel phenomenon’ concluded that the sinetron had infected the audience with Demam Si Doel (Doel fever): millions of viewers gathered in front of the television when Si Doel was on and talked about the serial afterwards. The viewing data that ratings agency ACNielsen (then known as SRI) assembled were furthermore astonishing: for the first time in the history of Indonesian television a programme had received a rating of 50, which implied that half the viewing population (Depari probably meant half the potential viewing population) in four large Indonesian cities was watching the sinetron during the measurement.4 2

Cipta P, ‘Ketika Si Doel Menebus Janji: Biar Oplet Tapi Sekolahan’, Vista-TV, January 1994, p. 9. 3 Hana, ‘Si Doel Anak Sekolahan Sebagai Karya Pertama Sekaligus Terakhir’, Citra, 199, IV, 17-23 January 1994. 4 Eduard Depari, ‘Fenomena Si Doel’, Mutiara Weekly, second week of March 1994, p. 9.

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While Depari in his PR role may have had an interest in portraying Si Doel favourably, independent television critics praised the success of the sinetron in similar words. Critics also noted that television, through Si Doel and earlier programmes, familiarized viewers throughout the archipelago with the Betawi idiom.5 As could be expected, the serial also generated less flattering comments. Critics considered the plot line in which Sarah’s cousin Hans turned out to be Doel’s best friend symptomatic of the ‘coincidence illness’6 plaguing Indonesian sinetron in general. One finds criticism of this kind in other pieces as well, but in general the press reviewed Si Doel sympathetically. As the serial ended with no prospect of a sequel, critics did wonder whether this mini-serial would be able to retain its momentum.

Figure 7.1 Promotional activities during the broadcasting of Si Doel 2 in Surabaya, East Java

5

Adi, ‘Si Doel Anak Sekolahan: Obsesi Rano Karno tentang Masyarakat Betawi’, Bintang, 151, III, second week of January 1994; Benny N. Joewono and Veven Sp Wardhana, ‘Kelangkaan Anak Betawi Dalam Napas Kelucuan’, Citra, 199, IV, 17-23 January 1994. 6 For a discussion of coincidence as an instrument for bringing order in Javanese fiction, see Quinn (1992:121-9). Incidentally, in popular television genres from other countries, such as Western soaps and Latin-American telenovelas, coincidence also is an important narrative device.

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Si Doel 2: Retaining the momentum Judged by the sheer volume, as well the tenor of the criticism and comments about Si Doel 2, the new twenty-six episode series was able to fulfil the high expectations of television critics and ordinary viewers. Some critics were of the opinion that the second series was even more successful than the first;7 others thought the opposite.8 Particularly in retrospect, critics applauded the success of the first series, calling it ‘a rare and phenomenal piece of work’ and ‘an oasis in the long, dry season in which our sinetron industry finds itself’.9 Others praised the dialogues, which ‘proceed smoothly, and trigger the laughter of viewers’.10 Whereas the sinetron received much praise, it also generated some criticism. Some viewers criticized the serial’s representation of Betawi culture. PR officer Depari stated in its defence that most Betawi would disagree with such criticism. He also called for the creation of television characters similar to Doel but from other ethnic groups, who would feature in serials modelled on Si Doel but with a non-Betawi setting instead.11 Depari entitled his article Si Doel bukan Betawi (‘Non-Betawi Doel’), a pun on the Indonesian title of both Sjuman Djaya’s 1973 movie and the sinetron.12 Although both television critics and ordinary viewers at times criticized a particular episode, they mainly discussed the serial in connection with trends and developments in the Indonesian television industry as a whole. A recurrent concern in critical discourse surrounding Indonesian television at the time was the dominant position of foreign productions, which supposedly promoted values that were different from so-called ‘Indonesian’ values (Kitley 2000:102-5). Television critics frowned upon the permissive lifestyle that was propagated in these foreign programmes, and condemned the portrayal of explicit sexuality and the abundance of violence in these productions. Critics expressed their concern that such programmes might have detrimental or even dangerous effects on the mind of the average Indonesian 7 Yanto Bhokek, ‘Si Doel Pergi Ke Swiss: Siapa Yang Setia Menanti Dia Kembali’, Bintang, 316, VII, first week, April 1997. 8 Marselli, ‘Si Rano Anak Cerdas’, Vista-TV, November 1994, pp. 32-3. 9 M. Kusnaeni, ‘Si Doel Anak Sekolahan 3: Dari Nazar ke Nazar Jatuh di Nazar’, Vista-TV (Bonus to Special Edition), 15 December 1995, p. 4. 10 Didit, ‘Nonton “Si Doel” Bukan Sekadar Tertawa’, Suara Pembaruan, 7 December 1994, p. 11. 11 Eduard Depari, ‘Si Doel Bukan Betawi’, Surabaya Post, 5 February 1995, p. 14. 12 Depari is not unique having made a pun on the phrases Si Doel anak Betawi or Si Doel anak sekolahan; in fact, many television critics did the same to emphasize the thrust of their critical comments. Thus I encountered writings with titles such as ‘Si Rano anak cerdas’ (Clever Rano) in Vista-TV, November 1994, pp. 32-3) and ‘Si Doel anak globalisasi’ (Doel, child of globalization) in Wardhana [1997, pp. 264-7]). In addition, Wardhana (2001, pp. 335-44) features a series of columns entitled ‘Si Doel anak kewalahan’ (Overwhelmed Doel), ‘Si Doel agak kewalahan’ (Doel, a bit overwhelmed) and ‘Si Doel anak Indosiar’ (Doel, child of Indosiar).

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viewer. Discussions about the impact of foreign programmes often centred on several binary oppositions, the most persistent being the consumeristic, permissive West as opposed to the contemplative, religious East. Indonesian television critics and Indonesian and foreign media researchers employ terms such as ‘cultural imperialism’ (Kitley 2000:293), ‘media imperialism’ (Shohat and Stam 1994:31), and ‘electronic colonialism’ (Malik 1997:43) to refer to the unequal terms on which this exchange in media products between ‘the West and the Rest’ takes place. Sen and Hill (2000:108) use the term ‘Westoxification’, which draws attention to the alleged poisonous effects of this Western cultural domination. It also embodies the negative associations with Western culture that dominate these discussions in the context of national television in Indonesia. A related and equally important issue in critical discourse surrounding Indonesian television was the question of how to create a ‘truly Indonesian’ television industry. Critics agreed that to counter the damaging impact of foreign productions producers would have to create popular domestic programmes that respected the values upheld in Indonesian society. Both issues, incidentally, were far from new: they ‘echo a long-running concern about the undesirable influence of imported films, music, style, and values’ (Kitley 2000:103). The undesirable impact of the West had indeed been an important factor in the cultural scene of Indonesia for decades. In the 1960s, President Sukarno prohibited the performance of Western-style music (Gunawijaya and Yudoseputro 1997:83). In addition, the film industry introduced the slogan ‘host in one’s own country’ (tuan rumah di negeri sendiri) to call attention to the dire straits in which the Indonesian film found itself. Film professionals asked for import quota to protect the Indonesian film and for regulations to boost domestic film production (Said 1982:203). This discussion was revived in 1990 by then Minister of Information, Harmoko (Said 1991:218). Applying the Westoxification pejorative to the medium of television, the Indonesian government in 1993 issued the ‘local-content appeal’ (imbauan muatan lokal). This appeal called upon private stations to broadcast 70 per cent local as opposed to 30 per cent foreign programming. In the 1997 Broadcast Law, this target was sharpened to 80 per cent versus 20 per cent. The aim of the local-content ruling was twofold. On the one hand, it had to boost the performance of the sinetron industry. At the same time, the rise in sinetron had to counter the abundance of foreign programmes proliferating on national television. As the legal status of the ruling was but that of an appeal (imbauan), the government had no means of reprimanding stations violating the local-toimported ratio.13 It was only after stations had discovered for themselves that the Indonesian audience received domestic productions favourably that the amount of local programming on national television increased substantially. 13

Interview with Eduard Depari, 9 December 1997.

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Watching Si Doel

Si Doel was often evaluated against this background. Some television critics welcomed the serial as a powerful antidote to what they called the ‘cultural pollution’ of foreign programmes. They appreciated ‘the sensational performance of this local product, with its local setting and local crew, which has been financed locally’.14 According to one critic, the remarkable success of Si Doel proved to station managers viewers’ taste is not a given, but that could be developed (Mulyana 1997:5). At the end of the second series of Si Doel, another critic concluded that Rano has successfully offered a strong product and concept, through which our television industry and television culture have been stimulated tremendously: we are capable of doing something, of doing much. [A strong product and concept with which to face the intervention of foreign programmes, which is becoming more and more terrifying. [A strong product and concept with which to strengthen our self-confidence, which is developing by fits and starts.15

Si Doel 3: Preserving the Betawi touch Though Si Doel was often discussed for the story it presented there were other aspects of the serial highlighted too. First, critics of Si Doel 3 reiterated what critics of earlier series had noted, that television contributed to the popularization of Betawi Malay. Some of them pointed out that it was not only through television serials such as Si Doel but also through the subtitles of foreign productions that viewers were increasingly confronted with Jakarta Malay.16 Others, such as television authority Syamsuddin Ch. Haessy, emphasized that the medium of radio had also contributed to the popularization of Jakarta Malay because throughout Indonesia radio presenters tended to imitate the language of the capital.17 In their discussions on Si Doel, television critics and ordinary viewers moreover tried to pinpoint the secret of its success. According to Garin Nugroho, one of Indonesia’s major film directors and media critics, the enduring success of Si Doel was the result of a combination of factors.18 First, the serial depicted Indonesia on a micro-scale, while the characters represented various segments of Indonesian society: for instance, next to the traditional Zaenab it featured the independent young professional Sarah. In addition, 14

Rpd, ‘Prestasi TV Paling Sensasional’, Vista-TV (Bonus to Special Edition), 15 December 1995, p. 2. 15 Radhar Panca Dahana, ‘Tokoh Televisi 1995: Doel Rano’, Vista-TV (Special Edition), 15 December 1995, p. 9. 16 Ahli Bahasa, ‘Bahasa Indonesia dalam Film’, Republika, 20 December 1996, p. 6. 17 Interview with Syamsuddin Ch. Haessy, 29 December 1997. At the time, Haessy held advisory functions for several producers as well as for RCTI’s competitor TPI. 18  Garin Nugroho, ‘Mengapa “Si Doel” Bertahan Sukses?’, Kompas Online, 7 June 1996, viewing date 20 June 1996.

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the issues with which the characters wrestle, such as Doel’s lengthy unemployment, were believed to affect many Indonesians in daily life. Another asset was the serial’s locality as it appeared from the setting of the sinetron and the language of the characters. Finally, Nugroho pointed to Rano Karno’s lifelong commitment to the entertainment industry, calling the actor playing Doel ‘an audiovisual hero for each generation’.19 From the third series onwards, television commentators and ordinary viewers became increasingly critical of Si Doel. Particularly the absence of star actor Benyamin S., the actor who played Babe Sabeni who passed away between the shoots of the second and third series, was much lamented. This loss made critics doubt whether Si Doel 3 would be able to maintain its former success.20 One person believed that the third series would still be successful, because Si Doel was ‘a non-delusive programme that reflects life, especially for middle- and lower-class people who feel ignored by the glamorous hurlyburly of the larger-than-life programmes that are targeted at the elite’.21 The first episode of the new sequel, in which Babe Sabeni is reported to have died in a car accident, led another columnist to remark that ‘the emotional involvement of viewers with the characters and performers in this serial is successfully explored with much sincerity by Rano [Karno] and Harry [Tjahyono]. The grief about the loss of the big star Benjamin S. and the grief of the Si Doel family about the departure of father Sabeni unite in a touching procession’.22 Most points of criticism were related to the serial’s increasing resemblance to mainstream sinetron. Viewers for instance complained that the serial ‘stretched time’, and that it had become languid and monotonous.23 One viewer complained that nothing happened during the first three episodes of the third series, except for the characters mourning the death of Babe Sabeni. He noted that whereas the cameraman in the first two series used a variety of shots, the images in this third series were monotonous. In addition, in the first two series, the language of the characters had been an important asset, but in this latest sequel the dialogues were less spontaneous and therefore not as funny. This viewer criticized the portrayal of Betawi culture in the third series and advised Rano Karno to contact some Betawi experts because ‘Si Doel is not only the property of the Betawi people; it has turned into a national asset, 19

Interview with Garin Nugroho, 9 June 2000. Kpo/zal, ‘Si Doel tanpa Benyamin, Masih Terpopuler?’, Republika, 2 March 1996, p. 7. 21 Hari A. Jauhari, ‘Tayangan Seri Si Doel III dengan Segudang Harapan’, Pikiran Rayat, 10 March 1996, p. 5. 22 Yanto Bhokek, ‘Si Doel Pergi Ke Swiss: Siapa Yang Setia Menanti Dia Kembali’, Bintang, 316, VII, first week, April 1997. 23 EAE, ‘Si Doel Anak Sekolahan III: Anak Betawi Tanpa Babe’, Vista-TV, 13, III, March 1996, p. 92; Eddy Yoen, ‘“Si Doel” kehilangan pakem’, Angkatan Bersenjata, 15 March 1996; IWN, ‘Si Doel Anak Sekolahan III (RCTI, 29 July, 19.30)’, Merdeka, 29 July 1996, p. 8. 20

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which should be treated seriously and correctly’.24 In another column, Si Doel was seen as ‘trapped in the tradition of our electronic cinema, which does not present enough conflicts.’25 Another critic sighed that the latest sequel to Si Doel was not much different from other sinetron, which all revolved around love affairs.26 A Betawi theatre-maker and film critic regretted that the third series was no longer a topic of conversation in Betawi circles because its genre had shifted from comedy to drama. The absence of Babe Sabeni and his spontaneous jokes and dialogues had made the third series less exciting, and the other characters acted and spoke less spontaneously than before. This critic advised Rano Karno not to continue Si Doel on his own.27 An ordinary viewer expressed her discontent with the development of the main characters in the third series as follows: As a fan of the sinetron Si Doel 3, lately I have become increasingly worried about the storyline and the characters who represent figures in the Betawi community. It turns out that not one of them is a source of pride. The figure of Doel, who should be a leader, has become a youngster who always puts on a depressed face, who is pessimistic, not creative, and whose job is unclear. […] At the same time Mandra, who makes no progress whatsoever, always causes trouble. […] It is a pity, isn’t it, that the story [that] this attractive sinetron [presents] is becoming increasingly inconsistent with the concept that it wanted to convey, that is that the Betawi are not behind the times.28

Si Doel 3 still received ample praise though, because its characters were not ‘creatures from a different planet’ as in other sinetron.29 The serial was also congratulated for staying clear of ‘the viruses in the entertainment industry (sex and violence)’.30 One critical viewer paid tribute to the fact that Si Doel ‘implicitly and explicitly explained that material values are not all there is’.31 There was also praise for the serials’ efforts to knock down the cultural and ethnic barriers that divide Indonesian society. One means by which this was

24

Eddy Yoen, ‘“Si Doel” kehilangan pakem’, Angkatan Bersenjata, 15 March 1996. IWN, ‘Si Doel Anak Sekolahan III (RCTI, 29 July, 19.30)’, Merdeka, 29 July 1996, p. 8. 26 Rakaryan S, ‘“Si Doel Anak Sekolahan”, Betawi yang Semakin Ditinggalkan’, Kompas, 19 September 1996, p. 25. 27 SM Ardan, ‘Si Doel “Ngaso” dulu – “Katenye…”’, Kompas, 11 February 1997, p. 10. 28 Rina, ‘Si Doel Jangan Ketinggalan Zaman’, Kompas, 29 October 1996, p. 4. 29 Yb, ‘Si Doel Anak Sekolahan: Lega Rasanya Melihat Si Doel’, Bintang Online, 17 July 1996, viewing date 5 October 1996. 30 Yanto Bhokek, ‘Si Doel Pergi Ke Swiss: Siapa Yang Setia Menanti Dia Kembali’, Bintang, 316, VII, first week, April 1997. 31 ‘Dadan Suwarna, ‘“Si Doel” dan Wajah Kita’, Pikiran Rakyat, 1 September 1996, p. 7. 25

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accomplished was by using the Betawi dialect as the language of communication.32 The long-lasting success of Si Doel and its high ratings in Indonesia attracted the attention of broadcast professionals in other countries as well. As with other serials aired by RCTI, viewers in Malaysia who had access to the Palapa satellite could watch Si Doel, as could viewers in Singapore and Brunei Darussalam via home satellite dishes.33 The Singapore station Television Twelve (TV12) also noted the outstanding success of Si Doel. TV12 bought the first series of Si Doel and aired it as Doel, the schoolboy. Reportedly this was the first time that an Indonesian sinetron was screened by a foreign broadcaster.34 The schoolboy was broadcast without subtitles, as TV12 expected that its target audience – ethnic Malays whose native language Malay was thought to sufficiently resemble the language spoken in the serial – would not experience any difficulties in interpreting the dialogues.35 According to an employee of TV12, the screenings of Si Doel were quite successful.36 Commenting upon this development, an Indonesian television critic observed that this ‘visit’ of the Sabeni family to Singapore contrasted sharply with the usual direction in which native inhabitants of Jakarta moved: The fate of Doel and his family differs from that of most other members of the Betawi community. Whereas many members of the Betawi community are evicted to the border of Jakarta, Doel goes international and reaches out to neighbouring country Singapore. But that is only as far as the sinetron Si Doel is concerned.37

Generally, however, from the third series onwards allusions to the Betawi community in relation to Si Doel were voiced in less positive terms. Discussing the portrayal of the Betawi in the third series, one critic remarked: How unfortunate is the fate of the Betawi people. After they have been much ignored in the tumult of Jakarta, now the Betawi are being abandoned on the tele­ vision screen. Signs that point in that direction become apparent from the image [that is sketched by] Si Doel 3, which was originally produced with the aim of lifting the dignity and prestige of the Betawi.38 32

Katamsi Ginano, ‘Mengkritisi Sinetron Indonesia’, Merdeka, 23 September 1996. K. Basrie, ‘Rano Karno releases first solo album’, Jakarta Post, 2 March 1997, p. 11. 34 ‘TV Singapura Tayangkan Si Doel’, Neraca, 19 June 1996; Bur, ‘Si Doel di Teve Singapura’, Republika, 23 June 1996, p. 13; BM, ‘“Si Doel” Di TV 12 Singapura’, Suara Merdeka, 30 June 1996. 35 Malay is one out of four official languages in Singapore, the others being English, Mandarin-Chinese, and Tamil. 36 Interview with Noor Azlan Bin Salim, TV12, Singapore, 28 May 1998. 37 ‘Nasib si Doel dan keluarganya berbeda dengan kebanyakan warga Betawi lainnya. Kalau banyak warga Betawi tergusur di pinggiran Jakarta, si Doel justru melakukan gerakan “go international” merambah ke negeri jiran, Singapura. Tapi itu baru terbatas sinetronnya, Si Doel Anak Sekolahan,’‘Apa dan Siapa’, Gatra, 20 July 1996, p. 47. 38 ‘Betapa malangnya nasib Betawi. Setelah banyak tersisih dalam hiruk pikuk kota Jakarta, kini Betawi mulai ditinggalkan di layar televisi. Tanda-tanda ke arah itu mulai jelas dari gam33

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Ordinary viewers and television critics were not only complaining about Si Doel’s portrayal of the Betawi community. Their criticism also applied to its depiction of other ethnic groups, notably the Javanese. Some disapproved of the incorporation of too many Javanese elements in the latter series. The critic who lamented the fate of the Betawi people in Si Doel 3, for instance, also grieved over the fact that Javanese accents and ways of thinking were becoming more dominant in the third series.39 Others condemned the negative and stereotypical depiction of the Javanese in Si Doel; particularly the characterization of Mas Karyo was protested.40 One viewer addressed his protest directly to Rano Karno: As a Javanese, I feel very upset about and can’t accept the character of Mas Karyo, who does not display any positive characteristics. […] I can’t bear to see it, as if the Javanese are always hungry, prone to deceive, prone to make debts, smart in making up excuses, good liars, etc. Whereas in fact Javanese people have refined characters. […] I understand what you aim for, Brother Rano, namely to lift skyhigh the dignity and prestige of Betawi culture. But you should know that viewers of Si Doel do not only consist of the Betawi people; they include all people of Indonesia. 41

Despite increasing criticism, the third series in 1996 still topped the ranking lists in Indonesia. In addition, the respected television magazine Vista-TV proclaimed Si Doel 3 the best drama serial of 1996, and appointed Rano Karno as its favourite male artist of the year.42 Si Doel 4: Facing the monetary crisis After Si Doel 3 had ended, RCTI reportedly received ‘a million’ phone calls and letters from viewers from various parts of the country requesting that the baran sinetron Si Doel Anak Sekolahan (SDAS III) yang semula dibuat dengan maksud mengangkat harkat dan martabat Betawi,’ Rakaryan S, ‘“Si Doel Anak Sekolahan”, Betawi yang Semakin Ditinggalkan’, Kompas, 19 September 1996, p. 25 39 Rakaryan S, ‘“Si Doel Anak Sekolahan”, Betawi yang Semakin Ditinggalkan’, Kompas, 19 September 1996, p. 25. 40 Fer, ‘Sebagai Karyo, Basuki Banyak Diprotes’, Jawa Pos, 11 July 1996, p. 6. 41 ‘[S]ebagai orang Jawa, saya sangat tersentuh dan tak bisa menerima karakter Mas Karyo yang tak ada segi positifnya. […] Saya kesal melihatnya, seakan orang Jawa gragas kelaparan, tukang tipu, tukang utang, pintar cari alasan, pintar bohong, dan sebagainya. Padahal orang Jawa itu halus karakternya. […] [S]aya mengerti maksud Bang Rano, yakni ingin mengangkat harkat dan martabat budaya Betawi setinggi-tingginya. Tapi perlu Bang Rano ketahui, pemirsa Si Doel Anak Sekolahan bukan hanya orang Betawi, melainkan semua rakyat Indonesia,’ H.M. Yusuf Blitar, ‘Saran untuk Bang Doel’, Gatra, 5 October 1996, p. 8. 42 Ysr, ‘Anugerah Vista TV 96: Desy Ratnasari dan Rano Karno Artis Favorit’, www.republika. co.id/9612/20/20xvista.174.html, 20 December 1996, viewing date 22 December 1996.

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final episode of the third series be rerun. This episode had been broadcast on 10 February 1997, coinciding with the end of the Idul Fitri, so many viewers had been unable to watch it.43 On 23 February 1997, RCTI met this request.44 In their letters to the station, viewers moreover ‘forced’ Rano Karno to continue his serial, suggesting that Doel marry Sarah.45 The producer appreciated the concern that viewers displayed for his serial, but announced that he would need at least a four-month break before he could start producing a sequel.46 One viewer, who was afraid that the serial might not be continued, reported to RCTI that the idea that she would never be able to watch Si Doel again had made her fall ill and caused her blood pressure to rise.47 This viewer had no reason to worry, because a new sequel of Si Doel was eventually produced, though under less favourable circumstances than its predecessors were. In the second half of 1997 Karnos Film suffered greatly from the monetary crisis in Indonesia and other Southeast Asian countries. The production company encountered manifold obstacles as a consequence of the krismon and there was much discussion about them before the showing of the fourth series.48 Most importantly, the krismon thwarted Rano Karno’s plans to shoot footage for his fourth series in Switzerland and France. These shootings were meant to ‘change the atmosphere from an environment that feels grubby and monotonous into one that is bright’. Rano Karno hoped that this change would also have its impact on the development of the characters.49 As a producer who was internationally oriented, Rano Karno moreover believed that including footage from foreign countries in his production would increase its appeal for foreign broadcasters.50 The press reported on how the monetary crisis influenced the format in which Si Doel 4 was broadcast (the Sunsilk quiz that enveloped the sinetron), its day of broadcasting,

43

Jpnn, ‘Sejuta Penelepon Minta “Si Doel” Dilanjutkan: Agar Banyak Singgung tentang Cinta Segi Tiga Si Doel’, Jawa Pos, 24 February 1997, p. 24. 44 Yus, ‘Sejuta Telepon untuk Si Doel: “Ending” Si Doel Ditayangkan Ulang RCTI Malam Ini’, Surabaya Post, 23 February 1997, p. 13. 45 Christicia Sulistya Riny, ‘Si Doel dijadikan Keluarga Besar’, Vista-TV, 16, IV, April 1997, p. 40. 46 Jpnn, ‘Sejuta Penelepon Minta “Si Doel” Dilanjutkan: Agar Banyak Singgung tentang Cinta Segi Tiga Si Doel’, Jawa Pos, 24 February 1997, p. 24. 47 Nining Halimah, ‘Sinetron “Si Doel” Distop, Hypertensi Saya Naik Lagi’, Jawa Pos, 7 March 1997, p. 13. 48 Kris, ‘Si Doel Anak Sekolahan 4: Batal Syuting di Swiss’, Citra, 400, VIII, 24-30 November 1997, p. 19; Yan, ‘Lebih Baik Kami Berhenti…: “Si Doel” Terkatung, Starvision Mengeluh’, Suara Merdeka, 27 February 1998.; Vip, ‘Terpukul Krismon, “Si Doel” Dipangkas’, Surabaya Post, 27 March 1998, p. 14. 49 ‘[...] mengubah suasana dari lingkungan yang terasa kumuh dan monoton menjadi cerah,’ Ran, ‘Batal, Syuting “Si Doel Anak Sekolahan IV” di Swiss: Tapi, Si Doel Ngotot Ingin Bertemu Sarah di Paris’, Jawa Pos, 5 February 1998. 50 Yus, ‘Sejuta Telepon untuk Si Doel: “Ending” Si Doel Ditayangkan Ulang RCTI Malam Ini’, Surabaya Post, 23 February 1997, p. 13.

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and the number of commercial slots in the sinetron.51 Finally, journalists noted that because of the krismon the total number of episodes, which was thirty-two to begin with, was eventually reduced to sixteen.52 When at last Si Doel 4 was launched, the press received it with little enthusiasm. One reporter described the press meeting during which various excerpts of the new serial were shown as resembling a courtroom in which Karnos Film was on trial. One of the ‘charges’ the production company faced was that themes presented in the sinetron, such as the love triangle between Doel, Sarah, and Zaenab, were worn out. The press was moreover annoyed that no Karnos Film representative was present. RCTI’s PR officer Eduard Depari explained that Karnos Film had to cancel its attendance at the meeting at the last minute because it had to finish recording an important scene, but reporters interpreted their absence as a sign that the production company was afraid to face the critical questions of the press. Hinting at new developments in this instalment of Si Doel, Depari argued that the themes in Si Doel were ‘not entirely out-of-date’. He furthermore drew attention to the fact that all commercial slots had been fully booked, which meant that commercially speaking the fourth series of Si Doel was already a success.53 After its hesitant introduction, the new sequel of Si Doel was talked about and written about as usual. Once more the sinetron was praised and criticized in terms of ratings and in relation to mainstream sinetron and foreign productions, and once more journalists elaborated upon its content. It was for instance reported that Atun would be determined to find a new way of making money after her beauty salon had gone bankrupt. She would go around the kampong to sell her knowledge as a beautician door-to-door. Meanwhile Zaenab would discover that her real mother had died in labour. The woman whom she had considered her mother thus far would turn out to be her mother’s sister, who had married her sister’s husband as the tradition of turun ranjang prescribes. Considering the criticism that previous representations of Javaneseness in Si Doel provoked, the most remarkable character development was that of the Javanese character Mas Karyo. In previous series this character was never truly successful in trading batik, but in the fourth series his business started flourishing, and Mas Karyo made an effort to export his products.54 Explaining the philosophy behind Si Doel 4, Rano Karno alluded to the 51

Ib, ‘“Si Doel IV” Masih Tetap Menggigit: Libatkan Pemirsa lewat Kuis Si Doel Berhadiah’, Jawa Pos, 20 April 1998; One, ‘Ditayangkan Mulai 18 April: “Si Doel IV” Bersaing dengan “Famili 100”’, Republika, 14 April 1998, p. 5. 52 Vip, ‘Terpukul Krismon, “Si Doel” Dipangkas’, Surabaya Post, 27 March 1998, p. 14. 53 Fer, ‘“Si Doel IV” Dinilai Sulit Pertahankan Sukses: Rano Karno Takut Hadiri Jumpa Pers’, Jawa Pos, 10 April 1998. 54 Bod, ‘“Si Doel Anak Sekolahan IV”: Mandra Sekolah, Zaenab Makin Apes’, Republika, 14 March 1998, p. 7; Doel, ‘Si Doel Anak Sekolahan IV’, Aura, 11 April 1998. Abs, ‘Ditayangkan mulai 18 April: Si Doel kembali dari Swiss’, Wawasan, 14 April 1998.

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East/West dichotomy, such an important element of public critical discourse in Indonesia: Si Doel will still be there with its concept of the life of Eastern people, who are better versed in the etiquette, politeness, and customs and traditions. […] The love story in Si Doel is very different from love stories in other sinetron, which are sometimes accompanied by violence. In Si Doel, viewers will find the value of friendship. Between Sarah and Zaenab there are still ties of friendship involved. I could in fact shorten the story, but where would that leave my responsibility [towards the viewers]? I wouldn’t educate the viewer, would I? With this love process I want to say that success is not easily attained. People have to take a winding road full of obstacles.55

In another interview, Rano Karno admitted that he had chosen a Betawi rather than a Javanese setting for Si Doel because he believed that Betawi culture would be accepted throughout Indonesia.56 Other journalists pointed out that Si Doel had been trend-setting in its use of traditional artists such as Mandra, Benyamin S., and Basuki. This had created new possibilities for these artists and for traditional artists in general, improving their living conditions.57 Film and television producer Ali Shahab explained this trend, saying that viewers would eventually develop a taste in keeping with their own cultural roots. Extending the metaphor of taste, he continued on, explaining that people ‘are tired of eating hamburgers, they now want to eat gado-gado again’.58 Rano Karno added to this that traditional artists are also good at improvisation.59 During the production of Si Doel 4, Rano Karno took up several political activities and was appointed as an ambassador for UNICEF. His involvement in the Sayang Ibu (Care for mothers) UNICEF campaign, which aimed to decrease the high mortality rate of women during childbirth, was connected to the story line about Zaenab and her natural mother.60 55 ‘Si Doel tetap akan hadir dengan konsep kehidupan orang Timur, yang lebih mengenal tata krama, sopan santun, dan adat istiadat. […] [K]isah percintaan [Si Doel] ini sangat berbeda dengan kisah percintaan di sinetron lain, yang kadang dibarengi dengan kekerasan. Di Si Doel ini, pemirsa akan menemukan nilai persahabatan. Antara Sarah dan Zaenab masih terjalin hubungan persahabatan. Sebenarnya saya bisa memperpendek cerita, tapi di mana tanggung jawab saya. Saya tidak mendidik pemirsa dong. Dari proses cinta ini saya ingin mengatakan bahwa kesuksesan itu tidak dicapai dengan mudah. Orang harus menempuh jalan berliku dengan seabrek benturan-benturannya.’ Doel/Pur, ‘Rano Karno: Kata Babe Si Doel Harus Jujur’, Aura, 11 April 1998. 56 Yus, ‘Sejuta Telepon untuk Si Doel: “Ending” Si Doel Ditayangkan Ulang RCTI Malam Ini’, Surabaya Post, 23 February 1997, p. 13. 57 Kartoyo, ‘Komedi, Rezeki bagi yang Tradisional’, Merdeka, 18 January 1998. 58 ‘Orang sudah bosan makan hamburger, sekarang mau makan gado-gado lagi,’ Ali Shahab in Kartoyo DS, ‘Bila Selera Kembali ke Gado-Gado’, Merdeka, 18 January 1998. 59 Kartoyo, ‘Komedi, Rezeki bagi yang Tradisional’, Merdeka, 18 January 1998. 60 ‘Sutradara “Si Doel” Terkejut, Ditinjau Menteri’, Suara Pembaruan, 21 February 1998; SJ, ‘Serial Si Doel Muncul Lagi di RCTI’, Merdeka, 9 April 1998, p. 10.

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As said, one new topic that was addressed in public critical discourse surrounding the fourth series was the monetary crisis. Critics not only discussed the krismon in terms of its impact on the production process: they also pointed out how the sinetron’s storyline mirrored the crisis. The bankruptcy of Atun’s salon, for instance, was partly because of the crisis. Mas Karyo’s difficulties in trying to get a bank loan to finance his export plans were an allusion to the strict lending policies that banks had during the crisis.61 Some critics described the position of Si Doel during the krismon in terms of its function for the audience: ‘In the midst of the economic crisis, the people need the presence of Si Doel even more, at least in order to forget their dayto-day needs, which become more and more pressing’.62 Rano Karno furthermore acknowledged that he had deliberately incorporated into his serial some suggestions for coping with the crisis.63 The Indonesian government also admitted that the serial had the potential to comfort and coach viewers in times of crisis, and it sent its state minister of population, Haryono Suryono, to the set of Si Doel. The minister praised the spirit of entrepreneurship that he encountered in the sinetron. Mas Karyo’s export plans, for instance, concurred with the government policy of stimulating the export of local products to obtain more foreign currency. Haryono Suryono admitted that he had come to see Rano Karno in person to convey some ideas that might be incorporated in coming episodes of the sinetron. Rano Karno appreciated the visit of the minister and welcomed his suggestions, but added that he had already incorporated most of these ideas in his sinetron since the first series.64 In fact, he claimed already to have anticipated the events that Indonesian society then confronted, saying that throughout the past series of Si Doel, he had constantly addressed issues of transparency, corruption, nepotism, and Reformasi.65 Si Doel 5: A new broadcaster, a new start? An important issue in the debate surrounding the fifth series of Si Doel was the fact that competitor Indosiar instead of RCTI was going to air the popular sinetron. Rano Karno believed that this would not be a problem because the 61

See for instance Bod, ‘“Si Doel Anak Sekolahan IV”: Mandra Sekolah, Zaenab Makin Apes’, Republika, 14 March 1998, p. 7. 62 ‘Di tengah krisis ekonomi, masyarakat justru lebih membutuhkan kehadiran Si Doel setidaknya untuk melupakan kebutuhan hidup sehari-hari yang kian menghimpit,’ Eddy D Iskandar, ‘Sinetron “Si Doel Anak Sekolahan” Rano Karno: Keberhasilan Padukan Kualitas dan Bisnis’, Pikiran Rakyat, 15 February 1998, p. 6. 63 Doel/Pur, ‘Rano Karno: Kata Babe Si Doel Harus Jujur’, Aura, 11 April 1998. 64 ‘Sutradara “Si Doel” Terkejut, Ditinjau Menteri’, Suara Pembaruan, 21 February 1998, p. 10; SJ, ‘Serial Si Doel Muncul Lagi di RCTI’, Merdeka, 9 April 1998, p. 10. 65 Doel/Pur, ‘Rano Karno: Kata Babe Si Doel Harus Jujur’, Aura, 11 April 1998.

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serial had assured itself a following. The main issue for viewers was not the sinetron’s broadcaster, but rather the question of whether Doel would end up marrying Sarah or Zaenab. Rano Karno promised that Si Doel 5 would provide an answer to this pressing question. In addition, the pace of the sinetron, which according to the producer himself was too slow in some of its earlier editions, would be increased.66 To make Si Doel 5, Rano Karno patched up some of the serial’s major props, such as Lela’s warung and the oplet, which were in desperate need of renovation. In the sinetron Doel used a large part of his salary to do so. Karno explained that the characters in this sequel would be more outspoken than in previous series: Doel would speak up, for instance, whereas Sarah would act more defensive. Zaenab would get married, either to Doel or to somebody else. Like the passing away of Benyamin S. was interpreted as an event that comes with life, and which should be treated as such in the sinetron, the death of hajji ‘Engkong Ali’ Tile was incorporated into the story line. In Si Doel 5, Doel’s grandfather dies in a truck accident, leaving a substantial inheritance for his children and grandchildren to divide. Mandra uses his part of the inheritance to buy an old motorcycle and refuses to drive the oplet anymore. Mas Karyo, who is jobless, takes over his task.67 The first instalment of Si Doel 5 obtained the highest ratings for that week straight away, reportedly because its story ‘is closer to the daily life of the people’ whereas its themes ‘stay far from dreams’.68 Broadcaster Indosiar was also satisfied because all commercial slots in Si Doel 5 were filled. The station even inserted running texts and icons to advertise products outside the commercial slots.69 One critic described the outstanding success of the sinetron as follows: ‘Si Doel is an attractive production, in the sense that through this programme viewers can smile, worry, and see a social condition’. But he bemoaned the emphasis in this fifth series on the clashes between Mandra and Mas Karyo, and pointed out that the roles of other characters were not developed to the full.70 Another, by now familiar point of criticism was that the sinetron did not uplift Betawi culture – rather, it was said, Betawi culture was being 66

Ahmad Tarmizi, ‘Si Doel Siap Bersaing (Lagi), Citra, 516, X, 28 February-5 March 2000, p. 5. Ahmad Tarmizi, ‘Si Doel Anak Sekolahan V: Doel Agresif, Zaenab Menikah, Sarah Defensif’, Citra, 517, X, 6-12 March 2000, p. 22. 68 ‘[K]isah […] terasa lebih dekat dengan kehidupan masyarakat sehari-hari. […] Tema yang ditawarkan jauh dari mimpi,’ F-3, ‘“Si Doel” Langsung Melesat ke Puncak’, Suara Pembaruan Daily, 27 March 2000, p. 10. 69 Cp, ‘“Si Doel Anak Sekolahan V”, dari Drama ke Komedi?’, www.kompas.com/entertainment/news/0003/19/56.htm, 19 March 2000, viewing date 20 March 2000. 70 ‘Si Doel adalah tontonan yang menarik, dalam arti lewat tayangan ini pemirsa bisa tersenyum, bisa prihatin, dan bisa melihat sebuah kondisi social.’ Cp, ‘“Si Doel Anak Sekolahan V”, dari Drama ke Komedi?’, www.kompas.com/entertainment/news/0003/19/56.htm, 19 March 2000, viewing date 20 March 2000. 67

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exploited.71 Karno announced that Si Doel 5 would be his last sequel, not because the viewers were bored, but because he himself was tired.72 The producer furthermore explained that he had found himself a new ‘obsession’, namely to transform the story of Si Doel into a feature film.73 Si Doel 6: And the story continues… Despite Rano Karno’s intention to stop producing Si Doel, he produced a new sequel in 2003. As Si Doel 6 did not obtain high viewing figures and discussions surrounding it were not as vivid as those about its predecessors, its critical assessment will not be discussed at length. It is worth mentioning, however, that public critical discourse surrounding this series did not focus on the serial itself, but rather on the subgenre of sinetron Betawi that it had called into being: most sinetron that enjoyed popularity during the screening of Si Doel 6 also used a Betawi setting or at least featured some Betawi elements. As one critic phrased it, ‘Si Doel may fade, but [other Betawi comedies] gain power. […] Welcome (back), Betawi comedies…’.74 Si Doel in ordinary viewers’ discourse: A nationwide debate? The ratings of ACNielsen proved that Si Doel was popular with a nationwide audience. As one viewer phrased it, ‘Si Doel is not only the property of the Betawi people; it has turned into a national asset’. A closer look at the statistics reveals however that the serial was more popular in Jakarta than in other cities. Whereas Si Doel topped the list of most popular programmes in Jakarta and nearby Bandung throughout its screenings, viewing figures for Medan, Semarang, and notably Surabaya were significantly lower. In the latter cities, alternatives such as Javanese theatre managed to draw larger numbers of viewers.75 Sen and Hill (2000:124) conclude on the basis of these data that the success of Si Doel was mainly restricted to Jakarta: ‘Si Doel was a very local program for Jakarta – not Jakarta as the national capital, but as a particular linguistic and cultural space’. This conclusion disregards the fact that, whereas Si Doel was indeed more popular in Jakarta than in the other 71

Wuri Hardiastuti, ‘Kereta Terakhir Si Doel’, Gamma, 29 March-4 April 2000, p. 44. Cp, ‘“Si Doel Anak Sekolahan V”, dari Drama ke Komedi?’, www.kompas.com/entertainment/news/0003/19/56.htm, 19 March 2000, viewing date 20 March 2000. 73 Wuri Hardiastuti, ‘Kereta Terakhir Si Doel’, Gamma, 29 March-4 April 2000, p. 44. 74 ‘Si Doel boleh meredup, tetapi [sinetron komedi Betawi lain] malah perkasa. […] [S]elamat datang (kembali) sinetron komedi Betawi….’ ARN/CP, Abis “Si Doel”, Masih Banyak Lainnya…’, www.kompas.com/kompas-cetak/0304/27/utama/280215.htm, 27 April 2003, viewing date 27 July 2003. 75 Interview with Adolf Siregar, ACNielsen, 6 June 2000. 72

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cities that were monitored by ACNielsen (Bandung, Semarang, Surabaya and surroundings, and Medan), even in those cities viewing figures for the serial were high – higher for instance than those for competing mainstream sinetron. In addition, Sen and Hill’s assumption overlooks the discursive elaboration of Si Doel by viewers throughout the archipelago, which is proof that the serial occupied them to a certain extent. An indication of the serial’s nationwide popularity can be obtained by scrutinizing the discursive elaboration of the serial by ordinary viewers in public critical discourse. Viewers clearly expressed their opinion on the serial in letters to the editors of magazines and newspapers. An example is the Javanese viewer who complained about the portrayal of the Javanese character Mas Karyo. Many fans moreover attended promotional activities for the serial outside Jakarta, although RCTI organized most promotional activities in the five cities monitored by ACNielsen (Figure 7.2). The phone calls from viewers on locations as dispersed as Jakarta, Balik Papan, Palembang, Kediri, and Den Pasar for the Sunsilk quiz accompanying Si Doel 4 confirm that Si Doel had a nationwide viewership. In addition, every edition of the Sunsilk quiz featured a street report in which people in different parts of Indonesia voiced their enthusiasm for and criticism about the serial. Finally, RCTI’s claim of receiving ‘a million’ phone calls and letters from viewers ‘throughout the archipelago’ after its showing of the final episode of Si Doel 3, though probably highly exaggerated, can be seen as a testimony to the widespread popularity of the programme.76 Viewers also expressed their opinion on Si Doel outside the public debate, for instance by directly approaching Karnos Film. According to Rano Karno, bags full of fan mail from viewers throughout the archipelago arrived daily at Karnos Film, particularly during the screening of its first three series. Viewers sent letters and faxes to the production company, commenting on the serial or simply congratulating Si Doel actors on their birthday. A young woman from Banjar Masin (Kalimantan) wrote a letter to Rano Karno in response to a statement that he had made in a film magazine.77 One devoted Jakartan viewer even enclosed a fully worked-out storyline in which he suggested incorporating the theme of environmental pollution into the fourth series of Si Doel.78 In general, the television industry did not take these opinions into account to the extent that it did the viewing figures collected on the monitored audience – unless of course those opinions suited their purposes. The industry’s main concern was with collecting and interpreting data on the viewing behaviour of a carefully selected sample audience, an activity that Ang (1991:87) describes 76

‘Sejuta Penelpon Minta “Si Doel” Dilanjutkan; Agar Banyak Singgung tentang Cinta Segi Tiga Si Doel’, Jawa Pos, 24 February 1997, p. 24. 77 Undated letter to Karnos Film from Unu, Banjar Masin, Kalimantan. 78 Letter to Karnos Film from Gabriel Mahal, Jakarta, 24 September 1997.

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as ‘a practice of creating “feedback”’. One should be highly critical of the information on viewership that is thus obtained, as the concept of audiencehood produced by ratings discourse is not a ‘true’ reflection of the ways in which actual viewers make sense of television, but rather a discursive construct that reduces the complexity of watching television to numbers and figures. In fact, audience measurement can be regarded as ‘a practice in search of its object rather than a practice researching a given object’ (Ang 1991:97). Yet, while the knowledge obtained by ratings discourse on the viewership of Si Doel is questionable, it does reveal some trends in the reception of Si Doel in certain areas. By contrast, the ways in which the majority of the Indonesian audience, who live in non-monitored locations, engage with this television text remains rather unknown – except for where viewers insert themselves in the public debate on television. With the aim of gathering some data on this most ‘elusive’ (Ang 1991) part of the audience, I conducted a small-scale investigation into the reception of Si Doel in two monitored and four non-monitored locations on Java and Bali.79 Among the non-monitored locations was Munduk, a tiny village located southwest of Singaraja at an altitude of 1,200 metres, in the district of Buleleng, North Bali. In Munduk, I interviewed eighteen adults and children about television in general and Si Doel in particular. Even in this remote location Si Doel turned out to be well known. Two respondents said that they had never watched the serial at all; the others claimed to have watched the sinetron at least once. Most adults and children who had watched the programme watched it on a regular basis. The majority of the interviewees said that they liked the serial, but some replied that they did not understand its language. Remarkably, the portrayal of the orang Betawi, a hotly debated topic of discussion in the media, seemed less meaningful to these viewers. Asked what the serial was all about according to them, only a few people mentioned this ethnic group spontaneously (one person even thought that the cultural setting was Javanese). In general, people in Munduk were less explicit about the content of Si Doel than the Jakartan viewers who took part in the research, saying that the sinetron was about an educated person, about life in the kampong, or even that they did not remember. A teacher stressed that education was the major theme of Si Doel, whereas a housewife was fond of the serial because it portrayed family life. What seemed to matter most to these viewers, and what made them enjoy the serial, was that it showed the daily life and hardship of kampong dwellers and their efforts to make ends meet. Themselves housewives, drivers, farmers, or petty traders, most adult interviewees easily identified with the tough life of Doel and his family.80 These responses illustrate that whereas Si Doel in the public dialogue on television is often evaluated in the context 79 80

Chapter XI presents the design and outcome of this reception research in more detail. Interviews with various people in Munduk, Bali, 23-26 February 1999.

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of the Westoxification debate, viewers outside the public domain produce highly individual accounts. While television can be considered as ‘a resource for the production of cultural identity’ (Barker 1999:112), the Munduk viewers seemed to appreciate Si Doel first and foremost for its engagement with, and affirmation of, their educational, professional, and national identities. For other viewers, cultural identity was the main category in assessing Si Doel. Pak Syamsul, a Jakartan cab driver from Lampung, South Sumatra, for instance, used his ‘cultural competencies’ (Barker 1999:112), especially his daily interaction with orang Betawi, to criticize the serial. Asked what the theme of Si Doel was in his opinion, Pak Syamsul explained that it was about how Doel, the son of an ordinary Betawi villager, succeeded in becoming an engineer. Connecting this theme to his own experience with the Betawi community – and probably to his own experience as an ordinary citizen – Syamsul subsequently dismissed this story line as being highly improbable: I once watched Si Doel, [which is about] the child of a villager, a driver’s mate, who is capable of becoming an engineer. I think there are no Betawi people like that. In reality there are none. I think that the Betawi… it’s not to belittle them, I myself am not a smart man, nor am I rich, [but] if the father is stupid, the child will not be smart. That’s a fact. What happens when they [the Betawi] sell their land, what do they say: the children will force [their parents] to buy them a motorcycle. That motor then breaks down, there is no money, and the land is gone.81

Comparing the serial with ‘reality’, Pak Syamsul considered all the hassle that it caused overdone. When viewing it purely as entertainment, however, he thought that the serial was ‘all right’. While the examples of Pak Syamsul and the Munduk viewers don’t do justice to the complex and idiosyncratic ways in which viewers negotiate the meaning of television and construct, confirm, or dispose of their identities in the process, they highlight that the experience of actual viewers watching television cannot be captured by assessing the public critical debate alone.

81 ‘Saya pernah nonton Si Doel Anak Sekolahan, anak orang kampung yang kenek mobil bisa jadi insinyur. Saya kira belum ada orang Betawi yang begitu, kalau kenyataannya belum ada saya kira. Saya kira kalau orang Betawi… bukannya menghina ya, saya sendiri bukan orang pintar, bukan orang kaya, kalau bapaknya bodoh itu, anaknya itu nggak pinter. Itu udah pasti. Coba mereka menjualkan tanahnya, apa katanya: anaknya memaksa minta dibeliin motor. Kemudian motornya ancur, uangnya nggak ada, tanahnya hilang.’ Conversation with Pak Syamsul in his taxi, 14 April 1998.

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The Vista-TV serialized story Ordinary viewers usually commented on Si Doel when talking to each other or by writing letters to newspapers and magazines, broadcaster RCTI, or production company Karnos Film. Television critics, on the other hand, tended to discuss the serial with other broadcast professionals on formal occasions like seminars or in discussion groups, or they wrote columns and articles on the serial. The discursive elaboration of Si Doel was not however restricted to these formats alone. In March and April 1996, television magazine Vista-TV featured a serialized story inspired by the sinetron. This serialized story is but one example of the bulk of secondary texts produced through public critical discourse – which includes critical columns, audience letters, and personal opinions. The love-triangle theme developed on paper The serialized story in Vista-TV is announced as a ‘TeleNovela’, which can be read both as an allusion to the popular Latin American genre and in its literal sense of ‘television novel’. The telenovela explores the love-triangle theme and mainly features the characters of Doel, Sarah, Zaenab, and Sita. It was published during the airing of the third series of Si Doel.82 Particularly the relationships between Doel and ‘his’ three women are isolated from the sinetron and reworked into this serialized story. Its theme (the struggle of the characters for romantic love) and its style (melodramatic) are indeed reminiscent of the serialized stories found in popular magazines everywhere: Zaenab is speechless. Zaenab is confused. This is the third time she has come to Doel’s house, but it is still empty. Today she has been sitting waiting for half an hour, but there is not yet any sign of Doel and his family returning. Zaenab stands up. Her melancholy eyes look in all directions. Perhaps they have slipped a message underneath the door? Nothing. In the window of Atun’s beauty parlour? Nothing either. Several dry leaves lie scattered on the floor. [The place is] deserted.83 82

Ninuek I. Ibrahim, ‘Yang Datang dan Yang Pergi: Si Doel Anak Sekolahan Bagian III’, VistaTV, 12, III, March 1996, pp. 68-71; ‘Karena Hidup Terus Berputar: Si Doel Anak Sekolahan Bagian III’, Vista-TV, 13, III, March 1996, pp. 62-5; ‘Ungkapan Cinta Si Doel: Si Doel Anak Sekolahan Bagian III’, Vista-TV, 14, III, April 1996, pp. 68-71. 83 ‘Zaenab termangu. / Zaenab galau. / Sudah tiga kali ia datang, tetapi rumah Si Doel masih

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Without a doubt, regular viewers of Si Doel will recognize the television character Zaenab in this short excerpt, as both her melancholy eyes and her confused appearance are trademarks of this popular character. The first edition of Vista-TV in which this telenovela appeared was issued after two episodes of the third series had been broadcast, and the first two episodes of the serialized story quite literally describe the unfolding of the relationships between the various characters as depicted in the sinetron. The quote above, for instance, describes a scene in the final episode of the second series in which Zaenab, unaware that Doel and his family are taking a trip to the beach with Sarah, panics when she cannot find the Sabeni family. Though the serialized story is mostly descriptive and told by an extradiegetic narrator, it also includes some dialogues between characters. The language used in descriptive passages is Standard Indonesian, whereas the dialogues between the characters resemble the speech of the television characters. This means that Doel and Zaenab speak Jakarta Malay (JM), while Sarah uses Spoken Jakarta Indonesian (SJI). Some utterances in JM or SJI are italicized, including the verbal constructions with affix -in used in both language varieties (for instance anterin, SI mengantarkan ‘to see someone off’), some personal pronouns (for instance lu, SI kamu ‘you’), some particles (for instance aje, SI saja ‘only, just’), and some words from the Jakarta Malay vocabulary (for instance menor, SI bergaya ‘gaudy in dress or make-up’). Other phrases, which one would expect to be italicized as well, are not. Examples are the verb gemetaran (SI bergetar ‘to shake, shaking’) and the emphatic particle sih. Either the editor has been careless, or, which is more likely, these words were not recognized as JM and therefore are not italicized. It is furthermore remarkable that the writer in the final section of this serialized story parts ways with the sinetron. In its third and final episode, the story addresses the issue whether Doel will choose Sarah or Zaenab as his wife. In its final paragraph the serialized story presents Doel and Sarah as a couple-to-be. In addition, it answers this question by letting Doel and Sarah voice their love for each other in ways more explicit than in the sinetron at that time: Doel: Sarah: Doel:

‘Sarah…’ ‘Yes…’ ‘Forgive me for asking, but who is it actually that you love?’ Sarah is startled. This is the first time that Doel has asked such a

saja sepi. Hari ini sudah setengah jam ia duduk menunggu, Doel dan keluarganya tetap tak ada tanda-tanda pulang. / Zaenab bangkit. Matanya yang sayu merayap ke segala arah. Siapa tahu ada secarik pesan terselip di rongga pintu. Kosong. Di jendela salon Atun? [J]uga tak ada. Beberapa daun kering berserakan di lantai. Sepi.’ Ninuek I. Ibrahim, ‘Yang Datang dan Yang Pergi: Si Doel Anak Sekolahan Bagian III’, Vista-TV, 12, III, March 1996, p. 68.

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Watching Si Doel thing. She feels at once happy and afraid […] ‘Do I have to tell you?’ Sarah responds. […] Sarah and Doel look at each other. They both smile. ‘Haven’t you felt it thus far,’ Sarah asks. ‘Felt what?’ says Doel, as if he doesn’t understand the question. ‘Felt that, well… felt that you…’ Sarah has not yet finished her sentence when they hear the voice of Mandra, who is calling Doel noisily. […] Until it is almost 5 p.m. Sarah does not speak another word. But her eyes are filled with tears. She wants to say the words of love that she has buried all these years. But her mouth refuses. She only tightens her grip on Doel’s hand. Doel is touched and he watches Sarah’s face. For a long, long time.84

With this happy ending the writer of the serialized story gives in to the preference of most sinetron viewers that Doel choose Sarah. However this serialized story was designed to end after a couple of episodes, whereas the sinetron, at least up to its fifth series, resisted closure. The television serial deliberately postpones an answer to the question of who is going to be Doel’s partner for life, because its producer is aware that precisely this issue is a source of pleasure and curiosity for many viewers and will encourage them to keep watching the sinetron. Si Doel as exceptional Indonesian television Both ordinary viewers and television critics discussed Si Doel passionately. The sinetron is considered exceptional for the fact that it is rooted in a specific Indonesian locality, but appeals to a nationwide audience. Television critics remark that in order to create a truly national television industry, other Indonesian cultures need to be televised as well. They see the mediatization of Betawi culture in programmes such as Gossip lenong and Si Doel as a step in the right direction, but call for the production of programmes that feature other Indonesian ethnicities as well. Viewers discussed the Indonesian-ness of Si Doel in relation to other Indonesian sinetron or in relation to foreign programmes. Television critics link Si Doel to debates about ‘the local’ and ‘the global’ and to discussions about the ‘cultural pollution’ of Indonesian television by non-Indonesian 84

‘Doel: “Sar…” / Sarah: “Ya…” / Doel: “Maaf, ya. Sebetulnya siapa sih yang kamu cintai?” / Sarah kaget. Baru kali ini Doel bertanya soal itu. Ada rasa senang sekaligus khawatir. […] “Apa perlu saya katakan,” sahut Sarah. […] Sarah dan Doel saling berpandangan. Keduanya tersenyum. / “Apakah selama ini kamu tak merasa,” tanya Sarah. “Merasa apa ?” kata Doel pura-pura bertanya. “Ya, merasa… merasa kau…” Belum sempat Sarah meneruskan kata-katanya. Terdengar suara Mandra, ribut memanggil Doel. […] Hingga mendekati pukul 17.00 sore tak sepatah kata pun keluar dari mulut Sarah. Hanya matanya berlinangan air mata. Ia ingin mengatakan kata cinta yang bertahun-tahun dipendamnya. Tapi mulutnya gagap. Hanya cengkeraman tangannya makin kencang memegang tangan Doel. Doel terharu dan ditatapnya wajah Sarah. Lama, lama sekali.’ Ninuek I. Ibrahim, ‘Ungkapan Cinta Si Doel: Si Doel Anak Sekolahan Bagian III’, Vista-TV, 14, III, April 1996, p. 71.

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Figure 7.2 Si Doel actors shake hands with fans in Surabaya, East Java

(mainly Western and Latin American) productions – in other words, to the ‘Westoxification’ debate. Compared to other sinetron, Si Doel is judged to be more firmly rooted in Indonesian culture. Its Indonesian-ness manifests itself through the serial’s characters (with whom ‘ordinary’ people could easily identify), its themes (which viewers recognize from their own daily life experiences), and the language used by the characters (a local language instead of the national language). Moreover, this language is ‘recycled’ in columns on the serial, audience letters, and other secondary texts, such as the Vista-TV serialized story. Ordinary viewers contributed to these discussions as well, but their possibilities for inserting themselves in the public debate about television are far more limited. They resorted to writing letters to magazines, the broadcaster of Si Doel, or its production company Karnos Film. When prompted for their opinion outside the public debate, ordinary viewers tend to give very individual accounts. These accounts demonstrate that features of the serial neglected in public critical discourse may well be these viewers’ main reason for watching – and vice versa. For instance, while Sen and Hill (2000:123) note that urban audiences mainly appreciate Si Doel for ‘its emphasis on local specificities, which had been continually pushed aside to valorise the “national” in Indonesian television’, rural viewers in Munduk seemed to appreciate the serial particularly for its depiction of the universal struggle of the Sabeni fam-

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ily with daily life in contemporary Indonesia. The examples from ordinary viewers’ discourse furthermore illustrate that in assessing local television, one’s educational or professional background may be as important as one’s ‘ethnic’ background. When discussing Si Doel in relation to foreign programmes, critics and ordinary viewers take pride in the fact that the sinetron offers the same technical quality as many foreign productions. They also argue that Si Doel promotes values that concur with so-called ‘Indonesian’ values, while foreign programmes are condemned for doing exactly the opposite. By discussing Si Doel in relation to the local, the national, and the global, television critics and ordinary viewers transform this sinetron into exceptional television.

CHAPTER VIII

Mediating Betawi identity Si Doel in Betawi discourse

Whilst Si Doel enjoyed great success, it was notably criticized for its portrayal of Betawi culture. Rano Karno dealt with this kind of criticism laconically, pointing out that Si Doel was meant as entertainment rather than anything else. In an interview during the screening of Si Doel 5, however, the producer was apparently annoyed by the question of what his mission was with Si Doel: I don’t have any mission whatsoever. This is a spectacle and it’s only fantasy, you know. Suddenly many people are making demands. Some say that Si Doel elevates culture, but there are also people who say that it looks down on culture. Well, isn’t that funny? You see I want to make it like this, but people are making a fuss about it. I apologize if I make mistakes; I am not an expert on culture.1

Unlike Rano Karno, some viewers of Si Doel did consider themselves experts on culture. These people, as well as the Betawi community in general, did not view the serial as only entertainment. Consciously or not, they also evaluated the sinetron as a representation of Betawi culture and judged it for its mimetic accuracy. While acknowledging that Si Doel was a product of the creativity of Karnos Film that was meant to entertain a general public, these viewers also assessed the sinetron for the ways in which it depicted ‘their’ ethnic group. Ethnicity as a discursive category Throughout this book, I refer to the Betawi as an ethnic group. Ethnicity, however, is a contested yet central category. The term is used to denote a group of people who share – or believe they share – a common ancestry, a history, 1

‘Nggak ada misi-misian. Ini tontonan dan fantasi saja kok. Tiba-tiba banyak orang menuntut. Ada yang mengatakan Si Doel ini mengangkat budaya, tetapi ada pula yang bilang meleceh­kan budaya. Lo, kok lucu jadinya. Lha wong aku pingin bikin begini, kok diributin. Kalau salah, ya minta maaf, aku bukan pengamat budaya.’ Wuri Hardiastuti, ‘Kereta Terakhir Si Doel’, Gamma, 29 March 2000-4 April 2000, p. 44.

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and particular ideas about kinship. In addition, ethnic groups are assumed to have certain cultural or physical characteristics and sets of attitudes and behaviours in common. Furthermore cultural signifiers of an ethnic group take shape in particular historical, social, and political circumstances and promote a sense of belonging. The term ethnicity is ‘indispensable to our understanding of modern societies and contemporary cultural trends and transformations’ (Gillespie 1995:8). Some interpret the term as having ‘a ring of quaintness to it’, adding that ‘[s]ome peoples do not accept the tag of “ethnic minority” and consider it demeaning and insulting’ (Mackerras 2003:10). The rejection of the classification as an ‘ethnic minority’ inadvertently does justice to the term’s etymological origins, in which the term ethnikos denoted ‘outsiders’ and ‘cultural strangers’ (Gillespie 1995:9). An advantage of the term ‘ethnicity’ over alternative terms for people with a common ancestry and shared history, such as ‘indigenous people’, ‘race’, and ‘first nation’, is that it is generally applicable in most circumstances (Mackerras 2003:11). The term moreover lacks the negative associations that cling to similar terms such as ‘race’, a word that was abused in fascist discourses, leading to a revival of the term ‘ethnicity’. Constructing ethnic boundaries carries an element of danger though (Sollors 1995, Gillespie 1995). As history teaches, in Indonesia as elsewhere, an awareness of this danger has become all the more urgent in the present. In the early sixties, particularly in the social sciences, ethnicity was still conceived as pertaining to some essential characteristics shared and developed by certain groups in isolation. From the late sixties onwards, this view gradually gave way to the idea that ethnicity is called into being and reproduced in interactions with and in contrast to outsiders. At present it is acknowledged that ethnicity is often employed, if not outright ‘invented’, for explicit political purposes (Van Klinken 2003:72). Whereas in the past ethnic groups tried to suppress their identity for fear of intolerance, nowadays more and more people seem to be taking pride in their ethnic identity. These conscious efforts of people to be acknowledged as an ethnic group are remarkable, as they indicate a change in attitude on the part of ethnic groups towards their own ethnic identities (Mackerras 2003:11). Just like other research on ethnic identity in the fields of cultural studies and critical discourse analysis, mine is based on ethnicity as a culturally specific discursive construction. Following Barker and Galasiński (2001:125), I see ethnicity as ‘an ordered way of speaking about persons’, rather than ‘a fixed universal essence’. The sinetron Si Doel encouraged members of the Betawi community to discursively construct and reproduce the category of ‘Betawi identity’ at the turn of the century.

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The Betawi: An ethnic group or a way of life? Given several characteristics of ethnic groups – shared ancestors, culture, and sets of attitudes and behaviours – the Betawi can indeed be considered an ethnic group.2 While the ethnic profile of the Betawi is obvious in present times, the position and visibility of the Betawi community was less prominent in earlier decades. During the 1950s and 1960s the prospects for the Betawi community in general and Betawi artists in particular were poor. In the mid-fifties, Betawi artists suffered from the fact that their freedom to perform lenong and topeng plays was restricted by then governor of Jakarta, Sudiro. The traditional Betawi art forms were moreover unable to compete with the modern entertainment medium of film, which was much appreciated by the new generation in Jakarta. In addition, traditional Betawi artists required open spaces in Jakarta to stage their performances, but many of these locations were rapidly vanishing, as the municipality of Jakarta needed land to build accommodations for its growing population. All these factors deeply affected the traditional Betawi theatre forms, and in the 1960s genres such as lenong and topeng were on the verge of disappearance (Ardan 1997:169-70). The situation changed for the better under the governorship of Ali Sadikin (1966-1977), when the cultural climate in the capital improved considerably (Abeyasekere 1989:215). In the late forties and early fifties the Betawi community as a whole faced some new developments too. After Independence, Jakarta was flooded by migrants from other parts of the country. While challenging their way of life and source of income, migration also contributed to the development of a sense of ethnicity among the Betawi. Up to then, most Betawi had disregarded or even denied their ethnic roots; confronted with other ethnic groups, their ethnic consciousness increased (Shahab 1996:58). Since the 1970s an ‘ethnic revival’ has been taking place among the Betawi, which has manifested itself in the reinvention and recreation of several aspects of their culture, such as music, the arts, clothing, and ceremonies (Shahab 1996:48). The exposure of Betawi culture to a nationwide audience through Si Doel and other television serials ran parallel to these developments and gave an important boost to the Betawi community as an ethnic group. While Yasmine Shahab observes an increased ethnic consciousness among the Betawi, some orang Betawi are uncomfortable with the term ‘ethnic’ in connection with their community. As Mackerras’indicated , groups do not always accept the ethnic label that others attach to them, and some Betawi

2

Between 1998 and 2005, I spent approximately eighteen months in total in Indonesia, notably Jakarta, to conduct fieldwork for my PhD thesis. During this period I participated in many Betawi activities and had various conversations, both formal and informal, with members of the Betawi community. It is on these stories and experiences that I draw in the following paragraphs.

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resist being called an ethnic group.3 Pointing out that an ethnic group is called suku or suku bangsa in Indonesian, they emphasize that the Betawi are commonly referred to as kaum.4 Derived from Arabic qawm (tribe), kaum is commonly used to describe certain groups. Significantly, though, the word lacks an ethnic component. While this term might be preferred over the term suku bangsa because of its Arabic/Islamic connotations, its popularity might also be explained by its resemblance to the notorious political organization Kaum Betawi. Erected in 1923 to promote the interests of the orang Betawi and led by the prominent Betawi politician Muhammad Husni Thamrin (Abeyasekere 1989:98), the name Kaum Betawi still instils a sense of pride in members of the Betawi community in present-day Indonesia. The discomfort some Betawi feel about the term ethnicity may also be connected with disputes about their origins (see Chapter I). Others deal with the ethnicity issue by describing their identity as a way of life (gaya hidup ala Betawi) rather than a matter of ethnic affiliation. S.M. Ardan, a ‘genuine’ Betawi – at least according to his own definition – prefers to say this.5 According to my informants, the Betawi identity (or ‘the Betawi way of life’) has certain characteristics. First, it involves the use of some form of Betawi Malay, with Border Betawi Malay (spoken on the border with Javanese and Sundanese speaking areas) and Central Betawi Malay (spoken in the centre of Jakarta) as the two main subvarieties. Most of my informants explained that being a ‘genuine’ Betawi also requires a dedication to, or at least a certain degree of interest in, Betawi artistic traditions. The cultural inheritance of the Betawi includes the well-known theatre genres lenong and topeng, which formed some of the main actors of Si Doel, most particularly Mandra, the late hajji Tile (Engkong Ali), and Maryati (Munaroh, Mandra’s girlfriend). In addition, Betawi culture includes a local version of wayang kulit, the shadow puppet play that is known in various forms throughout Indonesia. The most famous Betawi musical genres are gambang kromong, a type of music characterized by a mixture of Chinese and Malay instruments, among them a kind of xylophone (gambang) and a set of small tuned kettle gongs known as ‘gong chime’ (kromong) from which the orchestra derives its name; rebana, a musical genre dominated by tambourines and used to accompany mainly Islamic songs; and tanjidor, a musical genre played by an orchestra modelled on the European-style brass band. The man-high puppets (ondel-ondel) traditionally used in Betawi processions are another cultural marker.6 An equally important trait of the Betawi way of life, I was told repeat3

Personal communication with members of the Betawi community between 1998 and 2005. Interview with H. Sophyan Murtadho, 20 May 2000. 5 Interview with S.M. Ardan, 19 February 1998. 6 On Betawi artistic traditions, see for example Saidi (2000), Indijati (1998), and Muhadjir et al. (1986). On Betawi theatre, see Kleden-Probonegoro (1996), Taendiftia et al. (1996), and Koesasi (1992). 4

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edly, is a sense of humour. Whereas the Betawi naturally are not the only people to be humorous, humour is considered an important identity marker nevertheless, both by members of the Betawi community themselves and by Indonesians from other ethnic backgrounds. The Betawi are furthermore known for their ability to turn even their most bitter experiences, such as being forced to abandon their land in the name of progress, into a joke. Leading a Betawi way of life also implies that one is prone to discussing certain issues with fellow members of the Betawi community. A hotly debated topic in Betawi discourse at the turn of the century is, for instance, whether the Betawi community should demand that the next governor of Jakarta be of Betawi descent. So far no Betawi has ever been the governor, and some Betawi consider this an unfair situation that discriminates against the Betawi community.7 Such grievances are reminiscent of local discourses about the rights of indigenous people detected in various parts of Indonesia after the introduction of the regional autonomy laws in 1999 (Van Klinken 2003:76). Local politicians and their following have interpreted these laws to denote that ‘leadership at the district level should be held by native-born people’, whereby ‘local leaders should “know and be known among” the local population’ (Van Klinken 2003:80). In May 2000, a group of Betawi youngsters protested against the fact that Governor ‘Bang’ Sutiyoso was an ethnic Javanese. The protesters were reprimanded by members of the Lembaga Kebudayaan Betawi, (‘Institute for the Advancement of Betawi Culture’, LKB), which fosters and preserves Betawi culture in general and the Betawi arts in particular.8 The LKB considered itself one of the official representatives of the Betawi community and thus it lectured protesters that as fellow Betawi they should not have acted against its policy of supporting the governor who was officially appointed.9 Another sensitive subject in Betawi discourse is the topic of land expropriation. In the early 1970s many inhabitants of Jakarta were persuaded or forced to sell their land to the municipal government at low prices. This resulted in the displacement of many Betawi, while only a few Betawi profited from the situation. Another though less pressing issue is the demand of some Betawi to add Betawi Malay as a regional language to the curriculum of schools in the Jakarta region (until 2000, when teaching material began to be developed for this purpose, this was Sundanese).10 7

Personal communication with Abdul Sahal via e-mail, 12 August 1998. The LKB was founded in 1976 and operates under the aegis of Bamus Betawi (Badan Musyawarah Betawi or ‘Consultative Body for the Betawi’), the umbrella organization for all officially registered Betawi associations. It organizes seminars and activities where the present state and future of the Betawi are discussed. 9 Interview with Yahya Saputra, 27 May 2000. 10 Personal communication with orang Betawi on various occasions. Most of these issues were also treated at the seminar ‘The Contributions of Benyamin S. for the Development of Jakarta’ (Sumbangan Benyamin S. bagi Perkembangan Jakarta), which was organized by LKB on 12 September 1998. 8

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Finally, an important cultural marker for most Betawi is a strong dedication to Islam (Shahab 1996:52;1997:viii). Being Betawi is often equated with being Moslem, even though a minority of the Betawi adhere to other religions, such as Roman Catholicism, Protestantism, or a form of ancestor devotion called agama buhun,‘the old religion’ (Saidi 1997a:27). Saidi suggests that this image works both ways, and reports that a woman from Tugu, who otherwise fulfilled all criteria of being Betawi, refused to be called Betawi because she was not a Moslem (Saidi 1997a:25). For some Betawi this identification with Islam is so important that they find it hard to accept alternative interpretations. It is in this light that one should consider the resistance some members of the Betawi community had to the television documentary Gereja Betawi (Betawi Church). This documentary depicted the Christmas rituals of a number of Catholic Betawi in Kampung Sawah, a neighbourhood in south Jakarta. It was broadcast on 25 December 1999 by SCTV, one of the commercial television stations. Gereja Betawi elicited fierce criticism from the Betawi community, and representatives of LKB felt compelled to protest against what they saw as a distorted representation of their culture. It was not the Christianity of the Kampung Sawah community as such that made LKB raise its voice. Rather, the institute was disturbed that the Kampung Sawah community was portrayed as if it stood for Betawi culture as a whole. The most unsettling part of the documentary for LKB was a scene depicting a number of Betawi men and women fully dressed in ‘Moslem’ clothing – meaning that the men were wearing kopiah, sarong, and special jackets (beskap) associated with Islam, while the women were wearing scarves to cover their heads – entering a church to attend a Christian service.11 That the makers of the documentary might have chosen to portray a Christian community because the programme was being broadcast at Christmas seems to have gone lost on these protesters. Yet not all members of LKB, let alone all Betawi, shared this indignation. An anonymous source for instance bemoans the inability of the protesters to see the beauty of the diversity of Betawi culture.12 In response to the complaints, SCTV eventually apologized to those Betawi who felt misrepresented by the programme.13 The commotion surrounding the screening of Gereja Betawi illustrates the sensitivity of representing an ethnic group, in Indonesia as much as elsewhere. While one may reject the essentialist view on ethnicity that the LKB displayed in its protests, people ‘reserve the right to confront a film with their 11

Personal communication with various orang Betawi at LKB, 25 May 2000. Personal communication, 30 May 2000. 13 Interview with Antariksawan Yusuf, 30 May 2000. An indication of the sensitivity with which this issue was treated is that I was unable to obtain a copy of this programme from SCTV, whereas on previous occasions this station had been very helpful in providing me with audiovisual data. I also had the impression that some Betawi informants were somewhat reluctant to discuss this topic with me. 12

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own personal and cultural knowledge’ (Shohat and Stam 1994:178). Struggles over representations matter, because fiction activates real-life suppositions and has real effects in the world (Shohat and Stam 1994:178-9). Some possible effects of the broadcasting of Si Doel for the Betawi community are the popularization of Betawi Malay, the dismantling or strengthening (opinions vary on this) of certain stereotypes about the Betawi, and the dissemination of ‘incorrect’ information about Betawi language and culture. Si Doel and the burden of representation While media play a vital role in the construction of national identities (Anderson 1991; Barker 1999; Dhoest 2004; and Kitley 2000), they are also significant in the production and reproduction of local identities. As Gillespie (1995:17) notes, ‘local identities [too] are being redefined under the impact of global media’. The popularity of Si Doel and the discussions it brought about attest to the fact that the media indeed ‘play a key role in constructing and defining, contesting and reconstituting national, “ethnic” and other cultural identities’ (Gillespie 1995:11). Though producer Rano Karno never intended to represent the Betawi community, a substantial part of the audience nevertheless evaluated Si Doel as a representation of Betawi culture. Regardless of the producer’s objective simply to produce a sinetron with a clear cultural setting, Si Doel carried ‘the burden of representation’ (Shohat and Stam 1994:182). Rano Karno was aware of this ‘burden’ and aimed for a high level of mimetic accuracy. One way in which the director attempted to portray the Betawi community ‘realistically’, was by employing hajji Nahali, a ‘genuine’ Betawi, as his art director. Nahali was responsible for all artistic decisions regarding the portrayal of Betawi culture in Si Doel and took great pride in rendering his culture meticulously. For the art director, the Sabeni family’s house was the serial’s major prop. It had been rented from a Betawi family and had to be partly rebuilt and restyled to resemble most accurately a ‘genuine’ Betawi house. Nahali carefully collected the furniture for the house, and some props, such as the original Betawi lamp in the living room, were actually his own.14 As a rule, Betawi viewers of Si Doel approved of the material representation of their culture. An elderly woman, for instance, said that she liked the sinetron because unlike other sinetron it was not about ‘modern life’ but was rather a reflection of life in the kampong: ‘Yes, I like it. The normal house, the lamp, the fact that they all talk in our language, Betawi Malay. So, the way they eat, the fact that they all pray […] so it is not like in other sinetron, which are modern.’15 14 15

Conversation at the set of Si Doel with H. Nahali, 6 February 1998. Interview with Mrs. Aisyah, 21 March 1999.

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Whereas Betawi viewers in general approved of the setting in the sinetron, they were divided about the question of whether Si Doel adequately captured the ‘spirit’ of Betawi culture, just like Ella Shohat and Robert Stam (1994:214). Shohat and Stam argue that the ‘truthfulness’ of a representation is not only a factor of its material resemblance, but also in the extent to which it succeeds in incorporating ‘the voices and the perspectives […] of the community or communities [that are being represented]’. Some viewers praised Si Doel for its discussion of topics that were hotly debated among the Betawi, such as the educational aspirations of the Betawi and the governorship of Jakarta. One scene for instance shows an encounter between Doel and his father in the backyard of the family’s residence at sunset (DVD no. 9). The call to prayer has just sounded and Babe is pondering over his life. Doel’s father assumes that he is alone but his son overhears him and the two become engaged in a serious conversation. Babe blames himself for having sold too early the land that he owned. This is typical for the cautious treatment of such issues in Si Doel: while allusions to the selling of land frequently occur, the dubious role of the government in practices of land clearance (Abeyasekere 1989:244) is never touched upon. The dialogue between Doel and his father in this excerpt also reveals Babe Sabeni’s educational aspirations. Doel’s father explicitly indicates that he does not mind suffering hardship as long as that will lead to a proper education for his son. After having mentioned the various types of work that he does not aspire to for Doel, which include jobs that are often done by people of Betawi descent, Babe jokingly alludes to the possibility that Doel might one day become the governor of Jakarta. The excerpt also illustrates the Islamic orientation of the Sabeni family. Islam literally envelopes this scene: it starts with the call to prayer and ends with Babe telling his son to prepare for prayer. Another topic in Betawi discourse represented in the sinetron was the declined interest among Betawi youngsters in some traditional Betawi art forms, such as tanjidor music. The lack of interest among the younger generation is a major concern for those who want to foster this art form.16 Si Doel draws attention to this situation in episode five of the second series, which was broadcast on 4 November 1994 (DVD no. 28). This episode features an old man, Engkong Ca’at, whose job is to repair the brass instruments used in tanjidor. When Engkong Ca’at learns that Doel is an engineer who ‘knows a great deal about machines’, he asks him to fix a tanjidor instrument for him. Doel is taken by surprise by this unusual request, but accepts the challenge. With some help from a professional repairman, Doel eventually succeeds in his mission. When he visits Engkong Ca’at to return the instrument, it turns out that Engkong Ca’at has passed away. The purpose of this storyline seems to be to remind Doel – and through him other Betawi youngsters – that they 16

Interview with H. Tabroni, 1 May 2000.

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should not only aspire to be part of the ‘modern’ world; rather, they should show an interest in their own cultural heritage before it is too late. The role of Engkong Ca’at, incidentally, is played by Bodong, a famous topeng player and respected Betawi artist. Despite scenes like that between Doel and his father or Doel and Engkong Ca’at, some Betawi criticized Si Doel for giving too little space to Betawi artistic traditions. While the serial represented some Betawi art forms – next to tanjidor, the sinetron also portrayed the musical genre rebana (DVD no. 19) – some people considered this hardly representative of the rich cultural heritage of the Betawi. In addition, several Betawi artists and cultural experts called for the involvement of more actors from the traditional theatre scene.17 In his efforts to paint a realistic picture of the Betawi community, Rano Karno instructed his main actors to use ‘natural’ language to go with their character’s ethnic background. While most viewers characterized this language as ‘funny’ and ‘genuine’, some criticized it. Some language-conscious viewers, for instance, pointed out that the character Lela used the wrong subvariety, as she originated from Condet, east Jakarta, but used Central rather than Border Betawi Malay. Rano Karno explained that the actor playing the character Lela was not a native Betawi; because she was more familiar with Central Betawi Malay, she had adopted that speech variety since it sounded sufficiently Betawi to her. While discussions of this kind might not concern the average non-Betawi viewer, they are far from trivial in Betawi discourse. Like other ethnic groups, the Betawi community too make demands to be represented realistically and accurately (see Shohat and Stam 1994, pp. 178-219). While Rano Karno took to heart the input of Betawi and other viewers, he emphasized his artistic freedom and asserted his right to give his personal interpretation of the Betawi community. Constructing and deconstructing stereotypes Particularly Betawi viewers also discussed Si Doel in terms of whether or not it had strengthened certain stereotypes about the Betawi that circulated in Indonesian society.18 In this context, the sinetron’s emphasis on the topic of education was hotly debated. A Betawi painter was upset that Si Doel portrayed the Betawi community as if it consisted of naive and foolish people.19 Ridwan Saidi in fact reiterated the complaint when he said that Si Doel at times makes it seem as if no educated Betawi exist at all.20 Viewers moreover 17

Interview with Ridwan Saidi, 12 February 1999. For a small-scale investigation of the influence of Si Doel on the perception that non-Betawi viewers have of the Betawi community, see Yuniarti (1996). 19 Efix Mulyadi, ‘Sarnadi, “Si Doel” Pelukis Betawi’, Kompas, 28 June 1995, p. 20. 20 Interview with Ridwan Saidi, 12 February 1999. 18

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protested against the use of the word tukang for the engineer Doel. This term was a spontaneous invention by Benyamin S., but some Betawi viewers took Babe’s inability to distinguish an engineer from an unskilled worker as an insult to the Betawi community.21 Abdul Sahal, a literary studies graduate working as a newspaper editor, deemed that Si Doel had done little to dismantle the stereotype that people have about the Betawi in relation to education. Asked whether he as a Betawi was proud of Si Doel, he answered: About this pride for Si Doel, I suppose that I (myself) don’t feel that. Because Si Doel does not reflect the achievements of the Betawi in the domain of education. What is more, he studies at a private institute for higher education […]. And even this is depicted [as being possible only] by selling so many hectares of his land. With a model like that, what do I have to be proud of?

Abdul Sahal feared that after his studies Doel would be unable to repay the costs of his education and would most certainly end up as a corrupt employee. He proceeded: In addition, at this moment the number of Betawi who succeed in receiving education without having to sell some of their land is very large. I myself studied at the Universitas Indonesia [a respected public university in Jakarta] [where] I witnessed that none of my Betawi friends (who were many, in fact each year there were dozens of new Betawi students) […] had to sell land to finance their education. […] So, if you consider it from an educational perspective, I think that Si Doel actually tends to reduce the achievements of the Betawi.22

Sahal furthermore criticized the neglect of Doel’s sister Atun’s educational aspirations because the Betawi community nowadays considers an education important for both men and women.23 Discussing the depiction of gender in Si Doel from a slightly different perspective, another Betawi wrote:

21

Interview with Ida Farida, 17 March 1999. ‘Soal kebanggaan terhadap Si Doel, kayaknya saya (pribadi) tidak merasa. Sebab, Si Doel tidak merefleksikan keberhasilan orang-orang Betawi dalam pendidikan. Apalagi, ia bersekolah di sebuah perguruan tinggi swasta [...]. Dan ini pun ia gambarkan dengan menghabiskan sekian hektar tanahnya. Untuk model semacam ini, apa yang perlu dibanggakan? […] Di samping itu, saat ini, sangat banyak orang Betawi yang telah berhasil dalam pendidikan, tanpa harus menjual tanah. Saya sendiri pernah kuliah di Universitas Indonesia […], melihat teman-teman yang orang Betawi (jumlahnya cukup banyak, bahkan setiap tahun puluhan mahasiswa baru yang orang Betawi) […] tak ada yang harus menjual tanah untuk biaya pendidikan. […] Jadi, jika dilihat dari sudut pendidikan, saya pikir Si Doel malah mau mereduksi apa yang sudah dicapai oleh orang Betawi.’ Personal communication with Abdul Sahal via e-mail, 12 August 1998. 23 Personal communication with Abdul Sahal via e-mail, 17 September 1998. 22

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Rano wants to highlight new values about Betawi men through the figure of Doel. As a member of a Betawi family who has been encouraged by his mother and father to receive modern education, Doel must have the mission to not only describe [his culture] but also to challenge negative values in the life of the Betawi community, as modern times dictate. Regrettably, this role of ‘cultural’ pioneer is only bestowed upon Doel as a Betawi man. Meanwhile the figure of the Betawi woman as embodied by Zaenab retains her old status as a Betawi woman.24

Si Doel was criticized for reinforcing other stereotypes as well (Yuniarti 1996:7). One viewer condemned the setting of the sinetron, which featured many elements from the 1960s, such as the house and the oplet. By using outdated props, this viewer argued, the makers of the sinetron placed the Betawi community in another time frame, whereas in reality the Betawi were just as modern as other population groups.25 Another Betawi viewer mentioned a whole list of negative ideas about the Betawi that the serial confirmed: that the Betawi are lazy, impolite to older people, foolish, have little knowledge, and are ill at ease with innovations.26 While some Betawi viewers were thus of the opinion that Si Doel reinforced existing stereotypes about their community, others emphasized that the serial succeeded in dismantling other stereotypes. One woman formulated the achievements of the sinetron as follows: Thus far, right, the Betawi have been considered truly kampungan [boorish], you know. If I was asked for instance ‘where are you from’ [and I answered] ‘from Betawi’, people would act rather condescendingly, as if the Betawi were not of these times, you know. Through the sinetron Si Doel it is like, well, it has notified people that the Betawi are not behind the times.27

Art director Nahali took pride in Si Doel for a number of reasons. First, and as Betawi stereotypes would have predicted, he was proud because the success of Si Doel had enabled him to make the religious pilgrimage to Mecca. He also 24

‘Rano hendak menyodorkan nilai baru tentang lelaki Betawi melalui tokoh si Doel. Sebagai anak keluarga Betawi yang oleh nyak dan babe-nya [didorong] untuk mengikuti pendidikan modern, si Doel mengemban misi selain mendeskripsikan juga memberontak terhadap nilainilai buruk kehidupan masyarakat Betawi sesuai tuntutan modernitas. Tetapi patut disayangkan bahwa peran pembaharu “budaya”, hanya ditumpukan [sic] pada si Doel sebagai lelaki Betawi. Sedangkan sosok perempuan Betawi yang diwakili oleh Zaenab tetap seperti status perempuan Betawi yang lama’ (p. 73). Rizal, ‘Si Doel: Monopoli Otoritas Sang Pembaharu Betawi’, Jurnal Perempuan, 11, May-July 1999, pp. 72-5. 25 Herna Soe, ‘Si Doel: Apa Kata Orang Betawi?’, Karina, 26, I, November 1994, p. 8. 26 M. Sarief Arief, ‘Mencermati Dampak Budaya Si Doel Anak Sekolahan’, Republika, 16 October 1994, p. 5. 27 ‘Selama ini kan Betawi dianggap kampungan banget, gitu. Kalau misalnya ditanya “asalnya dari mana?” gitu “dari Betawi” kayaknya orang rada ngrendahin gitu, kayaknya orang Betawi itu nggak maju gitu. Melalui sinetron Si Doel, seperti apa ya, pemberitahuan pada orang-orang banyak kalau orang Betawi itu nggak ketinggalan jaman.’ Interview with Nurbaeti, 21 March 1999.

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believed that Si Doel had introduced a nationwide audience to his culture. As he phrased it: ‘[Before Si Doel] what people knew of the Betawi was only their language, right, that was sufficiently known. Now [we are showing] “this is their culture”’.28 Unravelling the language of Si Doel While Nahali and others emphasized the role of Si Doel in the popularization of Betawi culture, others focused on the serial’s language use. Most Betawi typified the language of the sinetron as funny, genuine, and spontaneous. One woman found the language use in Si Doel more genuine than in other sinetron, where friends talked to one another using ‘stiff’ (kaku) language.29 Another woman emphasized that she liked the language because it truly reflected how the Betawi talk.30 A Betawi housewife whom I met during the shoots of Si Doel said that the characters’ language use suited kampong people: ‘It fits, you know, it really feels right’.31 One younger viewer did admit that she could not always understand the speech of the elderly Betawi characters.32 While most Betawi viewers were positive about the language use, some frowned upon the way in which their native language was used in the sinetron. According to a group of Betawi youngsters, the Betawi characters used too little Betawi Malay and too much Indonesian.33 There were more specific complaints too, for instance regarding the incorrect use of the Betawi terms of address Encang (Uncle) and Encing (Aunt) in the sinetron. Moreover the different characters in Si Doel used the two major subvarieties of Betawi Malay (Central Betawi Malay and Border Betawi Malay) inappropriately. Theatre maker and film critic S.M. Ardan, for instance, drew attention to the ‘incorrect’ subvariety that was used by the character Lela.34 Ardan could easily understand this ‘mistake’, as nowadays even many people of Betawi descent are unaware that various subvarieties of Betawi Malay exist, and the non-Betawi inhabitants of Jakarta are even less likely to know this. He nevertheless felt it was his duty to remind people of the difference between the two subvarieties.35

28

‘[Sebelum Si Doel], Betawi kan terkenal bahasanya aja kan, cukup dikenal; sekarang “inilah kebudayaannya”.’ Interview with Andriani AN, 21 March 1999. 29 Interview with Nurbaeti, 21 March 1999. 30 Interview with Hj. Nyai, 21 March 1999. 31 ‘Cocok deh kayaknya sreg gitu.’ Conversation with H. Fauzy, 6 February 1998. 32 Interview with Andriani AN, 21 March 1999. 33 Conversation with Andi, Fadil, and Reza on shoot location of Si Doel, 6 February 1998. 34 S.M. Ardan, ‘Betawi di TV’, Vista-TV, December 1994, p. 50; S.M. Ardan, ‘Betawi “Rancu” di Televisi’, Kompas Online, 10 November 1996. 35 Interview with S.M. Ardan, 19 February 1998.

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Si Doel and previous representations of Betawiness Ardan not only discussed Si Doel in terms of language use: he and other orang Betawi, particularly older people, also talked about the sinetron in the context of previous mediations of Betawi culture. Ardan believed that the success story of Si Doel could not be adequately explained without taking note of these earlier media representations, as they familiarized both audiences and producers with common Betawi themes, storylines and, significantly, Betawi Malay. Among the first mediatizers of Betawi culture was Ardan’s good friend, the writer Firman Muntaco. In the 1960s, Muntaco wrote a weekly column in the Sunday weekly Berita Minggu entitled Gambang Djakartè (Jakartan music).36 These sketches centred around unpretentious and recognizable themes for the readership of the popular newspaper, such as the flooding of Jakarta and other poverty-related situations, which were among the daily realities for the common man and woman in the capital city (Muntaco 1960, 1963).37 Muntaco’s writings are believed to have introduced the inhabitants of Jakarta as an ethnic group to a broader audience. His characters’ vivid dialogues, which were written in Betawi Malay, contributed to the popularization of this language variety (Sahal 1988:60-1). The Betawiness of the Si Doel characters Lastly, viewers discussed Si Doel for its depiction of the Betawi characters. Viewers complained that the flirtatious Engkong Ali discredited the elderly Betawi man.38 While most Betawi viewers whom I talked to mentioned Mandra as one of their favourite characters,39 others complained that this character reinforced the stereotypical image of the uneducated, lazy womanizer.40 Most criticism however was directed at the characterization of Doel. Viewers considered some of his character traits, such as being introverted and 36

The phrase Gambang Djakartè obviously alludes to gambang kromong, the musical genre. The title can probably be explained as a metaphor for Muntaco’s effort to capture the sounds of Jakarta and thus I translated it as ‘Jakartan Music’. For S.M. Ardan, as he explains in the foreword to the first edition of Muntaco (1960), the column’s former title Tjermin Djakartè (Mirror of Jakarta) was more appropriate (p. 5). 37 Muntaco continued writing columns for several Jakarta newspapers until his death in 1993. Between 1988 and 1990, for instance, he wrote a column called Gaya Betawi (Betawi style) for Pos Kota. Between 1989 and 1993, his column Sketsa Betawi (Betawi sketches) appeared in Berita Buana Minggu (Sahal 1988:16-17). 38 M. Sarief Arief, ‘Mencermati Dampak Budaya Si Doel Anak Sekolahan’, Republika, 16 October 1994, p. 5. 39 Interviews with Lukman and Marhasan, 20 March 1999; and with Nurjanah, Nurbaeti, Andriani AN, and Siti Zubaedah, 21 March 1999. 40 M. Sarief Arief, ‘Mencermati Dampak Budaya Si Doel Anak Sekolahan’, Republika, 16 October 1994, p. 5.

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indecisive, untrue to the nature of a Betawi man. In addition they criticized Doel for laughing too little.41 A group of Betawi youngsters voiced their opinion on the serial and its characters as follows: KL: Fadil: KL: Fadil: Reza: KL: Andi: KL: Andi: Fadil: Andi:

What do you think of Si Doel? It is obligatory (wajib)! Why? I am an anak Betawi, watching Si Doel is an obligation. Not watching means you are committing a sin (dosa)! (laughter) Does Si Doel suit you well, or are there things that are less appropriate? Well it suits me, all right, but there are actually a few things that are less appropriate. What are they? Doel doesn’t hang out enough with other youngsters! He doesn’t hang out enough! The Betawi like to hang out!42 

Interestingly, these respondents voiced their interpretation of Si Doel through an Islamic framework: both the terms wajib (obligatory) and dosa (sin) belong to an Islamic vocabulary and refer to well-known concepts in this religion. Though the Betawi community generally received Si Doel with enthusiasm, the serial also generated much and very detailed criticism, particularly for its depiction of Betawi culture in all its facets. Abdul Sahal therefore probably speaks for many Betawi viewers when he says, ‘I myself consider Si Doel attractive indeed as a spectacle. For the rest, there is much that needs to be debated’.43 Discussions between individual members of the Betawi community, cultural experts, and institutions aiming to advance Betawi culture focused on the ways in which Si Doel had succeeded or failed to portray the Betawi community ‘realistically’. Sometimes these discussions gave birth to new cultural artefacts or media texts, from theatre plays to radio debates and sinetron. Examples of secondary texts thus generated include an excerpt of a radio programme and three ‘sinetron Betawi’ that aimed to counterbalance or complement the portrayal of Betawi culture in Si Doel. 41

Interview with Mrs. Aisyah, 21 March 1999. KL: ‘Apa pendapatmu tentang Si Doel Anak Sekolahan?’ / Fadil: ‘Wajib itu!’ / KL: ‘Kenapa?’ / Fadil: ‘Saya kan anak Betawi, wajib nonton Si Doel itu.’ / Reza: ‘Kalau nggak nonton, dosa!’ / KL: Si Doel Anak Sekolahan cocok atau masih ada yang kurang?’ / Andi: ‘Ya cocok sih, cuman ada dikit yang kurang nih.’ / KL: ‘Apanya?’ / Andi: ‘Si Doel kurang gaul ama anak muda nih!’/ Fadil: ‘Kurang garam [Jakartan slang for ‘gaul’, KL]!’ / Andi: ‘Anak Betawi suka bergaul!.’ Conversation at location shootings Si Doel with Andi, Fadil, and Reza, 6 February 1998. 43 ‘Saya sendiri melihat bahwa Si Doel memang menarik sebagai tontonan. Selebihnya, banyak yang perlu diperdebatkan.’ Personal communication with Abdul Sahal via e-mail, 17 September 1998. 42

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Bens Radio44 Bens Radio or Radio Bens is a Jakarta-based commercial radio station founded by Benyamin S. on 5 March 1990.45 The station aimed to promote Betawi culture as well as provide entertainment (Gunawijaya and Yudoseputro, 1997:77). Though all broadcasts of Bens Radio are in Betawi Malay and hence coloured by a Betawi stroke, several programmes are truly devoted to Betawi culture. One such programme is Obrolan Betawi (Betawi talk), a series of six radio programmes produced in conjunction with the LKB in 1998. Betawi talk Betawi talk was broadcast weekly for one hour on Bens Radio between 8 April and 24 June 1998. The series was a vehicle of Betawi discourse because it issued normative statements on what it means to be a Betawi in present-day Jakarta. In one typical broadcast, the following issues were seriously treated: the stereotype that orang Betawi are poorly educated, a future agenda for the orang Betawi, and the need for the Betawi community to be introspective.46 Another broadcast more light-heartedly explained the proper way to prepare certain Betawi dishes.47 As a topic engaging the Betawi community, Si Doel was discussed several times on Bens Radio, including in Betawi talk. The following discussion took place in the programme aired on 24 June 1998. Presenter hajji Syafi’i, then chairman of LKB, had invited two prominent members of the Betawi community to the studio: hajji Amarullah Asbah, a representative of the regional government who is better known as ‘Bang Wok’, and hajji Salman Muhtar, a successful businessman. The three of them talked about the stereotype that the Betawi are behind the times and lack education. To solicit a reaction from his studio guests, the host suddenly paraphrased some lines from the title song of Si Doel:

44

Unless stated otherwise, I owe all information in this section to Edo Arazy, whom I interviewed in 1998, 2000, and 2001. Arazy has been studio manager at Bens Radio since 1995 and in charge of the radio station’s PR. During my visits to the station in January 1998 and May 2000, I also talked to Biki Rahmat and Hony Irawan (1998) and H. Tabroni (2000), all presenters of Bens Radio at the time. In addition, I regularly listened to Bens Radio, recording some of its broadcasts for further analysis. For a more elaborate discussion of the position of Bens Radio in contemporary Jakarta, in particular its role in disseminating Betawi Malay, see Loven (2001). 45 Bens Radio is registered as a member of the National Broadcaster’s Association (PRSSNI) under number 501-I/1990. 46 Obrolan Betawi, Bens Radio, 15 April 1998. 47 Obrolan Betawi, Bens Radio, 22 April 1998.

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Bang Wok: Host:

Salman:

[…] it is like in the television serial Si Doel, isn’t it, ‘the Betawi people are behind the times’, even though they [add] the phrase ‘or so they say’, right. And then: ‘their activities consist of reciting the Koran’ […] ‘Praying and reciting the Koran!’ ‘Praying and reciting the Koran’, like that, [and then] ‘but don’t touch me, or I will hit you and you will be powerless’. [Laughs] How crazy of Rano to make such a vicious song. […] Well, what I just meant was that it is often said that the Betawi are behind the times, but then how do you explain that a large number of Betawi pursue their education in America? […] If we connect this to the Si Doel song, well, I’m sorry, particularly towards Rano Karno, but if it is said that the Betawi are behind the times, I say ‘no comment’. If it says that we lack culture, however, I disagree.48

Apparently hajji Salman, a successful Betawi entrepreneur, found it difficult to answer the question of whether or not the Betawi are behind the times. To turn the discussion to a topic he was more eager to discuss, he quickly alluded to the second stanza of the title song of Si Doel (anak Betawi, nggak berbudaye, katenye), which says that the Betawi lack culture. The formula of Betawi talk ensured that voices of experts on Betawi culture were alternated with input of listeners. Listeners were given the opportunity to phone in to the programme and comment upon the matters being treated. Shortly after the discussion with quotations from the theme song, the presenter invited listeners to phone in to the radio station. The first to respond to this invitation was Sahril, who introduced himself as ‘a genuine Border Betawi’ (Betawi Pinggiran asli) from south Jakarta. Sahril explained that he opposed the idea that the Betawi were behind the times. To back up his argument, he sang the first stanza of the title song of Si Doel (anak Betawi, ketinggalan zaman, katenye), emphasizing its final word katenye (or so they say), explaining that the Betawi merely suffered from an image problem. In reality, Sahril proceeded, there were plenty of orang Betawi who led modern lives and had a proper education, but the image of being behind the times seemed to stick to the Betawi community. Like studio guest hajji Salman, Sahril indi48

Host: ‘[…] baik pilem Si Doel Anak Sekolahan ya kan “suku Betawi ketinggalan jaman”, maskipun pake “katenye” gitu kan. Nah kerjaannya ngaji ame…’ / Bang Wok: ‘Sembahyang mengaji!’ / Host: ‘Sembahyang mengaji gitu, tapi jangan dicolek, gue pukul, kendor lu. Ini Bang Rano gila bikin lagu galak banget. […] Nah, yang saya tadi maksudkan […] banyak […] yang katanya orang Betawi ketinggalan tapi kok sebagian besar anak Betawi ada yang sekolahnya di Amerika. […]’ / hajji Salman: ‘Nah, kalo dikaitkan dengan lagu dari Si Doel, ini maap aja ni, terutama kepada Rano Karno ya, kalau dibilang Betawi ketinggalan jaman, saya no comment ya. Tapi kalau dibilang Betawi tidak berbudaya, saya menolak.’ Excerpt from Betawi talk, Bens Radio, 24 June 1998.

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cated that he disagreed with the idea that the Betawi have no culture, and even proposed a revision of that particular stanza in the title song of Si Doel. He ended his call with an appeal to studio guest Bang Wok to correct the image of the Betawi in the eyes of people of other ethnic backgrounds. Among the things that should be corrected were the issues he had just mentioned, as well as the use of certain terms of address in Si Doel.49 Sahril noted that Doel used the wrong term of address towards his uncle Mandra, calling him Abang (‘Older Brother’) whereas in fact he should call his mother’s younger brother Mamang or Encing (‘Younger Uncle’). Bang Wok replied that he was aware of the serial’s shortcomings, but wanted to emphasize that no other programme had yet had higher ratings than Si Doel. This made him very proud, because it proved to him that Betawi culture was acceptable throughout Indonesia. The fact that Bens Radio alluded to Si Doel in its discussions about Betawi culture is not surprising. The wide scope and nationwide popularity of Si Doel with a heterogeneous audience turned it into a shared text, equally suitable as an allusion when discussing Betawi matters with fellow Betawi as well as with non-Betawi. Because Bens Radio aimed to attract both types of audiences, quoting Si Doel was a sensible strategy. The discussion in Betawi talk, which lasted for approximately ten minutes, illustrates how the representation of Betawiness in Si Doel was counterbalanced, or at times even ‘corrected’, by alternative discourses such as those produced by Bens Radio. The language of Bens Radio To fulfil its self-proclaimed mission of promoting and preserving Betawi culture, Bens Radio deliberately employed Betawi Malay as its language of communication. The station used this language to stimulate the use of Betawi Malay in general and to revive or introduce less familiar and long-forgotten Betawi words to its listeners. Arazy explained that the language had to be presented in small doses, so that a mixed Betawi and non-Betawi public would stay tuned: ‘We use the Betawi language daily. But not too much, you know, not too intensely. We have to do it little by little’.50 Bens Radio used both Central and Border Betawi Malay in its broadcasts to counterbalance the speech of the Betawi typically represented on television: If the style of the Betawi people is exposed, [what is shown is that] they talk loudly. […] That is what […] sometimes makes non-Betawi [viewers] confused. For what they come to know is that the Betawi talk in a loud, rude, and fierce voice […]. 49

Like many orang Betawi, Sahril alludes to the sinetron as Si Doel anak Betawi instead of Si Doel anak sekolahan. 50 ‘Kita sehari-hari memakai bahasa Betawi. Tapi tidak terlalu full, ya, tidak terlalu kental. Harus sedikit demi sedikit.’ Interview with Edo Arazy, 6 January 1998.

226

Watching Si Doel Because that is what we often see on television, in plays, in sinetron, in comedies […]. Though in fact it is not like that. […] We try to make clear that various kinds of Betawi [Malay] actually exist.51

In addition, presenters of Bens (as the station is known to its listeners) had to use a certain vocabulary to establish and maintain station identity – the ‘standard language of Bens Radio’. This standard language (bahasa baku) was described in the language guidelines that were distributed to new presenters. The standard language consists of a restricted number of phrases to be used on prescribed occasions. For instance, in addressing the audience the phrase Abang None Encang Encing Nyak Babe (Brothers Sisters Uncles Aunts52 Mothers Fathers53) had to be used at all times. These Betawi Malay terms of address were meant to express and strengthen the familiarity between presenter and listeners. Another example was the way in which presenters had to tell the time. Two words were used: ngudag (to chase, used to describe the time left to the whole hour) and ngacir (to run, to flee, used to describe the time passed since the whole hour). According to Arazy the main reason for the radio station to use this standard vocabulary was to give its broadcasting a recognizable style, so that listeners could instantly identify the station as Bens Radio. Sinetron Betawi: NPK, Fatima, Mat Angin Another type of secondary text that is generated through Betawi discourse is the sinetron Betawi. Sinetron Betawi are sinetron with a Betawi setting, which ‘rely on […] their avowed “Betawiness”, and use the informal Betawi dialect, straightforward conversations and common everyday problems that remind viewers of their experience in the nation’s capital’.54 Sinetron Betawi have their roots in the 1980s, when Ali Shahab’s most successful productions Jin Tomang and Nyai Dasime were aired. They further developed in the early 51

‘Yang terekspos tu […] gaya orang Betawi tu […] kalau ngomong harus keras. Itu yang kadang-kadang […] membikin pihak yang bukan orang Betawi itu taunye… jadi pengaburan […]. Taunye itu Betawi itu ngomongnye keras, kasar, galak […]. Karena itu yang kita lihat sering di tivi, di sandiwara, di sinetron, di acara lawak […]. Padahal nggak seperti itu. […] Kita berusaha men-sosialisasikan bahwa Betawi itu memang macem-macem.’ Interview with Edo Arazy, 16 May 2000. 52 Bens Radio claims to use the words Encang and Encing with the meaning Uncle or Aunt, comparable to Indonesian Paman and Bibi. In other Betawi Malay varieties, these terms of address have a slightly different meaning. 53 The phrase Nyak Babe can be translated as ‘Mothers and Fathers’ (its literal meaning) or, more officially, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen’. I prefer to use the first translation, as it stresses the atmosphere of familiarity created by Bens Radio. 54 Antariksawan Yusuf, ‘Indonesian Television and the Betawi Phenomenon’, The Indonesian Observer, 30 December 1997.

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1990s, when productions such as Gossip lenong were screened. While Gossip lenong and earlier Betawi-flavoured productions were a source of inspiration for Rano Karno, the success of Si Doel in turn inspired others to create new television serials set in a Betawi background. In response to the abundance of sinetron Betawi on television in 1997, one critic noted: If Firman Muntaco […] were still alive, he would probably smile a little when observing that ever more Betawi artists appear on television. After Harry ‘Bo’im’ de Fretes incorporated Betawi elements into Gossip lenong and Rano Karno into Si Doel, stories with a Betawi atmosphere increasingly show their strength as viewing alternatives.55

One of the sinetron Betawi launched in the beneficial climate in the wake of Si Doel was Neo pepesan kosong, a new version of the long-running success production Hollow talk (see Chapter VI). Like its predecessor, Neo hollow talk was a synthesis of ‘lenong and topeng shaped by cinematographic technique’, according to producer Ali Shahab. Interestingly, the title song of Neo hollow talk took a clear and critical stance on the contemporary position of the Betawi community, particularly on land-clearing policies: Hollow talk, this is its story. Oh well, my dear, my beloved, most pitiful are the Betawi. Their source of income has been taken away. They’ve been thrown out of Senayan! Thrown out of Tebet! Thrown out of Kuningan! Grandfathers have been evicted! Uncles… evicted! Ancestors… evicted! Aunts… evicted! 56

Ali Shahab explained that it was daring of him to write these lyrics because they opened up ‘a corridor that thus far nobody had dared to enter’. Because of his critical allusions to the displacement of orang Betawi from the centre of Jakarta, he had feared that his sinetron would not pass the censors. It did, and viewers turned out to like the text of the song and the form (rap) in which it was presented. Particularly the Betawi viewers of his sinetron felt that the song defended them.57 The stories in the sinetron itself did not allude in any way to 55

‘Andai almarhum Firman Muntaco […] masih ada, barangkali ia bisa sedikit tersenyum melihat makin banyak pekerja seni Betawi masuk televisi. Setelah Harry “Bo’im” de Fretes meng­ angkat unsur Betawi lewat Lenong rumpi dan Rano Karno melalui Si Doel anak sekolahan, lakonlakon beratmosfer Betawi kian menunjukkan kekuatannya sebagai tontonan alternatif.’ Ken, ‘Betawi Punya Cerita’, Kompas Online, 21 May 1997. 56 ‘Pepesan kosong ini lakonnye / Aduh, sayang… sayang disayang / Paling kasihan anak Betawi / Nasinya ilang, diambil orang… / Senayan… digusur! / Tebet… digusur! / Kuningan… digusur! / Engkong… digusur! / Encang… digusur! / Buyut… digusur! / Encing… digusur!’ (Excerpt from the title song of Neo pepesan kosong (‘Neo hollow talk’), the new version of the long-running sinetron Hollow talk that was aired by TPI in May 1997.) 57 Interview with Ali Shahab, 15 December 1997.

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the sensitive topic addressed in its signature tune though. Rather, they were depictions of the daily life of a Betawi community in a light-hearted, slapstick style. Neo hollow talk, which was broadcast in daily instalments between Si Doel 3 and 4, was much talked about by the Betawi community. Broadcaster TPI pointed out that the serial also proved popular with a male audience. Whereas some producers aimed mainly to profit from the marketability of Betawi culture, others took upon themselves the mission to either supplement or correct the depiction of the Betawi community in Si Doel. Among the the productions made to correct the Betawi image were Fatima (ANTV) and Mat Angin (TPI), two successful sinetron Betawi broadcast in 1997. Fatima The sinetron Fatima (often pronounced Fatime in BM) was shot in Condet, the preservation area for Betawi culture where Nurly Karno bought the oplet for Si Doel. Condet is divided into three subdistricts: Batu Ampar (the fictive birthplace of Nyak Lela and Mandra), Kampung Tengah, and Bale Kambang (Budiati 2000:319). Fatima was shot in Bale Kambang. Broadcast by ANTV in weekly instalments in 1997, the serial was produced by PT Wahana Kusuma and directed by Husein Kusuma. The ­makers of Fatima noticed that whereas Si Doel had succeeded in countering the stereotypical image of the lazy Betawi male through the figure of Doel, it had done little to fight female Betawi stereotypes. Fatima was to fill this gap because it would emphasize the world of the other sex ‘to capture the emancipatory spirit of Betawi women’. For the actual topic of the sinetron, the producers took inspiration from Fatima, a song that was quite popular in the 1970s, written by pop group Pancaran Sinar Petromak. It was about the young, enticing widow Fatima, and as such reinforced the stereotype of the janda genit (coquettish widow/divorcee )58 circulating among the Betawi. This stereotype finds its legitimacy in the recent past, when young Betawi women were often married to elderly men. When these men died their widows were still relatively young, and other, married women felt threatened by them.59 The producers of the sinetron Fatima set out to counter the janda genit stereotype. The main character in Fatima is Fatima, a single woman who has divorced her husband because he was old-fashioned and did not allow her to develop. In keeping with the janda genit stereotype, many women in the village where Fatima lives after her divorce treat her with suspicion. When soon after she moves into the village it becomes known as kampung Fatima, after its most beautiful inhabitant, other women do not accept her any easier. Fatima how58

In Indonesian, the same word (janda) is used to denote either a widow or a divorcee, that is to say a single woman who has been married at least once. 59 Didang Sasmita, ‘Kisah Janda Muda Dari Condet’, Vista-TV, 14, IV, March 1997, pp. 36-9.

VIII Mediating Betawi identity

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ever is not intent on finding another man, she simply wishes to lead her life as an independent young woman. Fatima owns a beauty salon and has some houses to let. She likes sports and follows several courses so she can get ahead in life. Fatima tries to live according to her principles. This becomes clear when a land developer offers to buy the villagers’ land for a large sum of money and Fatima turns down his offer. Even though the other inhabitants, all of whom agree, are angry, Fatima sticks to her decision. She refuses to become a displaced Betawi merely for the sake of money, and the land developer is forced to abandon his plans to build a real estate complex in kampung Fatima. Like the producer of Si Doel, the producers of Fatima included some characters from other ethnic backgrounds to increase its appeal to non-Betawi viewers. Where the Javanese Mas Karyo accompanied Mandra, Fatima was contrasted with the Batak character Parlin and the Sundanese character Ceu (‘Older Sister’, Sund.) Kokom. To stress the serial’s Betawiness, the producers furthermore employed two Betawi actors who were assigned to ‘play themselves’. To make the depiction of kampong life attractive for members of the upper class or kelas atas, the producers deliberately used non-Betawi music because they feared that using too many Betawi elements would discourage an upper-class audience from watching the sinetron.60 Mat Angin Whereas Fatima commented upon Si Doel by deliberately addressing the aspirations of the other sex, the sinetron Mat Angin, which was broadcast by TPI, aimed to capture the Betawi spirit better than its celebrated predecessor. The producers of Mat Angin also claimed that their main character, Mat Angin, from which the sinetron derived its name, represented the typical Betawi male better than that other main character, Doel. Whereas Doel is hesitant and introverted, Mat Angin is extroverted, impulsive, and a quick decisionmaker. Significantly, both characters are portrayed as devout Muslims. Mat (or Mamat) is an abbreviation of Muhammad, while angin means ‘wind’. Angin stands for Muhammad’s most remarkable character trait, which is that he addresses all problems in life ‘as if they are but the wind passing by’.61 Mat Angin’s philosophy is that ‘life is a comedy, which will become a tragedy if it is not endured with faith and laughter’.62 A good friend of Mat Angin’s is Sadeli, 60

See Didang Sasmita, ‘Kisah Janda Muda Dari Condet’, Vista-TV, 14, IV, March 1997, pp. 36-9; Vip, ‘Sinetron “Fatima” ANTeve: Janda Betawi Dobrak Tradisi’, Surabaya Post, 16 January 1997, p. 11; Oki, ‘“Fatima”, Kisah Lelucon Rakyat Kecil’, Kompas Online, 22 July 1997; Ari Firwana, ‘Sinopsis Fatima’ (synopsis for new series of Fatima as faxed to ANTV), fax date 13 November 1997; Brillianto K. Jaya, ‘Modernitas Wanita Betawi Dalam Sinetron “Fatima”’, Suara Pembaruan Online, 28 December 1997. 61 Interview with Deddy Mizwar, 13 December 1997. 62 ‘Hidup adalah sebuah humor besar yang akan menjadi tragedi jika tidak dijalani dengan

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Watching Si Doel

a motorcycle taxi driver who plays a role much like Mandra’s in Si Doel. For Sadeli, education is of minor importance; neither is he overtly religious. Sadeli is materialistic and easily seduced by beautiful women. As do other sinetron Betawi, Mat Angin too accommodates a number of non-Betawi characters: the main character Mat Angin himself has a Javanese wife, and characters from Ambon, Sumatra, Manado, and Madura are featured as well. Mat Angin was designed as a situational comedy that aimed to encourage its audience not only to enjoy the story, but also to ponder upon its philosophy. Deddy Mizwar, who produced and directed the serial and who played the role of its main character Mat Angin, explained that he had chosen a Betawi setting as background for his sinetron because that was the culture he was most familiar with. At the sinetron festival (FSI) of 1997, Mat Angin was nominated in eleven categories, among them Best Comedy and Best Sinetron. The serial won ten awards. After its success at FSI several reruns were aired, and a new series of episodes was produced.63 According to Syamsuddin Ch. Haessy, advisor of the company that produced Mat Angin, the producers also wanted to correct the use of the terms of address Encang and Encing, which were used inappropriately in Si Doel. Doel uses the term of address Encang with his uncle Rohim (or any man to whom he relates in a similar way); correspondingly, he uses Encing when addressing his aunt Salpie or an equivalent female relative. Haessy explains that is incorrect, Encang being the term of address for the older brothers and sisters of one’s parents and their partners (that is to say, uncles and aunts who are older than one’s father or mother), whereas Encing should be reserved for younger relatives and their spouses (uncles and aunts younger than one’s father or mother).64 The character Mat Angin therefore addresses both his younger uncle and the latter’s wife as Encing.65 Mandra admits that the use of these terms of address in Si Doel is indeed partly incorrect, but denies that this is caused by ignorance about the language. According to Mandra, he and Benyamin S. often discussed issues of language use. In this particular case, the Betawi artists sought to represent the sub-dialects of the different Betawi characters without confusing the nonBetawi viewers. Mandra points out that Mat Angin uses the Central Betawi Malay subvariety. penuh taqwa dan tawa.’ F-3, ‘Sinetron Komedi “Mat Angin” Muncul di TPI’, Suara Pembaruan Online, 29 June 1997. 63 Interview with Deddy Mizwar, 13 December 1997. 64 Similar distinctions occur in other Indonesian languages. Central Javanese, for instance, resembles Betawi Malay in its use of terms of address. Like Border Betawi Malay, distinct terms of address are used to differentiate between men and women. Hence Encing (‘Younger Aunt’) equals Bulik, while Mamang (‘Younger Uncle’) parallels Paklik (male). By the same token, Encek (‘Older Aunt’) has as its counterpart Budhe, while Encang (‘Older Uncle’) equals Pakdhe. 65 Interview with Syamsuddin Ch. Haessy, 29 December 1997.

VIII Mediating Betawi identity

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Himself of Border Betawi descent, Mandra clarifies that his language variety makes use of four different terms, Encing (Younger Aunt), Mamang (Younger Uncle), Encang (Older Uncle), and Encek (Older Aunt) (see Table 8.1). In Mandra’s language variety, Doel should address the character Mandra as Mamang. In Central Betawi Malay, the native language of the late Benyamin S., Doel should address Mandra as Encing. By way of compromise, the two Betawi artists decided that Doel was to address Mandra as ‘Older Brother’ (Abang) instead. They believed that using this term of address was justified, considering the degree of intimacy between the two men (Mandra basically lives with the Sabeni family) and the fact that both are practically the same age. Similarly, Doel should address Zaenab’s parents as Encang (Older Uncle) Rohim and Encek (Older Aunt) Salpie, or as Mamang Rohim (Younger Uncle) and Encing Salpie (Younger Aunt) in Border Betawi Malay, depending on whether they are older or younger than his parents (Figure 8.1). In Central Betawi Malay, by contrast, Doel would have to address both as either Encang (Older Uncle, Older Aunt) or Encing (Younger Uncle, Younger Aunt). By way of compromise, Doel uses Encang for ‘Uncle’ and Encing for ‘Aunt’.66 Table 8.1 Overview of terms of address for ‘Uncle’ and ‘Aunt’ in Betawi Malay Term of Address

Central Betawi Malay

Border Betawi Malay Si Doel Malay

Aunt, younger

Encing

Encing

Encing

Uncle, younger

Encing

Mamang

Encang

Aunt, older

Encang

Encek

Encing

Uncle, older

Encang

Encang

Encang

Mediating Betawi identity Though Betawi viewers in general acknowledged that Si Doel was produced to entertain, many criticized aspects of the serial that ‘misrepresented’ their culture. Whereas throughout the world people discuss and criticize the ways in which the media represent them, this discussion takes on special relevance in the context of the multi-cultural state of Indonesia, where the issue of ethnicity has been extremely sensitive for decades. The booming of Betawi-flavoured programmes in the 1990s and at the beginning of the third millennium is furthermore remarkable because some decades earlier Betawi culture was clearly on the demise. It comes as no surprise, then, that the nationwide visibility of this ethnic group through the serial Si Doel elicited ample response from members of the Betawi community. One statement produced through Betawi discourse is that Si Doel has the 66

Conversation with Mandra on the set of Si Doel, 2 June 2000.

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Figure 8.1 Encang Rohim, Encing Salpie, and Zaenab (courtesy of Karnos Film)

responsibility of representing Betawi culture ‘correctly’ – that is, Betawi culture as it is thought to exist ‘outside’ the realm of television. Si Doel is thus constructed as a representation of Betawi culture, and in that capacity the serial is both praised and criticized. A hotly debated topic is the question of whether the sinetron has in effect reinforced certain stereotypes about the Betawi that circulate in Indonesian society, or rather dismantled them. Opinions are split among the Betawi community about this topic and about the serial’s presumed ‘realism’. Betawi viewers both praise Si Doel for its realistic portrayal of Betawi society and criticize it for its shortcomings in depicting this ethnic group. This criticism is particularly directed at the ‘unrealistic’ or ‘careless’ representation of some cultural aspects such as language use, the use of terms of address, and the portrayal of some Betawi characters. In spite of the fair amount of criticism, most viewers agree that Si Doel has at least been successful in renewing interest for Betawi culture, and some even declare explicitly that they are proud of the serial’s success. Some producers make an effort to ‘correct’ or supplement the sinetron’s portrayal of Betawi culture, either by producing their own sinetron Betawi or by choosing a different medium to express their ideas. New sinetron

VIII Mediating Betawi identity

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were Fatima (which addressed the issue of gender, a topic that was not really developed in Si Doel), and Mat Angin (which aimed at a better representation of the ‘Betawi spirit’ and a more faithful rendering of the Betawi language). Producers of Bens Radio used the medium of radio to advance Betawi culture in all its ­facets, counterbalancing existing stereotypes or misunderstandings about Betawi culture, for instance, by using different varieties of Betawi Malay. In Betawi discourse, as in any other discursive environment, some speakers have more authority than others. In addition, within Betawi discourse specific domains seem to be reserved for certain people only. Although a Betawi taxi driver is free to express his opinion on Si Doel, for instance, it is the umbrella organization Bamus Betawi, or one of its affiliates like LKB, that possesses the dominant Betawi voice in more ‘serious’ matters such as defining Betawi identity or appointing a candidate for the position of governor of Jakarta. This illustrates Chris Barker and Dariusz Galasiński’s (2001:57) observation that discourses on and issues of identity and representation are strongly connected to power struggles: ‘Issues of identity and cultural representation are “political” because they are intrinsically bound up with questions of power. Power […] enables some kinds of knowledge and identities to exist while denying it to others’. The discursive elaboration of Si Doel and similar mediations in Betawi circles illustrates that Betawi identity (or rather, identities) are constantly created, reproduced, and fought over. In addition, while the media tend to construct the kaum Betawi as a homogeneous group, an exploration of Betawi discourse reveals the polyphony of the Betawi community.

CHAPTER IX

Advertising Si Doel Engkong: Zaenab: Engkong: Doel: Mandra: Engkong: (Choir): Voice-over:

Hey, that’s a Honda Black Astrea! That must be Mandra. Another Black Astrea! That’s probably Doel. Grandfather, what are you doing? There, that’s Mandra driving by, how disrespectful of him. Granny, do you think that only Mandra and I own a Black Astrea? Running smoothly! Good heavens! There are lots of them. Honda Black Astrea! Whichever way you look at it, there are many Hondas. … I mean, Honda is superior!1

The foundation for the advertising industry currently thriving in Indonesia was laid during colonial rule. To promote their manufacture, Dutch trading agencies in the archipelago used advertising media that were effective in their mother country, such as ‘posters, handbills, and newspaper advertisements’ (Anderson 1979:214). These early advertisements were directed mainly at the expatriates living in the archipelago and they therefore often used Dutch as their language of communication (Anderson 1979:214). At first the colonial powers ignored the indigenous population, as it was considered neither capable of buying nor interested in the luxury, imported products that were advertised. Moreover, since many of them were illiterate, the indigenous people would not have understood the advertisements anyway – at least, this is what the Dutch believed. This view changed gradually, particularly after World War I, when indigenous populations in the colonies were ‘discovered’ as potential consumers (Anderson 1979:222-3). It was only after World War II, however, that Transnational Advertising Agencies (TNAAs) truly penetrated the country (Anderson 1979:216). 1

Engkong: ‘He he, Honda Black Astrea tuh! Pasti si Mandra. He he, Black Astrea lagi! Si Doel kali tuh.’/ Zaenab: ‘He Engkong, lagi ngapain?’/ Engkong: ‘Tuh, si Mandra ngacir, nggak ada hormatnya.’/ Doel: ‘He Engkong, emangnya cuman saya sama Bang Mandra doang yang punya Black Astrea?’/ Mandra: ‘Ampe ngacir!’/ Engkong: ‘Bujug buneng! Eh, banyak amat, ya.’ (choir): ‘Honda Black Astrea!’/ Voice-over: ‘Bagaimanapun juga, Honda lebih banyak… eh, lebih unggul!’ (Dialogue of a television commercial for Honda motorcycles, which was broadcast on Indonesian national television in 1995 (DVD no. 46)).

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Watching Si Doel

Economic development was an important element of Soeharto’s New Order, and advertising on radio and television began to flourish during his administration (Anderson 1979:236). Between 1965 and 1970, a large part of the TNAAs’ budget was spent on radio commercials. After the introduction of the Palapa satellite in 1976, companies turned to the ‘near-national’ medium of television (Anderson 1979:218). In March 1963, shortly after TVRI had started broadcasting, advertising on television took the form of slides or poster cards, which were shown for ten seconds between programmes. At the time, advertising only made up a tiny part of the broadcasting schedule, but over the years air time for commercials was to increase substantially. Although viewers of TVRI generally liked the television commercials (Kitley 2000:68), others were critical of the consumer culture that these ads promoted. They felt that advertising drew attention to the unequal distribution of wealth in society, and therefore intensified ‘competition and frustration over how human needs can be satisfied’ (Anderson 1978:208). In January 1974, this frustration culminated in what would become known as the Malari incident. Malari, a portmanteau typical of New Order euphemistic discourse, stands for Malapetaka Limabelas Januari, or ‘Disaster of January 15’. On that day, a state visit by Japanese Prime Minister Tanaka gave rise to demonstrations that culminated in riots against the growing Japanese influence on the Indonesian economy. Some of the demonstrations took place before a number of large Japanese outdoor advertisements, which were seen as symbols of this economic domination (Anderson 1979:263). During the riots, demonstrators burned down the display area of Astra, ‘the most visible symbol of the Japanese presence in Indonesia’ (Schwarz 1999:34). After the Malari incident, the government advised Japanese companies and advertising agencies to keep a low profile for some time. It also promoted a sober lifestyle among Indonesian government officials. Most importantly the Malari incident made the government increasingly alert to the unwanted effects of advertising (Schwarz 1999:265). Particularly Islamic groups shared the government’s concern and asked for a ban on advertising (although Kitley (2000:67-8) states that the religious factor as reason for the ban may be exaggerated). In response to the growing criticism of consumer culture, ads for luxury goods were banned from television in 1975 (Anderson 1979:265). Beginning on 1 April 1981, television advertising was prohibited in its entirety. TVRI was now largely dependent on government subsidy, which increased almost tenfold after the ban. The station reacted by producing sponsored items and selling them to those companies that were interested. Ironically, it was this ban on advertising on TVRI that eventually contributed to the birth of the system of commercial television. Soon after its introduction, commercial television became the major vehicle for advertising. Sen and Hill (2000:115-6) report that total national adver-

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237

tising expenditure doubled from 639 billion rupiah in 1990, when private television was available only in Jakarta and Surabaya, to 1.381 trillion rupiah in 1993, when the private channels gained a national audience. In 1995, when all five private channels were in operation, the national advertising budget rose to 3.335 trillion rupiah. Between 1991 and 1995, the amount of advertising money spent on the medium of television almost doubled. In 1996, Media Scene, Indonesia’s ‘official guide to advertising media’, stated that 48 per cent of the advertising budget was spent on television, while newspapers (33 per cent), magazines (nearly 7 per cent) and other media (12 per cent) accounted for the remainder (Subakti and Katoppo 1996:27). During the krismon, the total advertising budget decreased from over five trillion rupiah in 1997 to less than four trillion rupiah in 1998. Although in absolute numbers less money was spent on the medium of television (2.213 trillion as opposed to 2.678 trillion in 1997), a larger part of the budget was actually allocated to television advertising (58.9 per cent as opposed to 52.6 per cent in 1997) (Achjadi and Katoppo 1999:45). Local products, foreign advertisers During the first years of the New Order, most television ads were imported from abroad and simply translated into the national language (Anderson 1979:250). In the late 1970s, the seven TNAAs in the archipelago exercised a high degree of control over the indigenous advertising industry (Anderson 1979:254). In the 1990s, all major Indonesian advertising agencies were still associated with TNAAs, using foreign advertising experts as creative directors. Even though ‘legally all ads on television [had to] be produced domestically, using Indonesian backgrounds and artists’, foreigners still had considerable influence on the creative output of the Indonesian advertising industry (Sen and Hill 2000:121). As elsewhere, national television in the archipelago carries many advertisements promoting foreign products. These ads tend to be excluded from calculations of foreign content on national television, even though they make up one-fifth of total screen time on commercial television, and ‘contain some of the most powerful and by far the most expensive, high-production-value images’ (Sen and Hill 2000:121). While in the mid 1990s TNAAs still played a dominant role in the Indonesian advertising industry, they, as well as local advertising agencies, started using an increasingly local idiom – literally and metaphorically – to promote local as well as foreign products. According to Rano Karno, the tendency to produce advertisements with an indigenous rather than an international flavour should be attributed to the unprecedented success of his sinetron. Rano Karno claims that before the

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238

broadcasting of Si Doel agencies often imitated advertising strategies from the West, but the success of his sinetron inspired them to adopt strategies that were ‘authentically Indonesian’.2 Rano Karno’s claim may be exaggerated: it is more likely that this shift took place gradually, reflecting an increasing awareness in the world of advertising – partly caused by the impressive popularity of programmes like Si Doel – that local advertising strategies might be more effective than copying foreign formulas. Nonetheless, the number of commercials that in one way or another parasitized on the success of Si Doel was indeed unpreced­ ented. Advertisements appeared in various media such as radio, magazines, and newspapers and promoted products as diverse as food, clothes, daily cosmetics, household equipment, and motorcycles. Most powerful were those advertisements broadcast on national television, the ‘Doel commercials’. The Doel commercials During the first run of the third series of Si Doel, twenty-nine different commercials were broadcast in which either the setting or actors of Si Doel (or both) were employed. Actors, notably Rano Karno, were cast in their role of media personality or played their sinetron character. All Doel commercials broadcast during Si Doel 3 featured at least one major actor from the serial, filling a total of approximately 150 commercial slots. Table 9.1 lists all Doel commercials broadcast during the first run of Si Doel 3. As the table shows, these ads promoted twenty-two products, representing sixteen brands. These Doel commercials were not only broadcast during Si Doel, but also at other times and on other stations. It is therefore possible that during the same period other Doel commercials than the ones listed in Table 9.1 were shown during other RCTI programmes or on different channels. Still, as a Doel commercial is most effective when placed in the vicinity of the serial to which it alludes, advertisers likely strove to have their Doel commercial aired at least once during a Si Doel slot, in which case I would have encountered it. Furthermore the Doel commercials listed in Table 9.1 are but a selection of all those ever made – in fact, I know dozens of others exist. Because the commercials listed are representative of the other Doel commercials, I consider them sufficient for my purposes. The list of advertised goods in Table 9.1 are mostly local products that fall under the categories of food (fast food, instant noodles), shoes (sandals), personal care (soap, shampoo, toothpaste, body spray), and analgesics. Some products are within the buying range of all viewers; others, most notably large household appliances and motorcycles, are targeted at viewers with considerable buying power. 2

Interview with Rano Karno, 29 April 1998.

Table 9.1 Doel commercials broadcast during the first run of Si Doel 3a No.

Brand name

Product advertised

Product name

No.b

Actors (by name of character)

Typec

1

Air Mancur

Traditional analgesic (jamu)

RaLinu Ginseng

1

Nyak Lela, Doel

III

2

Ajinomoto

Seasoning

Ajinomoto

1

Mandra

I

3

California Fried Chicken (CFC)

Fast food

Paket Takasimura

1

Doel, Sarah, Atun, Mandra

II

II

4

Caplang

Balm

Balsam Caplang

1

Doel

5

Carvil

Shoes

Sandal Carvil

2

Doel, Mandra

II

6

Carvil

Body spray

Body Spray Carvil

1

Doel, Mandra, Sarah

II

7

Honda

Motorcycle

Honda Black Astrea

5

Babe Sabeni, Doel, Mandra, Mas Karyo, Atun, Engkong

III

8

Indofood

Instant noodles

Indomie Jumbo

1

Doel, Sarah, Nyak Lela,

III

9

Konimex

Analgesic

Inza

1

Doel

III

10

Pizza Hut

Fast food

Pizza Hut

1

Doel, Sarah, Atun, Mandra

II

11

Procold

Analgesic

Procold

1

Mas Karyo

I

12

Ramayana

Clothes

Ramayana

1

Atun, Babe Sabeni, Doel, Mandra, Nyak Lela, Engkong

III

13

Sariwangi

Tea

Sariwangi

1

Nyak Lela, Mas Karyo, Sarah

III

14

Sharp

Refrigerator

Kulkas Sharp ‘Nice Crystal’

1

Doel

I

15

Sharp

Refrigerator

Kulkas Sharp ‘Nice Crystal Gold’

1

Doel

I

16

Sharp

Refrigerator

Kulkas Sharp ‘Venus’

1

Doel

I

17

Sharp

Television

Televisi Sharp ‘Fine Crystal’

2

Doel

II

18

Sharp

Television

Televisi Sharp ‘Qvision’

1

Doel

II

19

Sharp

Washing machine

Mesin Cuci Sharp

1

Sarah, Atun

III

20

Sunsilk

Shampoo

Sunsilk Premium

2

Zaenab

I

21

Suryamie

Instant noodles

Suryamie

1

Mas Karyo

I

22

Tiga Roda

Mosquito repellent

Tiga Roda

3

Mas Karyo, Doel, Mandra

III

a This serial was broadcast from 26 February 1996 to 10 February 1997. b This column specifies the number of different commercials that promote this particular product. c The roman numerals in this column indicate the type of Doel commercial represented (see section ‘The Doel commercials’).

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Watching Si Doel

There are three types of Doel commercials, a distinction based on the similarities between Si Doel and commercials inspired by it. Commercials of the first type use the Si Doel actors merely as a famous personality. These commercials feature actors from Si Doel, but otherwise do not refer in any way to the sinetron. An example is ad no. 2 (references to commercials in the ensuing text use the numbering in Table 9.1), in which Mandra plays a street vendor who sells fried rice prepared with a certain brand of seasoning. This category also includes the commercials in which actors appear who would only later perform in Si Doel. An example is the Sunsilk ad (no. 20), which employed Maudy Koesnaedy for its advertisements long before she was cast to perform the role of Zaenab in Si Doel. In the second type of commercials, actors from Si Doel are cast as the characters they play in the sinetron. This is clear from their behaviour and language use. Indications that an ad belongs to this category are that actors address each other with the name of their character,3 or that several Si Doel actors perform together in one commercial. A substantial number of Doel commercials fall within this category. Examples are the commercials for Carvil sandals (ad no. 5) and body spray (ad no. 6), in which Mandra addresses Rano Karno as Doel and Cornelia Agatha as Sarah. The fast food advertisements for Pizza Hut (ad no. 10) and CFC (ad no. 3), featuring Sarah, Doel, Mandra, and Atun, belong to this category too. Notably the first, and to a lesser extent the second, advertising strategy is quite common in Indonesia as elsewhere. Both strategies integrate two propaganda techniques known as ‘transfer’ and ‘testimonial’. The transfer technique is a technique whereby the positive associations of an object (or person or animal) are transferred to the product advertised. In testimonials, on the other hand, people, frequently famous personalities, make positive statements about the product (De Boer en Brennecke 1998:24). Ads on Indonesian television belonging to the third category use not only the characters from Si Doel, but also its setting. Some of these ads comment upon the plot of the sinetron, whereas others show the characters in a sinetron setting, using or talking about the product that is advertised. When these commercials are aired during Si Doel, they engage in some sort of dialogue with the main narrative. An example of such a commercial is the Sharp washing machine ad (ad no. 19), which employs Sarah and Atun. The commercial depicts Atun in a sinetron setting while she is washing clothes in the traditional way (Figure 9.1). This is a familiar picture for viewers of the sinetron, in which one of Atun’s tasks is to wash the family’s clothes. While in the sinetron Atun does not really complain about this household chore, Sharp’s Atun wonders why 3 When Mandra is involved, it is difficult to distinguish between commercials of the first and second type, as the character and the actor use the same name.

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241

‘these days’ she still has to wash in this old-fashioned way. When Sarah hears Atun’s complaint, she takes Doel’s sister to her house and demonstrates her Sharp washing machine. Atun enthusiastically announces that she will ask Doel to buy her the same appliance. The Sabeni family’s premises appear in an advertisement for Tiga Roda mosquito repellent (ad no. 22) in a similar way. The ad features Mas Karyo and Doel. It is evening, and Mas Karyo is sitting in front of the warung, where numerous mosquitoes plague him. When Doel comes home, Mas Karyo complains to him that his mosquito repellent is useless. Doel smiles and tells his neighbour that he is using the wrong brand and he should know that ‘the mosquitoes around here are only afraid of Tiga Roda’.4 Doel then takes a package of Tiga Roda mosquito repellent from his mother’s warung, and hands it to Mas Karyo. The third category of commercials includes not only commercial advertisements, but also contains social advertising campaigns. The national antipolio campaign (see Chapter I), for instance, was shot on the premises of the Sabeni family and features all major actors performing in the sinetron at the time (DVD no. 39). The ad shows Mandra running onto the premises carrying a child on his back. Mandra shouts enthusiastically that PIN is here again. Mas Karyo, who was attending to one of his cherished singing birds, asks with annoyance who this PIN person is. Mandra then explains that PIN stands for Pekan Imunisasi Nasional (National Immunization Programme). Nyak Lela asks where one can find PIN and Mandra mentions several locations. Atun remarks that she will go there, but Mandra informs her that only babies and children under the age of five have to be vaccinated. Doel and Sarah then arrive by car; it turns out that they work as volunteers for the campaign. Atun and Mas Karyo express their wish to help campaigning, and all take leave of Nyak Lela and depart. In this advertisement, the characters relate to one another in the same way as in the sinetron. Mas Karyo reacts to Mandra with annoyance because he considers him too noisy. In addition, the naive Atun thinks she too has to be vaccinated even though the campaign is clearly directed at children. Nyak Lela is interested in knowing more about the campaign, but stays on the premises. Finally, Doel and Sarah, who are presented as a couple, are knowledgeable about the campaign and help promote it, as a viewer who is familiar with these characters would expect. But there are also short stories presented in the third type of Doel commercials that comment upon Si Doel in ways that are more intricate yet.

4

‘Nyamuk sini cuma takut Tiga Roda’.

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Figure 9.1 The sinetron’s Atun washes clothes in the traditional way (courtesy of Karnos Film)

The NoPain Ginseng-Doel commercial One of Doel’s main concerns in the serial is to find a job to go with his level of education. This idea is mirrored in an advertisement for a local brand of painkiller called RaLinu Ginseng (NoPain Ginseng). The NoPain Ginseng ad (ad no. 1) was broadcast during the episode in which Doel decides to quit a job that does not live up to his expectations. This episode, which was part of the third series, was broadcast on 9 September 1996. In a dramatic scene Doel tells his mother he has decided to withdraw from his company without disclosing that one of the reasons is that he has discovered that his friend Sarah used her connections to get him the position. Another factor is that Roy, one of his new colleagues and Sarah’s ex-boyfriend, has humiliated him in the office in front of his fellow workers. The scene is preceded by a commercial with the following mini-narrative: Doel comes home in a fancy car after a long day’s work. A driver opens the door of his car for him and a caption emerges explaining that by now Doel is his own boss. As Doel gets out of the car, he complains to his mother about stiff muscles. Upon hearing this, Nyak Lela recommends that her son use NoPain Ginseng, a traditional brand of analgesic that she sells in her warung. Doel takes the medicine and feels better. A few minutes after this optimistic commercial, the ‘real’ (meaning sinetron) Doel reminds the viewer that for many educated young people in

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Indonesia it will be difficult to find work that corresponds with their level of education, especially if they refuse to use their connections or just do not have them. The effectiveness of this short narrative lies precisely in the interplay between commercial and sinetron. In the first three series of the sinetron, one of the main elements of suspense is the question of whether Doel will find work at the level of his education (the other being which of the two girls he will eventually marry). The success of this advertisement, in which Doel has apparently succeeded in finding a respectable job (given that he has a personal driver), will depend on the ability of viewers to recall Doel’s struggle to find a job in the sinetron. This will not be all that difficult for regular viewers of the sinetron, as the advertisement employs the same actors for the roles of Doel and his mother in a familiar environment: Doel’s mother’s warung, which is located on the premises of the Sabeni family. In addition, these images are framed discursively by the explicit mention of both the name of the main character Doel and a moment in the near future when Doel will have succeeded in his search for a job. This statement (‘By now, Doel is finally his own boss’) is made through the linguistic non-diegetic imagescape. Its most important role seems to be to endorse the non-linguistic diegetic imagescape, which features Doel and his mother in a sinetron setting, and to connect the narrative of the commercial with that of the sinetron. In an obvious play with the framing narrative, the advertisement not only appeals to the knowledge that potential consumers have of the sinetron: in fact, it addresses them specifically as sinetron viewers and adds an element of suspense to the story of Si Doel. This ad can be interpreted to foreshadow a major event in the framing narrative, namely that Doel will find himself a suitable job in the sinetron, as he did in the commercial. Finding a proper job would signify a major change in Doel’s life that many viewers would wish for him – and that does indeed happen at the end of the third series. The question then becomes one of which narrative is actually framing which. The Ramayana-Doel commercial According to Rano Karno, linking the NoPain Ginseng ad with the narrative of Si Doel was not his idea but that of the makers of the commercial.5 In other advertisements, both parties deliberately orchestrated the intertwining of commercials and storyline. An example is an advertising campaign for Honda motorcycles. As one of its creators admits, the advertising agency responsible for this campaign obtained information about future develop5

Interview with Rano Karno, 31 October 1997.

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ments in Si Doel from producer Rano Karno himself.6 Another advertising mechanism that blurs the line between advertisement and television programme is product placement. Product placement is when advertisers pay to incorporate their product in the chosen vehicle. In Si Doel, product placement was used increasingly since the second series. In one advertising campaign a Doel commercial of the third type is combined with product placement in the sinetron. The Ramayana-Doel ad was launched during Si Doel 2, but the same concept has been used by the advertising agency for the follow-ups to this commercial, which were broadcast during later sequels (for instance ad no. 12). The commercial advertised clothes sold by retailer Ramayana for Idul Fitri (Figure 9.2). Because Idul Fitri marks the end of the Moslem fast, it is an occasion for which believers who can afford it tend to wear new clothes. In the Ramayana-Doel commercial that was broadcast during Si Doel 2, Babe Sabeni, Doel, and Mandra return home from the communal prayer session held on the morning of Idul Fitri (DVD no. 44, first part). At home, they meet up with Atun and Nyak Lela. According to tradition, the members of the family then ask each other for forgiveness. Next Atun shows her new clothes to her uncle Mandra, who comments that she looks smart. It turns out that both Mandra and Atun have bought their clothes at the Ramayana storehouse. A voice-over, dubbed by Rano Karno, announces that Ramayana now offers large discounts on its products. I encountered the Ramayana-Doel ad only once, namely during episode 20 of Si Doel 2, which was broadcast on 24 February 1995. It was the first ad in the commercial block, separated from the sinetron by only a fade-toblack. Because such fade-to-blacks also mark the transition from one scene to another within the narrative of Si Doel, viewers may have wondered for a moment whether they were watching the sinetron or a commercial. During episode 22, which was broadcast on Idul Fitri on 4 March 1995, the same clothes that were advertised in the Ramayana-Doel ad were incorporated into the sinetron through product placement. In this special Idul Fitri episode of Si Doel, the characters wear virtually the same clothes as during the commercial. Moreover they wear these clothes in exactly the same setting, namely the veranda of the Sabeni family’s house. In the sinetron, Nyak Lela is preparing food for Idul Fitri, while her daughter is getting dressed. When she is finished, Atun shows her new clothes to her mother – in the way she showed them to her uncle in the Ramayana-Doel ad – and asks how she looks. Her mother says that the clothes are fine, but that she is wearing too much make-up. The other members of the family then arrive home from praying, and they all ask each other for forgiveness (DVD no. 44, second part). The Ramayana-Doel ad is particularly interesting because it anticipates developments in the sinetron that viewers of that sinetron will only see two 6

Interview with Ndang Sutisna, 6 June 2000.

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episodes later, namely the occasion of Idul Fitri and the related practice of asking one’s family members and friends for forgiveness. The commercial resembles the sinetron in that it copies its idiom, setting, and characters. In addition, both in the commercial and in the sinetron Mandra starts crying when he asks his sister for forgiveness; this has to do with certain developments in the sinetron.

Figure 9.2 Nyak promotes clothes for retailer Ramayana (courtesy of Karnos Film)

Naturally, the Ramayana-Doel ad also differs from the sinetron on certain points. For example, in the commercial Mandra compliments his niece on looking good in her new clothes, whereas Nyak Lela’s reaction to her daughter’s outfit is less enthusiastic. By snapping at her daughter for wearing too much make-up, Nyak Lela immediately takes attention away from the clothes. Moreover, the images of the commercials are of a higher quality than those of the sinetron. Worldwide, commercial images are of a higher quality because of the relatively greater budgetary freedom of ad producers in comparison with producers of ‘regular’ television programmes (Sen and Hill 2000:121). Regardless of these dissimilarities, the Ramayana ad sufficiently resembles the serial to profit from its popularity.

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Figure 9.3 Product placement: the Honda motorcycle (courtesy of Karnos Film)

The Honda-Doel campaign7 One of the first advertising agencies to turn the success of Si Doel to its advantage was AdWork EURO RSCG Partnership. AdWork is a Jakarta-based advertising agency associated with the Euro RSCG group, the world’s fifth largest agency network. In 1999, AdWork was number six on the ranking list of advertising agencies in Indonesia, employing 76 people. Whereas it generally devised advertising campaigns aimed at higher-end consumers, it was also responsible for the advertising campaign for Honda motorcycles, for which the target audience was the middle and lower segment of Indonesian society. According to Thamrin Thalib, account director of AdWork, his was the first agency to use two of the main characters from Si Doel, Mandra and Doel, together in one commercial. The story behind this advertising campaign, which interacts in various ways with the sinetron, is as follows. In 1993, the advertising agency was given the assignment by PT Astra International to set up an advertising strategy for their product, Honda motorcycles. Astra International, one of 7

For information on AdWork and the Honda advertising campaign, I am grateful to Thamrin Thalib, account director at AdWork, Ndang Sutisna, head of the creative department at AdWork, and Gloria Martie, copywriter at AdWork, with whom I talked on various occasions in 1997, 1998, and 2000.

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Indonesia’s largest conglomerates (Schwarz 1999:150), is the largest shareholder of Federal Motors, the assembly company of the Japanese multinational Honda. The new campaign was to focus customer attention on the benefits of Honda motorcycles rather than their disadvantages, which included the somewhat conservative and old-fashioned model of the motorbike and its slow acceleration. Its benefits, on the other hand, were its powerful four-stroke engine, which made the vehicle economical in its use of petrol and suitable for driving on steep roads, and its high resale value. Astra also took pride in the after-sales service that it offered to its customers, that is, a well-developed service network with outlets throughout Indonesia. Because the product was associated with a middle- and lower-class consumer group, the creative department of AdWork created a strong character with which these potential consumers were expected to easily identify. As its account director explains, inspiration for the name of the character was found in Syuman Djaya’s 1973 movie Child of Betawi. Although AdWork may have known of Rano Karno’s plans to produce a sinetron about the same character, Thalib strongly denies that this was the case. Rather, he explains, the name Doel was chosen because it was considered an ordinary name that could serve as an abbreviation for different names – for instance, both Abdullah and Kasdullah could be shortened to ‘Dul’. AdWork decided that the advertisement had to communicate the benefits of Honda motorcycles in ordinary language, easily understood by the common man. Because many potential consumers were thought to live in Jakarta, the agency chose to employ Jakarta Malay. At the time, the early 1990s, using this language variety was quite common in the advertising industry because copywriters generally felt it made their message more attractive and therefore enhanced the chances for effective communication with potential consumers. A copywriter at Lintas (now Lowe), then as now the numberone advertising agency in Indonesia, explained to me that ‘daily language’ is used in advertisements that aim to catch the audience’s attention. For product specifications, however, copywriters generally resort to Standard Indonesian. Because most advertising agencies are based in Jakarta, not surprisingly this ‘daily language’ is often Jakarta Malay.8 The first Honda commercial was produced and aired in 1993, with a Jakartan actor named Barkah performing the role of the main character Doel (DVD no. 45). The ad shows that Doel – a white caption at the bottom of the screen explicitly mentions the name of the character – has problems with his motorcycle: his bike, obviously not a Honda, proves unable to climb a steep road. In addition, it is suddenly out of petrol, which has apparently happened many times before. Doel decides to sell his troublesome motorbike right away, but to his great disappointment he receives little money for it. A 8

Personal communication with Widi Hartono via e-mail, 3 September 1998.

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voice-over then starts recommending Honda motorcycles, while the images illustrate what is being told. Various signifiers are combined to strengthen the argument. For instance, the name of the character Doel is introduced to viewers through the linguistic non-diegetic imagescape. The ad moreover uses the linguistic non-diegetic soundscape, in the form of an authoritative voice-over, to promote the benefits of Honda motorcycles. The pictures, or non-linguistic diegetic imagescape, emphasize these benefits. Because the advertisement fulfilled expectations, Honda instructed AdWork to make a follow-up based on the same concept. Thalib recalls that his agency was about to approach Barkah, the actor who played Doel in the first commercial, when the television serial Si Doel was broadcast. Noting the enthusiastic audience response to this serial, which was thought to represent the world of a large number of its potential customers, the creative department decided to change its tactics slightly. It suggested to Astra management that henceforth the storyline of the Honda campaign should be tailored to the setting, storyline, and characters of Si Doel. Otherwise, the campaign should still be based on the same concept. After the management had been convinced that exploiting the popularity of this television serial would be a wise advertising strategy, AdWork contacted Rano Karno in his capacity of director of Karnos Film and invited him to work together in what would become a series of ads. In addition, the company used the strategy of product placement. In episode seven of the third series, Engkong Ali buys a Honda motorcycle for his grandson Doel (Figure 9.3), supposedly to help him find a job (DVD no. 26). Other brands, incidentally, were eager to exploit possibilities for product placement too, and thus Sarah’s car changed several times in the course of the serial and Lela’s warung displayed a wide variety of care products, such as soap and toothpaste. In later series, sponsors also provided the clothes and shoes of the characters, particularly for Sarah and Zaenab. Up to 1998, eight different ‘Honda-Doel commercials’ were produced, each emphasizing one of the product’s benefits. Five of these commercials were aired during the first run of Si Doel 3 (see Table 9.1, ad no. 7). Whereas the first commercials underline the benefits of Honda motorcycles in general, each of the later commercials emphasizes one benefit in particular. One commercial accentuates the high resale value of Honda motorcycles, while another highlights its position as the market leader9 or Honda’s elaborate service network. Each of the first few ads employs different actors from the television serial. In the course of the campaign all major actors from Si Doel are employed, except for Doel’s rich ‘girlfriend’ Sarah (who would likely be 9

Despite the economic crisis, which hit particularly hard on the automotive industry in 1998 and 1999, and despite the introduction of cheaper motorcycles from China and Taiwan since 1999, Honda still has maintained its position as a market leader. In May 2000, Honda had a market share of 53 per cent. Interview with Thamrin Thalib, 30 May 2000.

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associated with cars rather than motorcycles) and Doel’s mother (who would be better suited to promoting household appliances). In later commercials the focus of the Honda commercials shifts to the character of Mandra. At the time, Mandra was used in plenty of other commercials; with Rano Karno, he was the Si Doel actor who was most often contracted to perform in a television ad. Nevertheless, Ndang Sutisna, head of the creative department at AdWork, was immediately convinced that the Honda commercials had certain advantages over other ads: The Honda commercials have always been different from the other commercials that use Mandra. […] We use his culture [in the commercial], they don’t. For instance, in [another] commercial they use shopping malls, whereas we never use malls. We truly use his culture. […] In addition, his sentences are truly Betawi [Malay], they are not fabricated. So whereas Mandra in other commercials just sticks to the product, in [our] case he blends with the product. That is also why it is so difficult for us to withdraw Mandra [from the Honda commercials], because he has blended with the product. Right? That is the difficulty, that is the risk of it. But the advantage is that at that time people were talking about ‘Mandra’s motorcycle’, you see.10

The Honda/Doel campaign moreover demonstrates that globalization does not ‘override locality’ (Robertson 1995:26), as some argue. Rather, it shows that the local is an ‘aspect of globalization’ (Robertson 1995:30), which is produced and reproduced in relation to the global. The Honda/Doel commercials exemplify the idea of ‘glocalization’: a local (Jakartan) audience is constructed as target audience for a global product, and the advertising strategy for this product is tailored to local conditions (Robertson 1995:28-9). ‘Ampe ngacir!’: The languagescape of the Honda-Doel commercials AdWork thus designed a strategy that used Mandra to communicate the benefits of Honda motorcycles to potential consumers in ordinary language. To enhance this communication, the Honda campaign still needed one essential advertising asset: the key word, or ‘hook’, as it is known in advertising discourse. This key word had to serve a double function. On the one hand, people had to remember this word as they thought of Honda motorcycles; 10

‘Honda selalu berbeda dengan iklan-iklan Mandra yang lain. […] Kita bawa culture-nya, mereka nggak bawa culture-nya. Misalnya iklan [lain] di mall, kita nggak pernah pakai mall. Kita betul-betul culture-nya dia. […] Terus, kalimat-kalimatnya betul-betul Betawi, nggak dibikin. Jadi kalau yang lain itu Mandranya nempel kan, kalau ini nggak, blend sama produk. Makanya ketika kita mau tarik Mandranya juga susah, karena udah blend kan. Itu kesulitannya, resikonya itu. Tapi untungnya pada saat itu sampai dibilang “motor Mandra”, kan.’ Interview with Ndang Sutisna, 6 June 2000.

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on the other hand, whenever they encountered the key word, they had to be reminded of Honda. Mandra suggested the word ngacir to the advertising agency, explaining that it was Betawi Malay for ‘to flee, to run away’, and the agency copied this suggestion because the word ‘sounded good to them’.11 The exact meaning of ngacir was not so clear for all those involved though: Thalib: KL: Thalib: KL: Thalib: KL: Thalib:

Well, if I am not mistaken, that is truly Betawi Malay, yes. [It means] to run fast, or to run off [kabur], like that. Kabur is Betawi Malay, isn’t it? Kabur means to run, doesn’t it? Is that a strong point of Honda? Actually not, no. So, in fact, ngacir can mean ‘take off’, or, what would be the right phrase? Runs smoothly? Runs smoothly! Right. That’s it, runs smoothly. But maybe people who watch the commercial think that ngacir means ‘to accelerate’? Eh, well, that is also possible. But that doesn’t matter. Ngacir is really… suitable for […] a means of transportation, you know, ngacirrr…12

Although Thamrin Thalib admitted that the acceleration power of Honda to which the key word ngacir seemed to refer was not the product’s strongest selling point (in fact, Honda was infamous for its lack of acceleration power, as he had just been explaining to me in the interview), he nevertheless considered the key word suitable for recommending the motorcycle if only because the word, particularly when pronounced with a ‘rolling’ r (ngacirrr), resembled the sound of a running motor. The head of the creative department added that a verb with the meaning ‘to go, to flee, to run’ is an obvious match for a means of transportation. He also mentioned another benefit of the key word, namely that it could be interpreted in different ways. Sutisna explained how the different meanings that accrued to the word ngacir were used in the advertising campaign to conceal a disadvantage of Honda motorcycles:

11

The word ngacir has been entered and explained in slightly different ways in various Indonesian and Betawi dictionaries. Next to defining it as ‘to flee, to run away’, dictionaries emphasize that this running away occurs without permission (Chaer 1976), for reasons like shame or fear (Moeliono 1989), or secretly (Teeuw 1990). Some Indonesian dictionaries moreover note that this word is derived from Jakarta Malay. 12 Thamrin Thalib [TT]: ‘Ya, kalau tidak salah, itu bahasa Betawi sekali itu, ya. Lari kencang, bisa juga kabur, gitu. Kabur bahasa Betawi ya? Kabur lari ya?’ / Klarijn Loven [KL]: ‘Emang Honda kuat gitu?’ / TT: ‘Nggak juga, nggak juga. Jadi, sebetulnya, ngacir itu bisa melesatlah, apa, apa kata yang tepat.’ / KL: ‘Lancar?’ / TT: ‘Lancar! Betul. Lancar, smooth gitu.’ / KL: ‘Tapi, mungkin kalau pemirsa iklan itu mendengar kata ngacir, mungkin pemikiran mereka ke itu, ke lari kencang, gitu?’ / TT: ‘Eh, ya bisa, bisa juga. Tapi nggak apa-apa. Ngacir itu sangat… klop […] dengan kendaraan ya, ngacirrr.’ Interview with Thamrin Thalib, 19 December 1997.

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The roads in Indonesia ascend and descend, right, [and] only Honda has the power to climb a steep road. [...] If the road is flat, well… Honda loses, because its acceleration is… well, Honda is not for speeding. But the person who buys the motorcycle doesn’t buy it for speeding […]. Whereas the word ngacir actually also alludes to that, doesn’t it? Actually yes, but that is only… how should I say it… to camouflage that Honda is in fact unable to accelerate fast (ngacir) compared to [the others]. But the phrase ‘ampe ngacir’, […] it is made up, right, ngacir to what extent, you see […] ngacir can mean to race or to run or whatever, it’s up to you. But we do not insert a text that Honda is the champion of speeding, for instance. Because that is not allowed? Yes, and because consumers know that Honda is not the champion of speeding. Instead we’ve come up with a phrase with a floating meaning: ‘ampe ngacir’ […]. So ngacir can mean that it doesn’t stall, that it is not the champion of stalling.13

Sutisna admitted that he appreciated the key word primarily for its ambiguity, and it was indeed this ambiguity that was exploited in the series of commercials that was subsequently produced. The advertising agency’s exploitation of the ambiguity of the key word ngacir illustrates the theoretical position that meaning is inherently ‘unstable and slides down the infinite play of signifiers’ (Barker and Galasiński 2001:2). While meaning is formally undecided, however, it can be momentarily secured in discourse. In fact, as Barker and Galasiński (2001:43), quoting Hall (1995), remind us, ‘temporary closure of meaning’ is necessary to say anything at all. Fixing meaning involves exercising power to regulate ‘not only what can be said […] but also who can speak where and when’ (Barker and Galasiński 2001:12). The meaning of signs, then, is negotiable and involves efforts to fix certain meanings rather than others (Barker and Galasiński 2001:43). AdWork attempted to fix the meaning of the phrase ampe ngacir as meaning ‘running smoothly’ on one level and ‘accelerating quickly’ on another, but some viewers of the ads produced quite different interpretations, as Chapter XI will 13

Ndang Sutisna [NS]: ‘Jalanan di Indonesia tu kan naik turun, [dan] cuman Honda yang kuat nanjak. […] Kalau datar ya … Honda ngalah, karena di tarikan itu kan… Honda bukan untuk kebut-kebutan. Tapi juga pembeli motor itu bukan untuk ngebut […].’ / KL: ‘Padahal kata ngacir itu merujuk ke sana juga kan?’ / NS: ‘Sebetulnya, gitu tapi… apa namanya itu tu mau… mau kamuflase, karena Honda itu sebetulnya nggak bisa ngacir sebetulnya dibanding [yang lain]. Tapi dengan kata “ampe ngacir” […] itu kan eh fiktif ya, ngacir itu seberapa, gitu […] ngacir kan bisa ngebut bisa lari bisa apa, (ter)serah. Tetapi kita nggak telop-telop bahwa Honda jago lari, misalnya.’ / KL: ‘Karena itu nggak boleh?’ / NS: ‘Ya, dan konsumen tahu Honda nggak jago lari. Tapi kita bikin sesuatu kata yang maknanya itu ngambang, gitu, “ampe ngacir” […]. Jadi ngacir itu kan bisa nggak mogok, nggak jago mogok.’ Interview with Ndang Sutisna, 6 June 2000.

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show. This attests to the ‘multiaccentuality’ (Volosinov 1973) of the sign, its diverse uses and interpretations by different groups of people. Use and ‘abuse’ of the keyword ngacir In the first Honda-Doel commercial that AdWork produced, Mandra complains about his troublesome motorcycle to Doel. Doel then advises him to buy a Honda motorcycle, just as he did. After Doel has explained the benefits of Honda motorcycles, Mandra climbs on the back seat of Doel’s motorbike and Doel starts the engine. Surprised by the acceleration (tarikan) of the motorcycle, Mandra shouts, ‘ampe ngacir!’ This phrase can be read as an allusion to the acceleration speed of the motorcycle, in which case it can be translated as ‘wicked acceleration’. Alternatively, it can be taken to mean that the vehicle is running smoothly. By mentioning the word ngacir close to the word tarikan, this ad suggests that it is indeed the acceleration that is speedy, though this is not what is literally being said. The visuals only support this interpretation by showing Mandra clutching on to Doel when Doel starts the engine and takes off. In this ad, various signifiers are combined to conceal a disadvantage of the product that is being advertised. While the meaning of the phrase ‘ampe ngacir!’ that is uttered through the linguistic diegetic soundscape is ambiguous, the images accompanying this statement (through the non-linguistic diegetic imagescape) seem to support but one interpretation, namely that Honda motorcycles accelerate quickly. Although no explicit discursive statement is used to enforce this claim, the images nevertheless carry this implicit message. While this play with words and images seems to be just a creative choice of the advertising agency, it serves the interests of the advertiser rather than the interests of potential consumers. Another commercial in this series emphasizes the product’s high resale value. The ad employs the key word differently, namely for a person who suddenly runs away. In this commercial, Doel needs money and asks his father to sell his motorcycle for him. Upon Doel’s departure, a large number of men and women besiege Doel’s father, shouting that they want to buy the motorcycle. Doel’s father panics and runs away. He bumps into Mandra, who asks his brother-in-law why he is running away so hastily (ngacir). Yet another commercial, the dialogue of which was quoted at the opening of this chapter, highlights Honda’s position as market leader (DVD no. 46). The ad revolves around Mandra’s father, Engkong Ali, who thinks he knows the owner of every Honda that passes by. When the rider of a Honda motorbike drives by without greeting him, the old man murmurs, visibly annoyed, that it is very impolite of his son to ignore him: ‘There, that’s Mandra driving

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by (ngacir), how disrespectful of him’.14 Luckily, Doel, who gives Zaenab a ride on his Honda motorcycle, can set the record straight. He explains to his grandfather that apart from him and Mandra, there are scores of other people who own a Honda motorcycle. In an ad promoting the importance of looking after one’s motorcycle, the key word is used unambiguously in the sense of ‘running smoothly’. The ad shows how Mandra reminds someone whose motorcycle has stalled that looking after your motorcycle will keep it on the road. In subsequent HondaDoel commercials, Mandra owns a Honda motorcycle himself. Now the person who is eager to buy a motorcycle of the same brand is Mas Karyo, the Sabeni family’s Javanese neighbour (DVD no. 47). Mas Karyo tries to persuade Mandra to bring him to a Honda dealer. When Mandra hesitates, Mas Karyo promises to treat (nraktir) him afterwards to drinks or a meal. As this invitation sounds good to Mandra, the two take off (ngacir). In this ad, rhyme, rhythm, and intonation are used to strengthen the intended effect of the key word: Mas Karyo: I will treat you later on! Nanti aku traktir. Mandra and Mas Karyo: In that case, let’s go! Kalau gitu kita ngacir!

Whereas the Sunsilk quiz employed Betawi Malay to near the Betawi atmosphere with which viewers associate the sinetron, the Honda-Doel commercials use the same language variety for its presumed marketability. In the Honda-Doel commercials, the ‘traditional’ meaning of the key word ngacir, that is its signification in Betawi circles, is subordinate to its economic potential. The aim here is not to communicate the meaning of ngacir as it is generally known to the Betawi community or to popularize this word to revitalize ‘genuine’ Betawi Malay, as it was for the Jakartan radio station Bens Radio. Rather, it is to catch the attention of the audience to convince it to buy Honda motorcycles. In so doing, the advertising agency smartly employs linguistic and visual means in a subtle effort to stabilize the meaning of the word ngacir as a term having to do with speed and acceleration rather than smoothness. This effort to fix the meaning of the key word ngacir is deceptive . Without violating the ethical code of advertising, which prohibit misleading the audience (Achjadi and Katoppo 1999:191-2), the word ngacir is used subtly, if not to mislead then at least to manipulate viewers’ interpretation of the word and, by extension, their interpretation of the features of Honda motorcycles. By combining the various signifiers that make up the soundscape and imagescape of these commercials, advertisers hope that viewers will unconsciously make a connection between what is represented verbally (through 14

‘Tuh, si Mandra ngacir, nggak ada hormatnya.’

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the linguistic imagescape and soundscape) and non-verbally (through the non-linguistic imagescape and soundscape). While Ndang Sutisna is probably correct in saying that most potential consumers are aware of Honda’s lack of acceleration power, the word ngacir is nevertheless used in such a way as to put them on the wrong track. This is of course only to the advantage of the advertising agency and its client. Whether this type of advertising should be praised for its creativity or rather condemned for its subtle efforts to mislead consumers is a matter of discussion. For the advertising agency and its client, however, such a discussion is hardly of any interest. What matters to them are the sales figures, and because these showed a significant increase, both considered the advertising strategy successful.15 Ngacir was used as a key word in the Honda/Doel commercials produced between 1994 and 1998. After that, and with the introduction of a new type of motorcycle, the advertising agency felt that the campaign needed a new key word. Ngacir had become too popular and was not surprising anymore, and the new product needed a fresh ‘hook’. Thus the term was dropped and new key words were introduced. Today, the word ngacir is still used in written copy for Honda motorcycles as the Jakarta Malay alternative for SI pergi (to go). As if paying tribute to its profitable services, the advertising agency still allows the former key word to contribute modestly to the identity of Honda motorcycles. Parasitic commercials Advertising permeates commercial television, and viewers are used to promotional strategies, such as product placement, in popular television series, notably soap operas. Nevertheless, particularly the third type of Doel commercial is extreme in its blurring of boundaries between a television serial meant to attract and entertain an audience, and commercials designed to advertise a product. This blurring partly occurs on a textual level, as the commercials present stories that elaborate upon or are in conflict with themes and storylines presented in Si Doel. On the level of programming, the transition from commercials to the sinetron is unmarked (that is to say, without any announcement), a strategy that may enhance their effectiveness and leave viewers even more confused about what genre they are actually watching. According to Forceville (2000:65), such deliberate blurring of genre boundaries calls up certain ethical questions: if someone does not know he or she is watching an advertisement, he or she might be more susceptible to commercial tricks that aim to seduce or mislead. It is for this reason that many coun15

Interview with Thamrin Thalib, 30 May 2000.

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tries forbid clandestine advertising. Advertisements should be recognizable, so that people can critically evaluate the claims being made about the product being advertised (Forceville 2000:68). While in the late 1990s sinetron artists increasingly featured in commercials aired during the sinetron in which they acted, the kind of intertextuality displayed by the third type of Doel commercial is unprecedented in the world of Indonesian advertising.16 In the Netherlands too, I have only come across three similar advertisements on Dutch television between 1998 and 2003, even though I have been actively looking for this type of television ad.17 But although the extent to which the Doel commercials parasitize on the sinetron Si Doel is exceptional, the underlying concept is far from new. Torben Vestergaard and Kim Schrøder (1985:62) explain that one way in which an advertisement can stand out from others is by ‘pretending that it is not an advert’. Referring to the work of G.N. Leech (1966), they call this ‘role borrowing’, an effective strategy because advertisements are disguised as genres in which potential consumers are presumably more interested, such as quizzes, comic strips, or editorials. For example the authors refer to a commercial ‘which pretends to be an editorial article’ as being ‘in a way parasitic upon the authority which a reader comes to associate with a publication he/she buys regularly’ (Vestergaard and Schrøder 1985:66).18 Vestergaard and Schrøder’s book is devoted exclusively to the analysis of press advertising, but their findings are also applicable to the advertising strategies designed on the basis of Si Doel. For instance, both the Sunsilk quiz and the Honda/Doel commercials tried to divert attention from their actual genre. The Sunsilk quiz, which one may consider as an extended commercial, was camouflaged as a quiz – hence its name. The Honda/Doel campaign, on the other hand, pretended to be a sinetron in both content and format. It parasitized upon the sinetron Si Doel in more than one way: the ads for instance used the same set of characters as the sinetron and copied its setting. The Honda/Doel commercials were moreover ‘disguised’ as mini-narratives, 16

Conversations with Ndang Sutisna, Gloria Martie, Thamrin Thalib, and Widi Hartono, on various occasions. 17 The first example is an advertisement for candy, featuring programme maker and host Peter Jan Rens as the main character and producer. It was aired during a children’s programme hosted by Rens himself, in a setting that fairly resembled that of the commercial. An animated advertisement for potato chips featuring the American cartoon character Bart Simpson and broadcast during an episode of Bart Simpson represents the second example. The third ad has programme host Rolf Wouters as its main character and was aired during a show hosted by Wouters. Both the commercial and the show used exactly the same setting. I thank Charles Forceville for bringing this third ad to my attention. 18 In the Netherlands too, the role-borrowing principle is often used in advertising. An example is a television ad that advertises a new type of barbeque sauce but is disguised as a news item (Calvé Knijpkanjers, 2001). In addition, the 2001 advertising campaign for an international jeans brand resembles an editorial in a gossip magazine (Diesel Jeans, 2001).

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which just like the sinetron were constantly ‘to be continued’ and even showed a certain degree of plot development (Mandra does not own a Honda motorcycle; Mandra owns a Honda motorcycle; Mas Karyo decides to buy a Honda motorcycle too). The ads were furthermore placed in the vicinity of the sinetron into which they were hoped to blend. Finally, a Honda motorcycle was inscribed in the storyline of the sinetron through product placement. One might also reverse the argument by claiming that the sinetron Si Doel made use of the Doel commercials too. Indeed, the ads were used as vehicles for promoting and recycling the Doel characters and the narrative of Si Doel for free, not only on RCTI but also on other television stations that aired the commercials. Role borrowing is an effective advertising strategy that nonetheless may confuse or even irritate viewers of the sinetron, which is well known for its realistic portrayal of the daily life of an ordinary Betawi family. While the Sabeni family, particularly in the first two series of the sinetron, does not possess or seem to be in need of luxury goods, in the Doel commercials the characters promote not only daily amenities like soap, but also luxury articles such as refrigerators and washing machines. One may conclude that for viewers of both genres (that is to say commercials and sinetron), the Si Doel characters talk with a forked tongue. In the sinetron they give voice to a marginal Indonesian family struggling for its financial and cultural survival; in the commercials, by contrast, they serve as a mouthpiece for the companies whose products they help to sell. Advertising Si Doel Many agencies tried to profit from the high ratings and large audience share that Si Doel captured, but some went further than others. These agencies exploited the sinetron – its characters, setting, plot, and language – to increase sales figures of the products advertised. Karnos Film profited from this situation too because its actors were paid to act in the commercials. More importantly the ads promoted the sinetron and its characters on various television channels – for free. The parasitic behaviour of these commercials needs critical attention. This type of advertising has proven highly effective for advertisers and is advantageous for those involved in the production of Si Doel. However, it puts ‘ordinary’ viewers, that is, potential consumers at a disadvantage. Regardless of their effectiveness, the discourse of some ads, such as the Honda commercials, is formulated to subtly mislead potential consumers. Because Si Doel made a profit for Karnos Film, broadcaster RCTI, advertising agencies, and advertisers, their collaboration seemed beneficial to all

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partiess including viewers. There are however also victims of these profitable marketing and advertising strategies. For instance, the Doel commercials seduce ordinary viewers into buying consumer goods that they might not otherwise have bought. Moreover the integrity of the Si Doel characters and the values that the serial so vividly promotes are seriously compromised, both by the abundance of Doel commercials and by the intertwinement of commercials and sinetron. On the other hand, the Si Doel characters also feature in a number of social advertising campaigns. At least one other party fell victim to the success of Si Doel, and surprisingly this is broadcaster RCTI. In 1999, while still recovering from the monetary crisis, the station whose name for so long seemed inseparable from that of the popular sinetron lost its showpiece to competitor Indosiar. The producer of Si Doel used the ‘knowledge’ produced by ACNielsen – that his serial obtained high viewing figures, which would guarantee the broadcaster high advertising revenues – in his negotiations with the two stations. It was this authoritative knowledge that gave force to his demands to the different broadcasters. It is noteworthy that Rano Karno’s demands were not only financial. The director of Karnos Film wanted the stations to buy Si Doel as a package, in combination with other sinetron the company produced. Si Doel was to be broadcast during prime time and it was not to be enveloped by a quiz. In addition, Rano Karno specified that the stations were not to edit the sinetron before broadcasting to insert additional commercials. When it turned out that not RCTI but Indosiar was prepared to fulfil all these demands, Rano Karno did not hesitate to sell his production to the competition. And so the ratings of Si Doel that had made such profits for RCTI eventually turned against the station. Whether the producer was aware of it or not, and regardless of the fact that Indosiar would also exploit his sinetron in every way possible, he had at least been able to reclaim some control over his creation.

CHAPTER X

Si Doel as a vehicle of language Salim Said: There’s always a distance between the standard language and the language that is used in daily life. […] That doesn’t mean that all languages on television will have to be standardized, because one of the strengths of Betawi Doel is that it uses Betawi Malay, which is characterized by its spontaneity. […] Andi Noya: [But] according to some newspapers, people in the regions1 like Betawi Doel less, don’t they? Salim Said: Well, that too, because the regions of course have their own language style. […] Andi Noya: So, in other words, there’s this other difficulty of what Indonesian we will be using, because standard Indonesian will eventually sound like a telenovela. Edy Syahrudin: That’s it! [imitates a typical monotonous telenovela voice:] ‘Don’t go away. […] I’m going to hit you!’2

The language of official and state communication in Indonesia is Indonesian, or bahasa Indonesia. Originally a Malay dialect, Indonesian obtained its semiofficial status of national language at the Second National Youth Congress held in Jakarta on 28 October 1928. The participants of this congress took an oath – the Sumpah Pemuda or ‘Youth Pledge’ – which among other things proclaimed that Indonesian would be the national language of their future state of Indonesia.3 This public statement was later formalized in the 1945 constitution (Hakim 1985:1). Numerous authors have argued that the decision to develop Malay so that 1

The term daerah, meaning ‘region(s)’ or ‘district(s)’, is used here in opposition to ‘Jakarta’ and refers to viewers who live outside the capital city. 2 Salim Said: ‘Selalu ada jarak antara bahasa standar dengan bahasa yang dipakai seharihari. […] Tidak berarti nanti harus distandarkan semua bahasa di tivi, sebab kekuatan dari Si Doel Anak Betawi itu antara lain daripada bahasa Betawi yang dia pakai, yang kekuatan Betawi itu adalah spontanitas.’ / […] / Andi Noya: ‘[Tapi] Si Doel Anak Betawi menurut beberapa surat kabar di daerah kurang diminati, ya?’ / Salim Said: ‘Nah itu juga, karena di daerah itu mereka tentu mempunyai gaya berbahasa sendiri.’ […] / Andi Noya: ‘Jadi dengan lain kata, bahwa ada satu lagi kesulitan… pemilihan bahasa Indonesia yang mana yang kita akan pakai, karena bahasa Indonesia baku akibatnya seperti telenovela itu ya.’ / Edy Syahrudin: ‘Itulah! “Jangan kau pergi […] Kupukul kau!”’ Radio discussion ‘Di Balik Sulih Suara Tayangan Asing’ (Beyond the dubbing of foreign programmes), Radio Trijaya, 6 May 1996, 8-9 a.m.. 3 The pledge literally said that they swore to hold the unifying language in high esteem (mendjoendjoeng bahasa persatoean) (Simbolon 1999:24-5).

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it could become the national language was understandable and sensible.4 First, Malay had been a contact language or lingua franca for Indonesians of different language backgrounds for centuries and it was therefore widespread throughout the archipelago. The language was not the mother tongue of a dominant group or an otherwise privileged segment of the population, so it was acceptable for people of various ethnic backgrounds. Finally, Malay was seen as an egalitarian language that would be relatively easy to master. The language lacked, for instance, the different levels that characterized some other Indonesian languages and which obliged speakers of those languages to use different vocabularies and grammatical affixes for expressing differences in status and hierarchy (Steinhauer 1980:349-51). In 1990, the national language was estimated to have approximately 24 million mother-tongue speakers aged 5 and older (Steinhauer 2001:11). The Indonesian constitution acknowledges the existence of regional languages alongside the unifying language. In a clarification of the position of Indonesian as the national language, the constitution states that ‘in the regions possessing their own languages, which communities will take good care of […] the state will also look after and respect those languages. Those languages too are part of the living Indonesian culture’.5 In Indonesian, these local languages are termed bahasa daerah (regional language) or, to evade the centre-versus-periphery connotations of the former, bahasa nusantara (language of the archipelago). The relationship between the regional languages and the national language is complicated. In certain situations, regional languages are the informal companion of formal Indonesian. Other regional languages make use of informal and formal registers themselves. When the regional language happens to be a local variety of Malay, that variety may function on the non-formal side of a continuum that slides into formal Indonesian. In yet other situations, the national language may serve as a lingua franca between people of different ethnic backgrounds, while the regional languages serve as the language of communication within those particular communities (Abdullah 1999:ix). Estimates of the number of regional languages in the archipelago vary. One source speaks of ‘approximately 500 languages’, ranging from small local languages with less than fifty mother-tongue speakers to dominant regional languages like Javanese with 50 to 70 million native users (Abdullah 1999:3-4). Muhadjir (2000:2-3) notes that ‘the Indonesian people have at least 200 local languages […], among them the Malay languages. Unlike other 4

On the history and development of Indonesian, see for example Teeuw 1955, 1994:1-33, and 1998, Hoffman 1979, Steinhauer 1980, 1994, Moeliono 1994, and Maier 1993. 5 ‘Di daerah-daerah yang mempunyai bahasa sendiri, yang dipelihara oleh rakyatnya dengan baik-baik […] bahasa-bahasa itu akan dihormati dan dipelihara juga oleh negara. Bahasa-bahasa itupun merupakan sebagian dari kebudayaan Indonesia yang hidup’ (Suradji and Pularjono 2000:28).

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regional languages, which in general encompass a central area […] the Malay languages are used in a scattered area’.6 Betawi Malay is one form of what Muhadjir terms Melayu Lokal (Local Malay). Given the complicated language situation in Indonesia and the ‘mission’ of television, as envisaged by the national government, to unify the nation, it is not surprising that language experts and other reflective language users7 eagerly discussed Si Doel. Though I use the term ‘sociolinguistic discourse’ to refer to the discourse through which these people express their views on the serial, ‘sociolinguistic’ usually applies to the study of the relationship between language and society. My understanding of the term is broader, applying to both academic and non-academic perspectives on language in use. It is through sociolinguistic discourse that language experts and other reflective language users discuss the social implications of television language in general and the language of Si Doel in particular. The languagescape of Indonesian television After it had been decided that it was the variety of Malay spoken in Riau (North Sumatra) and Johor (Malaysia) that was to be transformed into the national language (Steinhauer 1980:8), various steps were taken to facilitate this transformation. During the first Indonesian language congress, held in Surakarta in 1938, several points of action were formulated to stimulate the development of Indonesian. Significant progress was only made during the Japanese occupation though, when the new colonizer prohibited the use of Dutch, the language of the old colonizer. In 1943, the Japanese instated a commission for the Indonesian language, which was led by officials such as Soekarno, who would later be president, and the Indonesian language authority Sutan Takdir Alisyahbana (Steinhauer 1980:9). After independence, the efforts to develop Indonesian were continued, most visibly by the Pusat Pembinaan dan Pengembangan Bahasa (Centre for Language Development and Cultivation, henceforth Language Centre) and its predecessors (Steinhauer 2001:11). The Language Centre further developed teaching materials and composed and revised standard grammars and dictionaries. It also updated and modernized the Malay vocabulary, so that its users would be able to talk and write about the latest developments in the world in that language. Currently the Language Centre is still responsible for monitoring and developing the national language or, as its most formal version is known 6

‘[…] bangsa Indonesia memiliki tidak kurang dari 200 bahasa lokal […] termasuk di antaranya bahasa-bahasa Melayu. Berbeda dengan bahasa-bahasa daerah lain yang umumnya mempunyai wilayah sentral […] bahasa Melayu digunakan dalam wilayah yang bersebaran.’ 7 People with a non-academic interest in language.

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in Indonesia, bahasa baku (standard Indonesian) or bahasa Indonesia yang baik dan benar (Good and Correct Indonesian, often shortened to BIYBB). Good Indonesian (bahasa Indonesia yang baik) means using the register of Indonesian that is in agreement with the situation. Correct Indonesian (bahasa Indonesia yang benar) implies using the proper syntactical, grammatical, and morphological forms (Hakim 1985:7). To promote the national language, the Language Centre envisioned an important role for the mass media: Taking into consideration the opportunities and capabilities of the people (the fact that there are still people who cannot read or write), the efforts to build and develop the language through oral means will be more rewarding than the use of written means. The mass medium that is capable of doing so is television. Cultivating and developing the Indonesian language through television will be more rewarding, because this device enables people to use two of their senses, hearing and sight. It is hoped that this will speed up and increase the possibility that this effort of cultivating and developing [the language] will succeed.8 (Hakim 1985:2)

Indonesian linguist Toeti Adhitama furthermore argued that using television to promote the national language was appropriate because Indonesian society had of old been oriented towards oral rather than literary means of communication (Adhitama 1996). For various reasons, then, television was considered a suitable medium for promoting the national language. Language development and television The desire to promote the unifying language through television fitted in well with TVRI’s role as an instrument for nation-building. But the development of the national language was also considered a precondition for the growth and development of Indonesian society as a whole (Hakim 1985:1). At first, the use of Indonesian on TVRI appeared to be an obstacle for its nationwide audience. As Kitley (2000:33) notes, ‘TVRI’s choice of Indonesian as the language of broadcast […] limited its penetration. Indonesian, though widely spoken in Jakarta, was still not the first language of the majority in the 1960s and 1970s, although television was, along with radio, to be significant in familiarizing audiences with the language'. 8

‘Mengingat kesempatan dan kemampuan masyarakat (kenyataan bahwa masih ada masya­ rakat yang belum mampu membaca dan menulis), maka usaha pembinaan dan pengembangan bahasa secara lisan akan lebih menguntungkan dibandingkan dengan cara tertulis. Media massa yang mampu melayani itu adalah televisi. Pembinaan dan pengembangan bahasa Indonesia melalui televisi lebih menguntungkan karena dengan alat itu masyarakat dapat mengikutinya sekaligus dengan dua alat indra, pendengar, dan pemirsa. Hal ini diharapkan dapat mempercepat dan memperbesar kemungkinan berhasilnya usaha pembinaan dan pengembangan itu.’

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Little is known about the language of programming during TVRI’s early years. Quoting Agassi (1969:105) Kitley (2000:44) notes that in the early 1960s, half of TVRI’s daily two-hour broadcasts were filled with political speeches or events, or documentary films. A few years later, drama series and news and information on development programmes dominated the screen (Chu, Alfian, and Schramm 1991:16). In the late 1960s, viewers had become used to ‘a mix of programming that included ceremonial nation-building material; regular screenings of imported, particularly American-produced, fictional material; and after November 1969, live access to cultural and current affairs programs from around the world’ (Kitley 2000:46). The foreign programmes were shown with Indonesian subtitles, which initially took the form of short summaries (Kitley 2000:44). While TVRI broadcast several foreign programmes in its early years, their number increased substantially in the following decade. In 1972, one third of the station’s broadcast time was filled with imported programmes, particularly from the United States (Kitley 2000:45). In addition, the station broadcast domestic programmes such as news, sports, traditional theatre, and fiction in the national language. In the late 1970s, foreign-language programmes still made up a significant part of the total broadcasting output. While most of these programmes were still from the United States, the commercials – at the time, TVRI was still allowed to carry advertisements – represented a wide range of countries. In 1977, Michael Hugh Anderson observed that ‘approximately 18 % of [these] advertisements are American, but Holland accounts for 21 %; Japan 15 %; and Indonesia 19 %. The remaining are other European nations, Australia, Korea, and Hong Kong’. These figures prove Indonesia’s liberal policy towards the import of foreign advertisements, although all foreign-language commercials were obliged to use voice-overs in the national language (Anderson 1979: 277-8). TVRI was able to reach a national audience after the launch of the Palapa satellite in 1976. The launch of this domestic satellite gave a new impulse to discussions about the impact of television on its rural viewers in particular – notably through its commercials and its portrayal of the lifestyle of the metropolitan elite. These discussions ultimately led to the 1981 Advertising Ban, but they also set in motion a long-term government-funded study on the impact of satellite television on developmental processes in Indonesia (Kitley 2000:53). According to its authors, one of their most impressive findings was the increased understanding among television viewers of the national language, both in spoken and in written form: ‘TV viewers made large gains between 1976 and 1982 in ability to understand and read the national language, Bahasa Indonesia. One reason was probably that all the television programmes except American films [were] in Bahasa Indonesia’ (Chu, Alfian, and Schramm 1991:224). This is not to suggest that the improved

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language skills of television viewers were to be attributed to exposure to television alone. Nonetheless, these scholars were convinced that television had played a huge role in ‘[integrating] the nation around a single national language’ (Chu, Alfian, and Schramm 1991:226). The improved proficiency in the national language among television viewers was particularly noteworthy because the advance in language skills was chiefly found among people with no or little formal education (Chu, Alfian, and Schramm 1991:266). Thus, while the use of Indonesian on TVRI had first hindered its nationwide acceptance, it was later believed to have developed viewers’ language skills. With the deregulation of Indonesian television and the coming into operation of new television channels in the late 1980s but notably in the 1990s, the demand for foreign, as well as domestic, broadcast material increased enormously. The new stations filled their broadcasting hours predominantly with entertainment programmes, causing a boom in the sinetron industry and a significant rise in the import of foreign programmes. In the early 1990s, commercial stations broadcast domestic sinetron as well as telenovelas from Latin America, drama series from the Philippines, action films from the United States, kung fu films from Hong Kong, and feature films from India and Saudi Arabia. Through these new genres, the amount of foreign languages on the national screen increased drastically. The coming of age of national television in Indonesia added a new dimension to the debate on good and correct Indonesian, for what kind of language register should be used by the many sinetron characters who spoke to each other and, indirectly, to millions of viewers every day? In what programmes was one to allow or stimulate the use of regional languages? And how was one to translate, either through the semi-diegetic imagescape of subtitling or through the semi-diegetic soundscape of dubbing, the foreign dialogues and monologues of the imported programmes? It was these kinds of questions that dominated discussions on television language in the mid 1990s, when Si Doel was first broadcast. Si Doel evaluated in sociolinguistic discourse Although Betawi viewers discussed the language of Si Doel mainly in relation to Betawi Malay as they knew it, in sociolinguistic circles discussions focused on yet other aspects of the serial’s language use. Linguist and employee of the Language Centre Ruddyanto, for instance, considers the language of Si Doel in connection to the phrase bahasa Indonesia yang baik dan benar: People believe that the kind of Indonesian that can be used in the mass media has to be exemplary language. […] This is what people often misunderstand. […] Take Si Doel, for instance. […] I have seen letters to the editor [that] said Si Doel

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used too much Betawi Malay. But well, for me this opinion is completely incorrect. If we want to represent the Betawi community, why not [use Betawi Malay]. […] For many people good Indonesian still implies standard Indonesian or correct Indonesian, whereas [in fact] good or proper Indonesian is language that takes account of one’s interlocutor and the location [of the conversation], [in short], that suits the circumstances.9

Ruddyanto explains that Article 33 of the Indonesian Broadcast Law allows the use of regional languages on television as long as it suits the programme format. Therefore, rather than criticizing the language of Si Doel for incorporating too much Betawi Malay, Ruddyanto considers the serial’s locality one of its major assets. In his opinion, Indonesian television producers should not hesitate to express a sense of regionality, either through the characters’ dialogues or their behaviour. He acknowledges that not all regional languages are equally suitable for broadcasting: ‘Take for instance Sumbawa. If they use too much of that region’s language, few people will understand it, so they won’t be able to enjoy it. Therefore, […] directors have to be clever in showing [regionality] without making it a hindrance to enjoying [the programme].’10 In his view, the regional cultures that are most frequently exposed on national television, the Javanese and the Betawi, are indeed among the most accessible of Indonesia’s many cultures: ‘Java is possible because it is the [culture of the] majority. […] The Betawi, [well,] they are in fact a minority, but since they live in Jakarta, which is […] a point of orientation for many people, [that culture] can be accepted by anybody’.11 According to Ruddyanto, Si Doel is successful because it has translated specific Betawi problems into national problems that any Indonesian citizen may encounter: ‘And then I have even left out the language issue. Because even though it [uses] a regional language […] this language is sufficiently well known. This will facilitate [the serial’s] acceptance.’12 9

‘Orang menganggap bahwa bahasa Indonesia yang bisa dipakai di media [massa] itu harus bahasa yang bisa menjadi teladan […] Ini juga yang sering disalahpahami orang. […] kasus Si Doel misalnya […] saya pernah melihat di surat pembaca […] katanya di dalam Si Doel itu terlalu banyak bahasa Betawi. Tapi, ya, ini pendapat yang menurut saya sangat, sangat keliru. Kalau kita mau menggambarkan masyarakat Betawi, kenapa tidak [menggunakan bahasa Betawi]. […] banyak orang masih menganggap bahwa bahasa Indonesia yang baik itu adalah bahasa Indonesia yang baku, yang benar, yang standard; padahal yang baik, yang proper itu [adalah] bahasa yang […] sesuai dengan siapa yang diajak bicara, di mana, [pokoknya] sesuai dengan situasinya.’ Interview with Ruddyanto, 20 February 1998. 10 ‘Kalau Sumbawa misalnya, kalau mereka terlalu banyak menggunakan bahasa daerah sana, tidak banyak orang tahu, orang tidak bisa menikmati. Jadi […] sutradara-sutradaranya harus pandai-pandai, bagaimana menampakkan itu tapi tidak mejadi constraint untuk bisa dinikmati.’ Interview with Ruddyanto, 20 February 1998. 11 ‘Jawa mungkin karena mayoritas. […] Betawi, itu sebetulnya minoritas, tetapi karena kedudukannya di Jakarta, yang sering menjadi […] kiblat orang, itu […] bisa diterima oleh siapa saja.’ Interview with Ruddyanto, 20 February 1998. 12 ‘Belum lagi dari segi bahasa, sekalipun itu bahasa daerah […] itu sudah dikenal cukup luas.

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Abdul Chaer, linguist and compiler of the only Indonesian dictionary of Betawi Malay, also believes that the use of Betawi Malay in Si Doel has contributed to the serial’s accessibility and popularity with a nationwide audience. He furthermore concludes from the ample use of Betawi Malay in the media that this language is saleable: ‘Betawi Malay is marketable and popular. […] Presently, if people make television drama in correct or standard Indonesian […] it will not be popular. But if it uses Jakartan words, it will be popular.’13 Chaer, a native Betawi, explains that in compiling his 1976 dictionary he used oral and written sources, including Ardan’s novel Terang bulan terang di kali and Firman Muntaco’s newspaper writings. Since he saw Betawi Malay mainly as a spoken language (bahasa lisan), Chaer obtained most of his data from oral sources. Thus he secretly taped ordinary conversations between orang Betawi in places in Jakarta where they gathered, such as markets and bus stops. Chaer also used the song repertoire of Benyamin S., the actor playing Babe Sabeni in Si Doel. The Institute for Betawi Culture asked Chaer several times to update his dictionary. To this the linguist replied: I intend to revise the dictionary by adding new words, words used in Si Doel. But [thus far] I haven’t had the opportunity to do this. If we examine the language used in the sinetron Si Doel, it indeed already deviates [from the language of earlier days]. For instance, the phrase tukang insinyur. Apart from that, there are other expressions, such as Mak Nyak (Mother (Javanese or Betawi Malay) Mother (Betawi Malay)), uttered by Basuki and which became trendy.14

While the language of Benyamin S. as a singer provided a wealth of data when Chaer compiled his 1976 dictionary, the language of Babe Sabeni and other Si Doel characters will be an important source of inspiration for him if the dictionary is revised. Cultural authority Ardan also noted Benyamin’s remarkable language use: After Benyamin had died, [Si Doel] wasn’t so lucid. The series that were good were Si Doel 1 and 2, in which Benyamin S. was still there. And at the time, Benyamin, Jadi semakin memudahkan orang untuk menerima itu.’ Interview with Ruddyanto, 20 February 1998. 13 ‘Betawi bisa dijual dan laku. […] Kalau […] sekarang orang membuat […] drama di televisi dengan bahasa Indonesia yang benar, yang baku, tidak laku. Tapi dengan adanya kata-kata Jakarta, laku.’ Interview with Abdul Chaer, 30 March 1999. 14 ‘Saya punya niat untuk merevisi kamus dengan menambahkan kata-kata baru, kata-kata yang ada dalam Si Doel. Tetapi, saya tidak pernah sempat melakukannya. Kalau kita teliti bahasa yang digunakan dalam sinetron Si Doel itu, memang sudah bervariasi. Seperti […] kata “tukang insinyur”. Selain itu, ada ucapan lain, seperti “Mak Nyak” yang diucapkan Basuki dan menjadi tren.’ Abdul Chaer, symposium Sumbangan Benyamin S. bagi Perkembangan Jakarta, LKB, 27 February 1998.

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even though he was not the director, was surely respected for his age and […] he also gave many ideas, for instance the phrase tukang insinyur. And how he addressed Mandra and Karyo […] sometimes spontaneously, but also in a way that only someone who is truly Betawi could say it.15

Similarly, film critic and head of the film library (Sinematek) in Jakarta, Misbach Yusa Biran, argues that one contribution of Benyamin to Betawi culture is that he Betawi-nized the Indonesian language. This language is acceptable as ordinary conversational language, especially for adolescents because the Betawi dialect is more expressive and makes their social intercourse more intimate. In every large city in Indonesia, one easily comes across the Betawi dialect in the conversations of its young people.16

Si Doel and the dissemination of Betawi Malay Misbach’s assessment that Benyamin S. contributed to the Betawi-nization of the national language points to yet another way in which language experts discussed the language of Si Doel, namely in relation to its possible influence on the language behaviour of its viewers. The popularity of Betawi Malay among non-Betawi viewers might be partly explained by the position it occupies in the Indonesian languagescape: The strength of Betawi Malay is that […] it is actually not a regional language; it is not [like] Sundanese, Javanese or Madurese. […] Betawi Malay is the Betawi dialect of the Malay language, because there’s [for instance] Medan Malay, Minang Malay, Banjar Malay, Riau Malay. Well, this Betawi Malay is very close to Malay in the sense of Indonesian, so that without understanding it one hundred per cent, people in [other] regions can still comprehend [it].17

15

‘[S]etelah Benyamin meninggal udah nggak jelas. Yang masih bagus Si Doel Anak Sekolahan 1 dan 2, yang masih ada Benyaminnya. Dan waktu itu, Benyamin, meskipun bukan sutradara, pasti dianggap tua dan […] dia juga banyak memberi ide, misalnya istilah “tukang insinyur”. Dan si Mandra, si Karyo dibilang apa […] kadang-kadang spontan, tapi juga tidak mungkin keluar dari seseorang yang memang tidak betul-betul Betawi.’ Interview with S.M. Ardan, 19 February 1998. 16 ‘[S]alah satu jasa Benyamin untuk budaya Betawi adalah membuat bahasa Indonesia Betawi. Bahasa ini bisa diterima sebagai bahasa percakapan yang lumrah, terutama di kalangan anak muda, karena dialek Betawi lebih ekspresif dan membuat pergaulan menjadi lebih akrab. Di seluruh kota besar di Indonesia, dengan mudah kita jumpai dialek Betawi pada percakapan anak-anak mudanya.’ Misbach Yusa Biran, statement made during the symposium Sumbangan Benyamin S. bagi Perkembangan Jakarta, LKB, 27 February 1998. 17 ‘Kekuatannya sebenernya […] karena Betawi itu sebetulnya bukan bahasa daerah; bukan bahasa Sunda, bahasa Jawa atau bahasa Madura. […] bahasa Betawi adalah bahasa Melayu, dialek Betawi, sebab ada Melayu dialek Medan, ada Melayu dialek Minang, ada Melayu dialek Banjar, ada Melayu dialek Riau. Nah, Melayu dialek Betawi itu yang lebih mendekati kepada Melayu yang dalam arti bahasa Indonesia sehingga tanpa mengerti seratus persen pun orang

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Though Betawi Malay is a regional language according to the definition given in the previous section, its resemblance to the national language indeed sets it apart from other regional languages. Muhadjir (2000:vi), an Indonesian linguist and scholar of Betawi Malay, also notes the unique position of Betawi Malay in comparison with Indonesian. According to Muhadjir, the national language is still in need of a model for its spoken variety and Betawi Malay seems to be a suitable language to fill this gap (Muhadjir 2000:113). Muhadjir even predicts that in a few decades, Betawi Malay will be the standard for spoken Indonesian.18 He believes that television plays an important role in the dissemination of Betawi Malay: As we know, the mass media […], particularly Jakartan television, clearly have a very large impact on the outside world. For instance, I often ask my friends from Manado and from other places far away from Jakarta whether they like to watch Betawi Doel [sic] [and] it turns out that they do! […] I think that they don’t fully understand [the language] […] but most of it… maybe they can catch its basic meaning. It would be different, for instance, if [it were] Minang Malay. Then it would be rather difficult. But Betawi Malay, I don’t think that’s all that difficult for someone who is not an orang Betawi […] but who can speak Indonesian.19

His colleague Ruddyanto is also convinced that television, particularly through serials like Si Doel, has contributed to the dissemination of Betawi Malay. Ruddyanto believes that, next to performer Benyamin S., the character Mandra also plays an important role in the popularization of Betawi Malay: There’s this phrase Aulah, gelap [‘Dunno, I’m in the dark’]. […] Those are Mandra’s words. Actually, […] the people of Jakarta, when they emphasize [this word] tau [‘to know’], when they [pronounce it with] a certain intonation, it means tidak tahu [‘don’t know’]. […] Taulah or Aulah [means] ‘Dunno!’. Gelap [‘dark’] it means … ‘I’m in the dark’, so it means ‘I don’t know and I don’t care’. […] Mandra often says that, right, ‘Aulah, gelap’, and many people ended up imitating [that phrase]. […] That’s only one example; there are plenty of others. 20 daerah bisa menangkap bahasa Betawi.’ Interview with S.M. Ardan, 19 February 1999. 18 Interview with Muhadjir, 17 February 1999. 19 ‘Kita kan tahu [bahwa] media massa […], khususnya tivi dari Jakarta itu, sudah jelas banyak sekali pengaruhnya ke luar. Misalnya, saya sering menanyakan kepada teman yang berasal dari Menado atau berasal dari tempat lain yang jauh dari Jakarta [apakah] mereka suka nonton Si Doel Anak Betawi [sic] ternyata mereka ya nonton! […] Saya rasa tidak sepenuhnya mengerti […] tapi sebagian besar… barangkali makna dasarnya bisa ditangkap. Agak lain misalnya kalau […] bahasa Minang, itu cukup sulit. Tapi untuk bahasa Betawi saya kira nggak terlalu sulit buat orang yang bukan orang Betawi […] tapi bisa bahasa Indonesia.’ Interview with Muhadjir, 17 February 1999. 20 ‘Ada kata “Aulah, gelap”. […] Itu kata Mandra. Sebetulnya […] orang Jakarta kalau “tau”nya itu diberi tekanan, intonasi tertentu, artinya “tidak tahu”. […] “Taulah!” atau “Aulah!”. “Gelap” artinya … “gelap”, […] jadi “saya tidak tahu dan tidak akan peduli”. […] Itu kan Mandra

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According to producer and anak Betawi Ali Shahab, it was in fact he who coined the phrase ‘Aulah, gelap’. He did acknowledge though that the media had popularized his expression.21 Be that as it may, for Ruddyanto it is clear that Si Doel has had a significant impact on the position of Betawi Malay: I think that before [Si Doel] many words were already known, because […] many television [stations] are located in Jakarta. Next, [the programmes on these] stations are filled with people who live in Jakarta, and their ways of talking […] just look: sports broadcasts, youth programmes, they all feature the Jakartan dialect. […] With or without Si Doel, I think people already knew [that language], and because of Si Doel, because it was liked, […] the language was increasingly spread.22

Si Doel in relation to the national language The dissemination of Betawi Malay through television was often discussed along with the influence of the medium on the development of the national language. Addressing both issues during a language symposium, Indonesian linguist Amran Halim stated that, ‘the language used in Si Doel is good from the perspective of form and choice of words, but if it were to be used in discussion programmes, it would ruin the Indonesian language.’23 In Halim’s view, television may unreservedly use Betawi Malay in its recreational function, but in its instructive and educational role the medium should commit itself to the rules and principles of good and proper Indonesian. Halim moreover noted that the dominant language on Indonesian television was ‘not Indonesian but Jakarta (Betawi) Malay’.24 His colleague Soewardi Idris, who was also present at this symposium, made a similar remark. Idris considered the role of television to be ambiguous: ‘On the one hand, television can be transformed into a compass for good and proper language use; on the other hand, if its broadcasts increasingly employ local vernaculars, such as

sering mengucapkan itu “Aulah, gelap”, dan itu […] banyak orang akhirnya menirukan itu […] Itu hanya sebagai salah satu contoh; banyak contoh lainnya.’ Interview with Ruddyanto, 20 February 1998. 21 Interview with Ali Shahab, 17 January 1998. 22 ‘Saya kira sebelumnya memang banyak yang sudah dikenal, karena […] banyak televisi yang berpusat di Jakarta. Lalu diisi oleh orang-orang yang tinggalnya di Jakarta, bicaranya juga […] lihat saja: siaran sport, siaran remaja atau apa, semua menampilkan dialek Jakarta. […] Ada Si Doel atau tidak saya kira orang sudah tahu, dan karena ada Si Doel itu, digemari, maka […] semakin tersebar.’ Interview with Ruddyanto, 20 February 1998. 23 ‘Bahasa yang digunakan oleh Si Doel itu baik dari sisi bentuk dan pilihan kata, tapi jika ini disajikan untuk acara diskusi akan merusak bahasa Indonesia.’ Amran Halim, quoted in Rus, ‘Siaran Teve Sudah Didominasi Dialek Betawi’, Republika, 18 October 1996, p. 17. 24 Amran Halim, ‘TV sudah didominasi dialek Jakarta (Betawi)’, Kompas Online, 10 November 1996, viewing date 30 September 1997.

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the Betawi language, television can damage the language.’25 Remarks on the proliferation of Jakarta Malay on national television reflect a long-running concern in sociolinguistic discourse. As early as 1954, Indonesian linguist Perbatasari discussed the ample use of this language variety in connection with film. Perbatasari observed that Jakarta Malay was used in many films, even though viewers outside Jakarta were unable to understand it. At least, the movie Krisis, which was about Jakarta and used the local vernacular, was very popular in Jakarta but was poorly received outside the capital, suggesting that those viewers had difficulty understanding it (Perbatasari 1955:49). After the introduction of television, criticism was directed at it as well. Adhitama, for instance, reported at a 1983 language congress that the government station in Jakarta disseminated large quantities of Jakarta Malay. She remarked that many viewers appreciated the straightforwardness of this language variety and started using it in daily life as their informal language. Adhitama believed that this daily language would slowly but surely trickle into the official language. On the basis of earlier research she predicted that partly through TVRI’s television broadcasts Jakarta Malay would eventually become the official language of Indonesia (Adhitama 1983:302). The proliferation of Jakarta Malay on television became an issue especially after the advent of commercial television and the subsequent expansion of channels and broadcasting hours in the mid 1990s. Abdul Chaer describes how the popularization of Betawi Malay through television left its traces on the Indonesian language: Now, for instance, young people in the regions are proud to use [the Betawi Malay expressions] elu [‘you’], dong [emphatic particle], and kek [emphatic particle], like that. So, a Medan youth who has been to Jakarta, well he talks like the Jakartan youth. […] It is also related to status, [because it shows] that he has been to Jakarta […] Well, it is indeed […] a sociolinguistic maxim that the centre of power has status.26

The question of what language to use on national television has been at the core of sociolinguistic discourse since the advent of the medium in 1962, but 25

‘Pada satu sisi TV dapat dijadikan pedoman penggunaan bahasa yang baik dan benar, di sisi lain TV dapat menjadi perusak bahasa jika siarannya lebih banyak menggunakan bahasa lokal, misalnya bahasa Betawi.’ Soewardi Idris, quoted in S.M. Ardan, ‘Betawi “Rancu” di Televisi’, Kompas, 10 November 1996, p. 8. 26 ‘[M]ungkin juga bagi perkembangan bahasa Indonesia banyak pengaruhnya. Sekarang, misalnya anak-anak di daerah itu bangga kalau bisa mengatakan elu, dong, kek, begitu. Jadi, anak Medan yang pernah di Jakarta kok bicaranya seperti anak-anak di Jakarta […] Semacam gengsi juga, bahwa dia sudah pernah ke Jakarta. […] Memang itu sudah jadi hukum dalam sosiolinguistik ya, pusat kekuasaan itu punya gengsi.’ Interview with Abdul Chaer, 30 March 1999.

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calls for clear language guidelines were becoming louder, both in sociolinguistic circles and in society at large, after the deregulation of national television. To meet these demands the 1997 Broadcast Law, which was drafted to regulate the rapidly changing television industry after the advent of commercial television, also included a section on language use in the form of Article 33. As noted, in October 1999 the Department of Information under whose authority the law had been drafted was dissolved, so the law never took effect.27 Nonetheless, the Broadcast Law significantly influenced discussions on language use on television in the period that Si Doel was broadcast. Regulating the languagescape of national television: Article 33 Article 33 is entitled Bahasa siaran or ‘The language of broadcasting’ (Muljono 1998:22). This article was designed to regulate the language of broadcasting in domestic and foreign radio and television programmes. It is striking that only two of its twelve paragraphs on television language deal specifically with language use in domestic productions (Muljono 1998:22-3). All other paragraphs, except for paragraph five, which is about sign language, relate to the use (or rather, restriction) of foreign languages on national television. The paragraphs that regulate the domestic languagescape are the first two. The first paragraph states that Indonesian is the main language of communication in broadcasting. The second paragraph modifies this statement by allowing the use of a regional language as the language of communication ‘as far as this is necessary to support the programme in question’.28 From a legal perspective, then, language use in Si Doel, which represents a local community, is very appropriate. Incidentally, the appendix to this paragraph states that where possible, this regional language should be translated into Indonesian so that viewers from other regions will also be able to understand it (Muljono 1998:22). In theory, these two paragraphs suffice to regulate the domestic language­ scape of Indonesian television, which comprises the national language and hundreds of regional languages. Comparing the legal restrictions as specified in Article 33 with the language realities that television presents its viewers with daily, it is clear that this legal framework alone cannot sufficiently explain the variety of languages used on national television. The choice for

27

In the Broadcast Law that was eventually put into effect in 2002, the section on language was more or less the same as in its 1997 counterpart. Only the paragraph on dubbing and subtitling was significantly altered. Personal communication with Jimmy Silalahi via e-mail, 20 April 2003. 28 In full, paragraph 2 reads: ‘Bahasa daerah dapat digunakan sebagai bahasa pengantar dalam pelaksanaan siaran sejauh diperlukan untuk mendukung mata acara tertentu’.

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a certain register of the national language or a particular regional language depends on such things as the format of the programme and the intended audience. Developing the Indonesian language Pembinaan dan pengembangan bahasa Indonesia (Cultivating and developing the Indonesian language, henceforth Developing the Indonesian language) is a joint effort by broadcaster TVRI and the Language Centre. The programme represents one of the government’s most enduring and conscious efforts to exploit the potential of the medium for promoting the national language. Developing the Indonesian language was first broadcast in the early 1970s and was still being aired in 1999. The programme, which was launched to develop the language skills of viewers all over Indonesia, discusses in weekly broadcasts the ins and outs of BIYBB. The editions broadcast on 12, 19, and 27 March 1997, for instance, examined the meaning of English or Arabic loan words in Indonesian, the correct word order in sentences, and the proper spelling of foreign words. At the end of each programme, viewers may provide feedback by sending their questions and comments to the Language Centre. One or two language experts host each edition of Developing the Indonesian language (Badudu 1978:7). Adopting a serious and paternalistic tone, the programme hosts obviously endeavour to speak BIYBB themselves. They talk to viewers in a way that they are made to feel that they are responsible citizens of Indonesia, eager to learn the national language. The programme hosts often connect the use of proper Indonesian with being a good Indonesian citizen. In one edition, host Anton Moeliono wonders whether project developers who give English names to their real estate complexes are genuine Indonesian citizens.29 Slogans such as ‘the Indonesian language is your property, all our property’ or ‘Indonesian is the unifier of the people’ are regularly inserted in the programme, either through the lingual diegetic soundscape or through the lingual non-diegetic imagescape. In addition, the motto of the programme, shown at the end of each edition, is ‘Let’s use Indonesian in a good and correct manner’ (Marilah kita menggunakan bahasa Indonesia dengan baik dan benar) (Hakim 1985:4). Although the programme hosts try to discuss new material, they also repeat issues that have been addressed in previous editions of the programme. Given that the programme has been broadcast for nearly three decades, repetition indeed seems inevitable. Reiterating certain issues is moreover believed to be useful, since ‘one day [viewers] ask for an expla29

Anton Moeliono, Developing the Indonesian language, 12 March 1997, TVRI.

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nation, but the next day they have already forgotten it’.30 In the mid 1990s, Indonesian linguist Soewardi Idris (1996:6-7) suggested that it is probably time to revise the format of the programme. In his view a more attractive format, which would include, for instance, quiz-like elements, would attract an audience beyond language teachers and language aficionados. The language of Jakartan youth: Helen and the boys Whereas programmes such as Developing the Indonesian language consciously promote official Indonesian, other television programmes are situated at the other end of the bahasa Indonesia spectrum. The serial Hélène et les garçons (Helen and the boys, henceforth Helen), for instance, deliberately adopted an informal, popular tone. Helen was a French youth serial revolving around the vicissitudes in the lives of a group of trendy youngsters at a Parisian high school. The half-hour programme was broadcast in daily instalments throughout 1997 by ANTV, a station known for targeting a young and trendy audience. To retain some of the intimacy of the original Parisian dialect spoken by Helen and her friends, the dialogues of the characters were creatively subtitled into Jakartan slang, the language of the youth of that capital city. This initiative caused some consternation, since according to many language professionals and other viewers it resulted in ‘vulgar’ and ‘careless’ language use. Before the broadcasting of Helen, ANTV had already been accused of using the language of the capital too often in its dubbed programmes. In response to the criticism, PR manager for ANTV Zoraya Perucha explained that ANTV used this language variety to create a sense of intimacy between the station and its youthful audience.31 Others defended the serial from a linguistic point of view. Language expert Ruddyanto defended the programme, saying that it was a realistic reflection of an existing language situation. He added that instead of complaining, it was better to face the fact that many youngsters in Jakarta and other large cities nowadays spoke the language of Jakarta among themselves. Describing the use of Jakarta Malay as ‘nationwide even though it is not the national language’, Ruddyanto attributed the popularity of this language variety to its associations with trendiness and modernity. Others observe that the abundant use of Jakarta Malay in the audiovisual media does not always generate positive reactions from its audiences. At some locations in Indonesia, an example being Banyuwangi, a small town in East Java, the use of this language may be viewed as pretentious.32 According to Ruddyanto, those who 30

Telephone interview with Adi Sunaryo of the Language Centre, 14 October 1999. Zen, ‘Dipertanyakan, Akurasi Terjemahan Film Sulih Suara Tayangan Televisi’, Kompas, 5 November 1996, p. 10. 32 Conversations with Bernard Arps on various occasions. 31

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dislike language use in programmes like Helen make the mistake of equating good Indonesian (bahasa Indonesia yang baik) with correct Indonesian (bahasa Indonesia yang benar), although the first means using the appropriate language register in the appropriate context, rather than using correct Indonesian on every occasion.33 While Developing the Indonesian language and Helen represent two extremes in the category of programmes that use the national language, most domestic productions must be positioned between them, inclining towards either informal Indonesian or BIYBB. An exception is those local programmes that, like Si Doel, use a regional language and are regulated by paragraph two of Article 33. The use of regional languages on national television Article 33 permits domestic programmes to use a regional language, provided this suits the character of the programme. Considering that the aim of national television is to be accessible to a nationwide audience, the use of regional languages on national television is understandably restricted. Sen and Hill (2000:120) also attribute the restriction of these language to the ‘archaic’ image that is associated with them, saying that local languages on television have always been treated as belonging only to the sphere of ‘traditional’ culture, strictly excluded from political participation. […] With the exception of some popular music programs occasionally featuring a regional-language song, no regional language other than Javanese [in rare instances] was ever heard. On television, local languages are marked as archaic, belonging to traditional cultures of particular geographical areas; they are the museum exhibits of national television.

Sen and Hill make their statement in connection with the language paragraph of Ministerial Decree 111, which was issued in 1990 and whose content is similar to the language paragraph of its successor, the 1997 Broadcast Law. Their observation is still true in the late 1990s, although it can be expanded. Sen and Hill (2000:124-5) scarcely elaborate on the position of regional languages on regional television, but do note that programmers within TVRI ‘have long been aware of the importance of regional languages and local issues in the battle to win back audiences. […] As TVRI lost its audiences to private television, there was heightened recognition of the need for more localised programming’. On regional television local languages are neither perceived as ‘archaic’ nor as ‘museum exhibits’. Far from that, they are considered to be part of the attraction of regional programming. Regional programmes moreover feature 33

Interview with Ruddyanto, 20 February 1998.

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both the quotidian varieties of these local languages as well as their formal and stylized manifestations. On TVRI Yogyakarta, for instance, ‘traditional’ Javanese theatre performances such as ketoprak use highly stylized forms of Javanese in certain parts, but colloquial Javanese in others. As is often done in unmediatized discourse, the characters in the Javanese sitcom Obrolan angkring (‘Food stall talk’) combine Javanese slang with English and Indonesian. Some theatre groups deliberately use a mixture of Javanese and Indonesian because they are convinced that it will make their production attractive to a larger audience.34 TVRI Yogyakarta also airs the long-running programme Mbangun desa (‘Building the village’), which meant to entertain viewers and inform them about government policies. This programme uses various registers of Javanese as well. In daily life, the characters that live in the Javanese village that is the setting of Mbangun desa use a casual form of Javanese. In more official situations, such as when a government authority comes to the village to explain a government policy to the villagers, the villagers use a mixture of Javanese and formal Indonesian (Bogaerts 2001). In the more explicitly ‘modern’ television genre of sinetron, too, regional languages are employed extensively. The actors in the sinetron Inohong di Bojongrangkong (‘The leader of Bojongrangkong’, henceforth Inohong), for instance, use daily, colloquial Sundanese, the dominant regional language in the province of West Java (Jurriëns 2004:114). Inohong, which was produced to promote the Sundanese language and arts, was first broadcast a miniseries in 1989 on TVRI Bandung. Thereafter, it was aired in monthly instalments (Jurriëns 2004:91). Contrary to what Sen and Hill suggest, regional languages also make up a larger part of the languagescape of national television than first appears. The most obvious examples, Si Doel and other sinetron Betawi, generously employ Betawi Malay. The ‘regional’ characters that enliven the cast of numerous sinetron Betawi use local languages too. Apart from Betawi Malay, Si Doel, through its characters Kang Mamang, Mas Karyo, Pak Bendot, and Mbak Nunung, features instances of Sundanese and, notably, Javanese. The sinetron Fatima (Chapter VIII) features a Batak and a Sundanese character, both of which intersperse their Indonesian with words and accents (the Batak character) or whole sentences (the Sundanese character) in their native language. Finally, Mat Angin (Chapter VIII) depicts characters from Jakarta, Central Java, Ambon, Sumatra, Manado, and Madura, all of them too talking in a way that reveals their regional backgrounds. Local languages are not only used in the sub-genre of sinetron Betawi 34

Conversation with Judith Bosnak, 16 April 2003. At the time, Bosnak was preparing her PhD thesis Shaping the Javanese play; Improvisation of the script in theatre performance (2006), on the relation between script and performance in various Javanese theatre genres.

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though; they are occasionally used in mainstream sinetron too. As director Raam Punjabi of Multivision remarks: In Indonesia, we have a variety of dialects and cultures. But don’t forget, from the time of Soekarno onwards, we [have acknowledged that we have] one state, one people, and one language. [Nonetheless,] I now want to produce Makan nggak makan ngumpul [‘As long as we get together’]. A Javanese husband, an Ambonese wife, [and] three children, who are all married to people from different regions. That will be entertaining! And there the language differences will be maintained. But those who play [the characters] are not from there, for instance, Rima Melati is a champion at performing the Ambonese dialect. [In addition,] Doaku harapanku (‘My prayer my hope’) features characters from Padang and Manado, so those two dialects do pop up. […] Karnos Film only [features] Betawi Malay and Javanese. But that’s also fine, because that’s what Si Doel is about. Our productions [however] are numerous.35

The examples above suggest that at the turn of the twenty-first century, regional languages are increasingly used on national television to flavour domestic productions. Yet many actors have to perform in a regional language that is not their native one, and the use of such languages on national television is by definition limited because the medium is supposed to serve a nationwide audience. The use of regional languages furthermore involves a number of sensitivities. Nonetheless, the increasing occurrence of local languages on national television indicates that the ‘televisual potential of localised speech’ that Sen and Hill (2000:124) identify in connection with the language of Si Doel can be extended to other regional languages as well. Restricting the use of foreign languages on national television: Article 33 Although the domestic languagescape needs only two paragraphs for its regulation – in theory, that is – the parameters for the use of foreign language on national television are set out by nine paragraphs of which the most relevant are paragraphs 3, 4, 6, 7, 8, and 9. Paragraph 9 allows religious programmes to use a foreign language in support of the religion that is taught, permitting, for example, programmes teaching the Hindu religion to use Sanskrit, the language of their holy books. 35

‘Di Indonesia, kita punya dialek dan budaya macam-macam. Tapi jangan lupa, dari jaman Soekarno sudah “satu negara, satu bangsa, satu bahasa”. […] Saya mau bikin sekarang Makan nggak makan ngumpul. Suami Jawa, istri Ambon, tiga anak menikah dengan orang dari berbagai daerah. Akan ramai! Dan di sana perbedaan bahasa akan dipertahankan. Tapi yang main tidak dari sono, misalnya Rima Melati jago memainkan dialek Ambon. […] Doaku harapanku ada karakter orang Padang dan Manado, jadi kedua dialek itu keluar. […] Kalau Karnos baru Betawi dan Jawa. Tapi bagus juga, karena Si Doel memang itu. Produksi kita kan banyak.’ Interview with Raam Punjabi, 9 June 2000

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Likewise, programmes on Islam may use Arabic. National television features a substantial amount of religious broadcasting, particularly during the early morning hours and during the Islamic holy month of Ramadan. Because approximately 90 per cent of the population is Muslim, all stations broadcast the Arabic-language early evening Islamic call to prayer. This call to prayer, which is broadcast daily around 6 p.m., is subtitled in Indonesian. The remaining paragraphs in Article 33 regulate the use of foreign languages in general programmes. Paragraph 3 states that English may be used when the format of the programme calls for it, while paragraph 4 states that all other foreign languages can only be used in programmes teaching that particular language. Paragraph 6 determines that English-language programmes must be broadcast with Indonesian subtitles. All other foreign-language programmes, with the exception of those using a language that belongs to the same language family as Indonesian, must first be dubbed into English and then subtitled into Indonesian (paragraph 7). A restricted number of non-English foreign-language programmes, however, may be dubbed into Indonesian (paragraph 8). English has always had an exceptional position in the world of Indonesian broadcasting (Lindsay 2005), but the paragraphs on subtitling and dubbing were the result of a lively polemic in the years directly preceding the 1997 Broadcast Law. This polemic will be treated as a secondary text, which discursively elaborates the language of Si Doel. The debate on subtitling and dubbing The subtitles of Si Doel are unique in that they are in Jakarta Malay rather than Indonesian. While other domestic programmes are also subtitled at times, as a rule they are in Standard Indonesian. For instance, the Javanese dialogues of some of the characters in Kethoprak humor, a programme using both Indonesian and Javanese, were subtitled in the national language.36 While domestic programmes feature some subtitles, most subtitles on national television are produced for the translation of foreign programmes. Whereas Karnos Film took a nonchalant attitude in producing its Jakarta Malay subtitles, the national government, language experts, and television practitioners debated seriously about the language that was to be used when airing these foreign productions. These discussions were partly normative. For example, some people strongly disapproved of the ‘vulgar’ language used in the Jakartan (or rather, Spoken Jakarta Indonesian) subtitles that accompanied the youth series Helen. However, the main point of discussion was the question of whether foreign programmes could best be dubbed or subtitled. 36

Personal communication with Judith Bosnak, 16 April 2003.

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The history of dubbing and subtitling in Indonesia37 In the very early period of broadcasting, foreign programmes were translated through Indonesian subtitles that explained the essence of the action on the screen. The technology of dubbing was already known, but it was mainly used to dub domestic productions that had been recorded on location without ‘direct sound’ equipment. While production houses had thus mastered the dubbing technique years before, it was only in the late 1980s that the first dubbed foreign-language programme was broadcast on TVRI. As dubbing-industry pioneer Agus Purwanto recalls, this series, which had been dubbed in Malaysia, caused some hilarity among Indonesian viewers. Whereas some viewers were content to be able to understand a foreign movie, others mocked its characters for resembling ‘creatures from another planet [who] had been learning to speak the language of earth and were accidentally using Indonesian’ (Purwanto 1996:34).38 The first foreign programme that was dubbed into Indonesian in the archipelago was the well-known Indian epic Mahabharata, which was broadcast by TPI in the early 1990s. The breakthrough of dubbing came when commercial station SCTV started using this technique to translate their highly popular Latin American telenovelas, which were aired in daily instalments in the early 1990s (Purwanto 1996:35). From then on, it was general policy to dub all non-Indonesian, non-English programmes into Indonesian while subtitling the English-language productions. When the broadcasting of a Malaysian programme on TVRI was disallowed because it was formally a non-Indonesian production, the rules were adapted slightly. Thereafter, television programmes using a language ‘that belonged to the same language family as Indonesian’ were also allowed to be aired without dubbing.39 Djojonegoro and Harmoko’s 1996 appeal Calls to make the national language a ‘host in its own country’ had been sounded on many language symposia when the Minister of Culture and Education (Mendikbud), Wardiman Djojonegoro, decided to take a clear government stance in this matter. In the early 1990s, the minister initiated several government campaigns to promote the use of Indonesian over foreign languages. In 1995, fifty years after Independence, president Soeharto responded to this campaign by announcing the ‘Movement for the Use of 37

This section elaborates on a paper that I presented on 7 May 1998 during the symposium Dinamika Undang-Undang Penyiaran, which was jointly organized by the Atma Jaya University in Jakarta and the VA|AVMI research programme. See Loven 1999. 38 ‘[…] makhluk planet lain sedang belajar berbicara bahasa bumi dan kebetulan memakai bahasa Indonesia.’ 39 Salim Said, statement made during radio discussion ‘Di balik sulih suara tayangan asing’ (Behind the dubbing of foreign programmes), Radio Trijaya, 6 May 1996, 8-9 a.m.

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Good and Correct Indonesian’ (Gerakan Berbahasa Indonesia dengan Baik dan Benar). Djojonegoro’s most remarkable involvement in language policies, however, was yet to come. On 30 April 1996, together with his colleague, the Minister of Information (Menpen) Harmoko, he recommended that television stations dubbed all their foreign television programmes into Indonesian. The announcement, which had the legal status of an imbauan or ‘strong recommendation’, was made in the context of the yearly Month of Language. Djojonegoro’s suggestion was rooted in the belief that the national language would benefit from dubbing in more than one way. For one, using different registers of spoken Indonesian would strengthen the position of the national language as a living and developing language. In addition, dubbing could be used as an instrument for coining new Indonesian words created by the Language Centre. The beneficial effects of dubbing on the development of the national language would only take place if the dubbing itself was of good quality though, so it required the active support of the Indonesian government. As a follow-up to Djojonegoro’s appeal, in June 1996 the Language Centre organized a one-day symposium entitled ‘Improving the quality of dubbing’ (Meningkatkan mutu sulih suara). The symposium was held to draw up an inventory of the current state of affairs of dubbing in Indonesia, and to identify major obstacles hampering the development of dubbing and to make suggestions to solve them. In his word of welcome to this seminar, Mendikbud Djojonegoro explained his controversial decision. Calling television ‘the most influential medium, currently as well as in the future’, Djojonegoro remarked that teachers ‘teach Indonesian from primary school through secondary school. [But] in one evening, the impact of television can change [the effects of schooling]’ (Djojonegoro 1996:9).40 The minister explained that his appeal had triggered numerous reactions, both from those in favour of and opposed to dubbing. People who opposed the new media policy complained that dubbing all foreign programmes into Indonesian would deprive viewers of the possibility of learning a foreign language, and that it would result in a stronger penetration of foreign culture. They furthermore thought that via the new ruling television stations would incur extra costs, and opponents of the policy warned that it would kill the domestic film industry. Finally, opponents argued that dubbing all foreign productions into Indonesian would ruin their aesthetic quality and make them less popular. For the minister, arguments in support of dubbing outweighed the arguments against it. Apart from its benefits, Djojonegoro also believed that using the national language to dub foreign productions would place Indonesian alongside other major languages in the world. 40

‘[…] mengajar bahasa Indonesia dari SD, SMP, sampai SMA. Dalam satu malam, pengaruh dari televisi ini bisa mengubahnya.’

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Like Djojonegoro, most participants in the symposium, many of whom were either broadcast professionals or linguists, were in favour of dubbing. Some dubbers expressed satisfaction with the new policy which would enable them to make a full-time living out of dubbing. Others were not so enthusiastic. Apart from the objections that Djojonegoro summed up, they argued that it was difficult to find the proper register for dubbed language. The dubbing industry was seen as being in urgent need of a language standard, ‘because the Indonesian that is used today is very un-human […] it is like people giving a lecture or having a meeting, […] it doesn’t reflect daily life, it relies too heavily on correct Indonesian, it does not yet reflect good Indonesian’ (Purwanto 1996:48). 41 Yayah Lumintaintang, who examined the language of Indonesian-dubbed telenovelas, added to this that dubbed productions often ignored the fact that Indonesia is a diglossic society. She also noted that ‘in telenovelas, they always employ standard language at home. That is inconceivable, except for when the situation really requires the use of standard language. Next, when [the telenovela characters] are emotional, they usually continue to use standard language, that is also inconceivable’ (cited in Ruddyanto 1996:26-7).42 The Indonesian linguist Benny Hoed points to the related dilemma of employing regional accents and languages. Acknowledging that using them would make the dubbed language more natural, Hoed nonetheless fears that using a particular regional language may stigmatize its users (Hoed 1996:19). In response to this, language authority Moeliono (quoted in Ruddyanto 1996:71-2) argues that viewers will understand that the choice for one particular region is a mere coincidence: I don’t agree with the opinion that if there’s one servant who […] is forced to speak a dialect that reveals traces of Javanese, we will then have to be afraid that the Javanese will be irritated. Each ethnic group in Indonesia has its thief, its general, and its minister. I think that if a rapist happens to have a Batak accent, this doesn’t mean that I am insulting […] the Batak people [by saying they are] rapists. The point is that in real life too there aren’t […] Minang people who only work as satay vendors.43 41

‘[…] karena bahasa Indonesia yang dipakai sekarang ini sangat tidak manusiawi […] seperti orang berpidato dan seperti orang rapat […] tidak mencerminkan kehidupan sehari-hari, masih terlalu standar pada bahasa yang benar, belum mencerminkan bahasa Indonesia yang baik.’ 42 ‘[…] telenovela itu selalu berbahasa baku di rumah. Itu mustahil kecuali memang ada situasi tertentu yang menuntut penggunaan bahasa baku. Lalu orang emosional biasanya menggunakan bahasa baku terus, itu juga mustahil.’ 43 ‘Saya tidak setuju dengan anggapan kalau ada pelayan yang […] dialek yang dipakainya itu harus kejawa-jawaan, lalu kita takut kalau orang Jawa tersinggung. Di setiap suku di Indonesia ada pencolengnya, ada jenderalnya, ada menterinya. Saya rasa kalau pemerkosa itu kebetulan aksennya Batak, tidak berarti saya menghina bahwa […] suku Batak yang menjadi pemerkosa. Masalahnya adalah di dalam kenyataan hidup kita pun tidak ada […] orang Minang yang kerjanya hanya tukang sate saja.’

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Nonetheless, Moeliono felt it was necessary to remind his audience that there were more regional languages than Betawi Malay. He also suggested that ‘if the atmosphere is not a Jakartan atmosphere, it is best not to use the Betawi dialect’ (Ruddyanto 1996:72).44 The new policy on subtitling and dubbing was not only vividly discussed during the June 1996 symposium, it also gave rise to a public debate. Some people were not so much anti-dubbing as they were pro-subtitling into Indonesian. They were in favour of subtitling for aesthetic reasons because using subtitles meant that the original soundtrack could be maintained. Alternatively, they disfavoured dubbing because using subtitles would allow them to learn a foreign language by switching back and forth between the Indonesian subtitles and the foreign dialogues. Advocates of both subtitling and dubbing furthermore raised the issue of censorship. Particularly subtitling was seen as an instrument that could be used to correct or censor ‘bad’ language use. For instance, when a foreign, unmarried television couple announced that they were going to live together – an inappropriate announcement in the cultural context of Indonesia – this could be rendered as ‘We will get married in a while’ through Indonesian subtitles. Seen from this perspective, the dubbing or subtitling of foreign television programmes illustrates ‘the dynamics of indigenisation’ (Appadurai 1996). The main argument against dubbing foreign productions into the national language was the fear that foreign and domestic programmes would sound too much alike. Viewers would find it difficult to distinguish between foreign television characters and Indonesian characters, advocates of subtitling argued, when both were talking in Indonesian. Because they could no longer feel that these productions and the ideas in them were foreign, viewers would adopt the morally despicable behaviour of the foreign characters. To emphasize the difference between domestic and foreign programmes, some detachment between the characters and their speech would have to be maintained. As Benny Hoed phrased it: If we translate Shakespeare and we encounter [the phrase] ‘to be or not to be, that is the question’, well, this ‘to be or not to be’ is a trademark of Shakespeare, so there’s this [argument] that says that one should not translate ‘to be or not to be’ with [the Indonesian phrase] ada atau tiada. […] This may also be valid for film. By this, I mean that we must translate foreign films into Indonesian, without [creating characters such as] Doel, for instance. So they [should] remain foreigners, who speak Indonesian.45 (Ruddyanto 1996:59) 44

‘[K]alau suasananya itu bukan suasana Jakarta, sebaiknya jangan memakai dialek Betawi.’ ‘[K]alau kita menerjemahkan Shakespeare dan di situ ada to be or not to be, that is the question, nah to be or not to be itu sudah menjadi mereknya Shakespeare sehingga ada diskusi yang mengatakan bahwa to be or not to be jangan diterjemahkan jadi ‘ada atau tiada’. […] Ini bisa berlaku juga untuk film. Artinya, kita membuat film-film asing itu berbahasa Indonesia, tetapi tidak menjadi si Doel, misalnya. Jadi, ia tetap orang asing, tetapi ngomong Indonesia.’ 45

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Advocates and opponents of dubbing were still debating the issue when, in August 1997, Menpen Harmoko was suddenly replaced by former army chief Hartono. That same month, Indonesia’s new minister made a remarkable announcement. Hartono declared that as of 1 October that year, dubbing foreign programmes into Indonesian would be prohibited. Instead, all foreign television programmes were to be dubbed into English and then subtitled into Indonesian. Given the 1996 appeal by Djojonegoro and Harmoko, Hartono’s announcement was surprising. Understandably, most of Indonesia’s 1,600 dubbers were shocked by Hartono’s announcement because with the new ruling they would lose their source of income. This was an especially sore subject given the fact that the previous policy on dubbing had promised them a bright professional future. A delegation of dubbers therefore took to Indonesia’s legislative assembly DPR to protest the new ruling.46 At DPR, a representative from ABRI explained that the ruling was not meant to kill the dubbing industry; rather, it was to support Indonesian production houses. The ABRI spokesperson thereby referred to the anxiety of domestic producers that foreign films that were dubbed into Indonesian would become more popular than domestic productions. Apparently, the new ruling answered the calls of these producers for protection measurements. In addition, the spokesperson openly admitted that his party feared the influence of foreign languages other than English, such as Mandarin Chinese.47 The use of Mandarin Chinese in public forums, including the media, had been prohibited for its supposedly disruptive features since the inception of the New Order (Oetomo 1997:336). The new ruling enabled the government to prevent the use of Mandarin Chinese on national television without explicitly having to single out that particular language. The controversy on subtitling and dubbing demonstrates how the choice for one language over another may be based on political rather than linguistic motives. To be sure, the new ruling was not advantageous for the average Indonesian television viewer, who could not read at all or read fast enough to digest the Indonesian subtitles (although advocates of subtitling argued that subtitles provided a good stimulus for the development of viewers’ reading capabilities). In addition, many female viewers, who were used to listening to rather than watching television during their household chores, complained that they could not understand the English dialogues. As noted, the new ruling implied that a large number of dubbers, except for those who were fluent in English, had to look for a new profession.48 Finally, the new ruling also

46

Frank Vermeulen, ‘Ondertiteling moet Indonesiërs tegen het kwaad beschermen’, NRC, 23 August 1997. 47 Nal/Cc, ‘Sulih Suara tak Dilarang, tapi Harus Selektif’, Kompas, 22 August 1997, p. 10. 48 Yad/R-3, ‘Para “Dubber” Masih Menunggu Uluran Tangan’, Media Indonesia, 1 October 1997.

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placed an extra burden on the television industry, which had already started dubbing foreign productions into Indonesian in accordance with the previous ministerial ‘recommendation’. Hartono announced that the new ruling would take force on 1 October 1997 so that television stations would still have the opportunity to use up their Indonesian-dubbed stock. Nonetheless, ANTV’s PR officer Adhie Massardie called it a paradox that precisely during the yearly month of language, the aim of which should be to boost the development of Indonesian, television stations were made to dub their foreign programmes into English.49 Because all stations asked for more time to finish up their stock programmes, the new policy eventually took effect on 1 January 1998. At the time, the krismon in Indonesia was deeply affecting the performance of the television industry, and the new ruling involved additional expenses that the tele­ vision stations could barely afford. Hence some television stations neglected the rule and continued airing Indonesian-dubbed productions. Some of them argued that they were merely using up their stock. Others remarked that it was one way of coping with the economic crisis.50 In reply, the Information Department issued a warning that it would not tolerate the broadcasting of Indonesian-dubbed productions. Because the Broadcast Law codifying the new dubbing policy had been ratified in October 1997, airing Indonesiandubbed foreign productions would be considered breaking the law.51 During a 1998 symposium, legal expert Hinca Pandjaitan emphasized that the new Broadcast Law would not be effective until October 1999, assuring broadcast professionals that until that date they could do as they please.52 Because the Broadcast Law never took effect, the debate ended in an anticlimax. Because there was no law, the previous ruling remained the legal framework for the treatment of foreign productions, which was the 1990 Ministerial Decree 111. This decree ordained that foreign programmes had to be broadcast in Indonesian. Ironically, it did not specify whether translations had to be rendered through subtitling or through dubbing.53

49

Ana/Roh, ‘Penghapusan Sulih Suara Diundur, Stasiun TV Gembira, Republika, 3 October 1997, p. 19. 50 One, ‘RCTI Nekat Tayangkan Dubbing Indonesia’, Republika, 3 March 1998, p. 7; Yad/R-3, ‘Karena Krisis, Perlukah Kebijakan “Dubbing” Ditunda?’, Media Indonesia, 3 March 1998, p. 15. 51 Ww, ‘Deppen Peringatkan Stasiun Televisi’, Pos Kota, 14 March 1998, p. 7. 52 Statement made during symposium ‘The dynamics of the Broadcast Law’, Jakarta, 7 May 1998. 53 Ria, ‘Seputar Sulih Suara di Televisi: Dulu Diwajibkan, Kini Dilarang’, Bali Post, 24 August 1997.

Part IV The scope of Si Doel

CHAPTER XI

Interpreting the language of Si Doel A viewing experiment

While watching television, viewers address, negotiate, and confirm their identities as – among others – cultural, national, and gendered subjects (Barker 1999, Gillespie 1995, Qureshi and Moores 2000). With language being an important aspect of our individual (Barker 1999) and collective (Gillespie 1995) identities, the language of a particular television programme can be expected to play an important role in these processes of identity construction. A programme’s language may enthuse certain viewers, as they may identify with television characters or personalities speaking their language (Qureshi and Moores 2000:133). Alternatively, viewers may dismiss a certain programme if they cannot relate to the language that is spoken in it, or even feel annoyed by it. A discussion of the response of Indonesian viewers from different cultural and linguistic backgrounds to the language of Si Doel provides insight into the significance of language in the construction of identities in the context of late New Order Indonesia. Such discussion moreover illuminates the role of language in the pleasure that viewers derive from Si Doel, offering a partial explanation for the popularity of the serial. Focusing on the reception of television language enabled me to assess the impact of television in a domain that tends to be overlooked in audience studies. In a survey of contemporary academic audience research, for instance, the possible influence of the medium on the language behaviour of viewers is not mentioned once. Instead, other social influences such as the medium’s agenda-setting function and its impact on the behaviour of children and adults, particularly in terms of anti-social, permissive, or violent behaviour, receive ample attention (Dickinson, Harindranath and Linné 1998). When language is acknowledged as being an important factor in the appraisal of television, researchers often take a metaphorical, rather than a literal stance towards it: television language as a symbol for the ‘translation of culture’, for instance (Qureshi and Moores 2000). Other studies draw attention to the importance of language in viewers’ appreciation of television, but do not contain a systematic investigation into the reception of television language (Gillespie 1995).

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Investigating how ‘actual audiences’ (as opposed to audiences as a discursive construct) appropriate the language of Si Doel enabled me to produce an alternative kind of knowledge on audiences in general and on the Indonesian television audience in particular. Such an approach centres on revealing particularities rather than making general statements, while acknowledging that watching television is a dynamic and intricate activity that is embedded in the complexities of daily life (Ang 1991:160). Focusing on actual viewers also means recognizing ‘the thoroughly situated, context-bound ways in which people encounter, use, interpret, enjoy, think and talk about television’ (Ang 1991:162). Reception research also allowed me to generate some empirical data that support or are in conflict with the knowledge of Indonesian audiencehood produced through the ‘professional’ discourses discussed in the previous section – for instance, that language use in Si Doel is intelligible to television viewers throughout Indonesia. Conducting this reception research gave me the opportunity to incorporate the voices of ordinary viewers, where in previous chapters I have been to a large extent engaged with professional viewers. This allowed me to redress the balance of my account, which has gravitated towards a top-down view of audiences produced by institutions, rather than exposing the lived experience of actual viewers.

Figure 11.1 Wawan Kristiawan of the research team prepares the equipment

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The reception research Design of the reception research The reception research was conducted in six locations in Java and Bali, with 106 respondents of different linguistic and cultural backgrounds participating. The locations were chosen so as to include locations that were monitored by audience-measurement company ACNielsen as well as locations that were not. The research was conducted by me and two assistants (the research team) between 23 February and 21 March 1999. It consisted of two components, a viewing session and an interview (see figures 11.1, 11.2, 11.3, and 11.4).1 During the viewing session, groups of two or three respondents viewed four of the eight scenes that I selected for this experiment. Each scene was taken from the first or second series of Si Doel and was approximately one to three minutes in duration. The first three scenes were different for subsequent groups of respondents (viewing groups), the fourth scene was the same for all respondents. After a group had finished viewing, it received a set of forms on which the dialogues of the scenes were written.2 The same combination of video excerpts was then shown once again. During this second showing, respondents were asked to perform three assignments. The first assignment was to mark the words in the written dialogue of the first excerpt that respondents did not understand. To refresh their memory, the accompanying excerpt was played while respondents were doing this task. For the second assignment, respondents had to translate the Betawi Malay words that were underscored on the second form, which contained the dialogue of the second scene, into proper Indonesian. To remind respondents of how this dialogue sounded, the specific excerpt was played simultaneously. For the third assignment, respondents had to fill in the gaps that were deliberately introduced in the transcription on the third form. To this end, the third excerpt was shown once more. This time, the tape was stopped briefly after each gap in the written text, providing respondents with sufficient time to fill in the missing word or words. Concentration was most important at this stage, and the research team took care that the excerpt played was clearly audible. Respondents were furthermore encouraged to write down exactly what they had heard, regardless of whether they thought this was Indonesian, Jakarta Malay, Betawi Malay, or any other language. The fourth excerpt was a Javanese monologue by Mas Karyo, subtitled with Betawi Malay. For this excerpt respondents did not have to do any task, 1

A more detailed description of the design of the viewing experiment, the recruitment of respondents, and the context in which the viewing experiment was conducted can be found in Appendix A. 2 For an example of a set of forms, see Appendix B.

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as its main purpose was to illustrate and clarify a question about subtitling asked in the interview that followed. After the viewing session, each respondent was interviewed about Si Doel by one member of the research team. These interviews were structured around a set of questions which were to elicit the respondent’s perception of language use in the serial. In addition, one specific goal of these interviews was to generate some empirical data that support or are in conflict with the statements on Indonesian audiencehood produced through the ‘professional’ discourses. Fuzzy interpretation Most interpretation of discourse is impressionistic, but some forms of discourse are more apt to certain interpretative strategies than others. In his discussion of Javanese reading practices, Arps (forthcoming:10-11) distinguishes two major interpretative modes, which he calls ‘fuzzy’ and ‘focused’ interpretation. Fuzzy interpretation is the mode in which the interpreter construes the meaning of a stretch of text ‘from as many of its words as [he or she] is able to grasp’. By contrast, one speaks of focused interpretation when certain parts of the text are ‘released from their textual surroundings, attended to in detail, and [endowed with] special significance’. The modes of fuzzy and focused interpretation are not mutually exclusive, and in their efforts to arrive at an understanding of the Javanese text participants may apply both. Arps concludes that ‘fuzzy interpretation suffices for many’ (Arps forthcoming:11). The corpus of Javanese texts that Arps studied and the television serial Si Doel are to some extent comparable, as both use a vocabulary that is sufficiently different from the language used by its respective ‘audiences’ in daily life. In other words, the Betawi Malay of Si Doel may be as strange for the average, non-Betawi viewer of this serial as the Javanese vocabulary for the average reader of the Javanese texts. As the majority of the television audience considers television viewing a leisure-time activity, one may expect the mode of fuzzy interpretation to be dominant among people watching television as well. And indeed, the outcome of the viewing experiment suggests that fuzzy interpretation also suffices for most viewers of Si Doel. The main question, therefore, is not which mode of interpretation viewers use when watching the serial, but rather how this mode of interpretation works in the case of television. To make sense of television discourse, viewers have instant and simultaneous access to various discursive channels, ranging from the images that present the main story to the speech of the Betawi characters and the subtitles accompanying the Javanese dialogues. The reception research shows how the multimodality and the multimediality of the medium helps viewers to arrive at a fuzzy interpretation of the language of Si Doel.

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Figure 11.2 A respondent in Yogyakarta and Wiwin Budiyanti of the research team watch a scene from Si Doel

The viewing experiment: Fuzzy interpretation at work The scolding scene3 In conducting the viewing experiment I was not interested in the number of ‘mistakes’ that viewers would make in processing the forms. Rather, I was curious to know the dominant viewing strategies that they would use in assigning meaning to unfamiliar words. During the experiment each viewing group was exposed to different combinations of video excerpts. One particular video excerpt depicts a scene in which Doel’s father scolds Mandra, ‘the scolding scene’ (DVD no. 30). Like the other scenes that were included in this reception research, the scolding scene was shown to different viewing groups. Each of these groups had to do one of the three assignments outlined above. For the scolding scene, nine respondents did assignment 1, eighteen assignment 2, and twenty-three assignment 3. In total, fifty respondents evaluated this scene. The scolding 3

In this particular chapter, certain words that are repeatedly mentioned and which the respondents had to produce will be kept in italics, as they provide a visual aid to fluid reading.

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scene merits attention because it involved nearly half of all respondents, while the strategies that viewers used were representative for the other scenes too. The scolding scene depicts Mandra, Atun, Babe Sabeni, and Nyak Lela in front of the Sabeni residence after sunset. Babe scolds Mandra because he has made the unforgivable mistake of letting his niece Atun (Doel’s sister and Babe’s daughter) ride along as a driver’s mate (kenek) on the oplet. That role is normally restricted to men. Babe Sabeni vents his anger with Mandra, calling him stupid (dongo). In fact, he says ‘dasar dongo’, an expression that can be translated loosely as ‘what else is one to expect from someone as stupid as you’. Atun defends Mandra, saying that she wanted to ride along herself to earn money for a course in bridal make-up. Babe however is of the opinion that, as her uncle (encangnye), Mandra should have forbidden his niece to act as a kenek. In the end, Babe reluctantly decides to give his daughter the money that she needs for the course. After he has handed over the money, Babe complains that he is now bankrupt. Next, after inspection of his wallet, he sighs: Ya, tinggal goceng! (‘My, there’s only five thousand left!’). Assignment one As noted, for the first assignment viewers were asked to circle the words in the dialogue that they did not understand. Nine respondents performed this task for the scolding scene. Four respondents, including all Jakartan participants, did not circle any word at all. A Balinese respondent was unfamiliar with the word kenek (driver’s mate). All Javanese respondents and one of the Balinese respondents were unsure about the meaning of the phrase encangnye (her uncle). The word goceng (five thousand) was circled by one Balinese and one Javanese respondent. The meaning of the word dongo (stupid), finally, was unclear to one Balinese and two Jakartan respondents. Assignment two Eighteen respondents were shown the scolding scene during their second assignment. They were asked to translate into proper Indonesian some of the Betawi words that were uttered in this scene. Among these words, which were underscored in the dialogues on the forms that respondents had received, were dongo, encangnye, and goceng. Dongo Dongo means ‘stupid’. Helpful audiovisual clues for respondents who did not understand the meaning of this word were that Babe was portrayed as directing this word at Mandra in an angry voice. Across locations, eleven respondents did indeed come up with an Indonesian equivalent for ‘stupid’, while

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five respondents felt unable to translate this word. A Javanese respondent, perhaps combining the sound of the word dongo with the vacant expression on Mandra’s face, came up with bengong, which means ‘stupefied’. A Balinese respondent probably combined the expression dasar dongo with the rest of the dialogue, which made it clear that Babe was very angry with Mandra. Alternatively, this viewer might have drawn on his general knowledge of the character Mandra. At any rate, he translated the word as gila (crazy). Encang Asked what encang meant, five respondents failed to produce any answer at all. Three respondents knew its general meaning of ‘uncle’, while one of the Jakartan respondents (a Betawi) translated the word as ‘older uncle or aunt’. Interestingly, given that Babe was talking to Mandra, two other Betawi respondents translated encang as aunt. These respondents probably did not pay much attention to the images because they had no difficulty in understanding the language without visual clues. A considerable number of respondents thought that it meant ‘elder brother’ (kakak). One Javanese respondent opted for the translation teman (friend), which sounds a bit like encang and suits the context in which the utterance was made. The last two translations are most probably based on the information that viewers obtained from the detached video excerpt alone. Had they been regular viewers of the sinetron Si Doel, they would almost certainly have known that Mandra is Doel and Atun’s uncle. Goceng Goceng (five thousand) is a Betawi Malay numerical that derives from Hokkien Chinese go (five) and ceng (thousand); analogously one finds gotun (5), gocap (50), gopek (500), and seceng (1000). These numbers are quite commonly used in the capital – and also in other parts of Indonesia, particularly in petty trade and in the public transport sector – to denote the corresponding amount of money. As expected, in assigning meaning to the word goceng viewers also took recourse to visual clues. Although the images did not show how much was left in Babe’s wallet after he had handed the money to Atun, respondents could guess from the disappointed expression on Babe’s face that it was not much. Some respondents, perhaps those who had heard of the expression but were not active users themselves, were not too sure about the exact amount of money that goceng referred to. Five respondents did not come up with any answer at all. Four respondents translated goceng as five hundred, while one respondent opted for one thousand. Eight respondents wrote down the correct answer of five thousand. Considering the respondents’ cultural and professional background, it becomes clear that most of the respondents who did not come up with any answer at all were Balinese. The other respondent who failed to produce an

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answer was a six-year-old child of Javanese parents who lived in Jakarta, understandably too young to know this financial expression. Correct answers were provided by all Betawi respondents, a Balinese youth, and a number of respondents who were themselves working in the transport sector: two Yogyanese becak drivers, a Jakartan bus driver, and a Jakartan bajaj driver.4 Those who responded ‘five hundred’ were a housewife, her daughter, a becak driver from Yogyakarta, and a Balinese youth. The person who opted for ‘one thousand’ was a bus driver from Yogyakarta. Assignment three Twenty-three respondents encountered the scolding scene during their third assignment. They were expected to fill in dongo, encangnye, and goceng among other missing words. Dongo A surprising variety of alternatives for dongo were found. Eleven respondents produced the ‘correct’ word dongok or dongo.5 An elderly Jakartan woman was unsure whether it was gonok (which has no meaning in any language that I know) or bodoh (which also means ‘stupid’). A Balinese farmer heard bongok, which is Betawi Malay for ‘large (fat) but short’. Although this is an existing word, its meaning is incongruent with Mandra’s build, and I doubt whether this respondent knew the meaning of the word that he wrote down. Other answers were goblok (which has the same meaning as Betawi Malay dongo), jongkok (to squat), and cowok (male). All these alternatives make perfect sense, as the visuals portray Mandra, who is indeed a male, in a sitting position. One respondent followed yet another strategy, paraphrasing the meaning of the words that he expected in this context. The resulting dasar orang kasar sekali can be roughly translated with ‘that’s because you are such an incredibly rude person’. While this translation comes close to the tenor of Babe’s lamentation, it was not what the respondents were asked to do. Two respondents did not fill in any word at all. Encangnye Only a small minority of five respondents, a Balinese youth and four residents of Jakarta, were able to understand the word encangnye (her uncle). Respondents who did not know what word was uttered were able to guess that the expression pertained to Mandra in relation to Atun. Those who were 4

A bajaj is a motorized three-wheeler used for public transport; see DVD no. 36. In Betawi Malay, words like dongo are usually written without a glottal stop. In Standard Indonesian and in some of the native languages of respondents the glottal stop is maintained in speech and writing. I therefore considered both dongo and dongok ‘correct’ answers. 5

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able to understand the preceding Betawi Malay phrase tapi lu sebagai… (but you in your capacity as…) would find another indication there. These clues partly explain why some respondents came up with the words they did. Some respondents for instance suggested cowok (male) or kakak (elder brother), while others opted for ponakan (BM, cousin). The respondents who opted for ponakan may have been influenced by the slight resemblance in sound between encangnye and ponakan, or by their incorrect knowledge of the family ties between Atun and Mandra. Alternatively, and probably more likely, they may have been influenced by the fact that the word ponakan occurred later in the sentence. A Balinese respondent gave the most remarkable answer. He thought he had heard intelnya, a word that in daily language refers to a member of the intelligence services and would translate as ‘her spy’. Thirteen respondents were unable to produce any answer at all. Goceng The final word that viewers were expected to fill in was goceng, and most respondents did indeed produce this word. Filling in the correct form does not necessarily imply understanding the word, though. One of the Balinese respondents stayed on the safe side when he translated goceng (uninvitedly, for providing a translation was actually reserved for assignment 2) with tidak cukup (meaning ‘not enough’). Despite the visual clues, respondents did not always make the connection between goceng and money. Some seem to have lost sight of the context in their effort to produce an answer; others apparently interpreted the word by using visual clues that had nothing to do with the word in question. Some answers suggest that these respondents did not have a clue as to what Babe was saying. Alternatively, respondents may have known that the expression denoted an amount of money but failed to produce the right word, either because they did not know the expression, could not hear it clearly, or both. Anyhow, three viewers failed to produce any answer at all. These were a Javanese becak driver and two elderly people who lived in Jakarta but were of Javanese origin. A Javanese pensioner wrote down mbonceng, a verb that means ‘to ride along with someone on a two-wheeled vehicle’ (the type of prenasalation is found in Betawi Malay or Javanese). This person might have envisioned a scenario in which Babe’s financial situation restricted his means of transport to riding a bicycle, and not even his own at that (the expression tinggal mbonceng can be translated as ‘I will have to resort to riding along’). Alternatively, this viewer may have thought it better to fill in a familiar word than nothing at all. Other, as far as I am aware nonexistent, words that were jotted down include goyeng, ngoceng, and boceng; the last word was mentioned twice. Nakngoceng, which was suggested by one respondent, is probably a contraction of the whole expression tinggal goceng. One respondent did produce

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the word nggoceng. Whereas strictly speaking this could be interpreted as a Jakarta Malay verb based on goceng, meaning ‘doing something with five thousand rupiah’, I doubt whether the respondent realized this. The interviews After the viewing sessions each respondent was interviewed about Si Doel by one member of the research team. Before the interview began, respondents were first asked how they had found the three assignments. Most interviewees replied that they had found the third assignment the most difficult. They also said that they had made use of visual clues or the context in which a word was uttered to reconstruct what they could have possibly heard. Some commented that they had had difficulties in understanding the excerpts because of the speed of the dialogues. This is in fact an invalid argument, because in a normal situation viewers would only watch a particular excerpt once, whereas in this viewing experiment, each viewer saw his or her set of excerpts twice. Other respondents pointed to the design of the research itself as a source of difficulty when filling in the forms. These viewers said that they had found it difficult to concentrate seriously on the excerpts that had been shown. They also argued that, although they actually knew what was being said, they found it difficult to express what they knew on paper. These respondents certainly have a point, for in spite of the efforts of the research team to make the viewing situation as natural as possible (see Appendix A), it obviously was not. Viewers did not watch the video excerpts because they felt like watching television, but rather because I had asked them to do so. In addition, the selected scenes were detached from their broader context, which possibly made them more difficult to understand. Rather than interpreting viewers’ often defensive accounts about why they had not been able to provide all answers during the processing of the forms as a research failure, I see this as being exactly how fuzzy interpretation of television language works. This is also how some respondents formulated it themselves. Asked what they found was most difficult about doing the assignments, a Javanese respondent answered, ‘I think it is the speed, because Betawi Malay, right, it is fast. Maybe we don’t really understand it, but in its totality we actually can understand it: “oh, well, its meaning is probably something like this”’.6 Similarly, a Balinese hotel employee explained: ‘In your heart, you wonder “what do they mean?” but you [still] know what is meant.’7 6

‘Saya kira temponya, karena bahasa Betawi kan cepet. Kita mungkin menangkapnya kurang anu, tapi dalam keseluruhan arti kita bisa menangkap: “o, kira-kira artinya seperti ini”.’ Respondent 43. 7 ‘Dalam hati “apa artinya?”, tapi tahu maksudnya.’ Respondent 6.

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In spite of the artificial setting of the viewing experiment, then, the interpretative strategies that viewers used in processing the language of Si Doel would probably not have differed substantially had they been watching the serial at home or in any other kind of ‘normal’ viewing situation. The interviews that were held after the viewing experiment were partly designed to find out whether the ‘professional’ statements on language use in Si Doel that were produced through broadcasting discourse, public critical discourse, Betawi discourse, advertising discourse, and sociolinguistic discourse are shared or contested by ‘ordinary’ viewers from different cultural and linguistic backgrounds. The language of Si Doel is intelligible to viewers throughout Indonesia The assumption made by broadcast professionals that language use in Si Doel is easy to understand for its nationwide audience is not supported by my reception research. Rather, my research indicates that respondents from different language backgrounds cannot understand the language that is employed in the sinetron equally well. This is clear from the ways in which viewers classify the language of Si Doel before the viewing experiment. It is moreover suggested by the results of the viewing experiment and it was confirmed during the interviews that were conducted afterwards. Whether or not respondents understand the language of the serial, they are ambivalent when asked whether it needs subtitling into Standard Indonesian. In favour of subtitling As Table 11.1 shows, most respondents appreciate the idea of subtitling Si Doel into the national language. The majority, particularly in Jakarta, specify that subtitles are not as much necessary for themselves as they are for ‘others’. These groups include viewers in eastern Indonesia, in Aceh, or outside Java in general. Other specific categories of viewers that are thought to profit from subtitling are children, people who are not fluent in the national language, villagers, and those who have hearing problems. An advantage of subtitles that is mentioned is that they allow viewers to choose between reading and listening. Some respondents even argue that one might pick up some Betawi Malay through these subtitles. This would be a good thing, according to a Javanese respondent, ‘because [in] areas far away from Jakarta, right, one can’t be certain that they know the language, one can’t be certain that they can understand it. So [with subtitles] the number of fans will increase. [In addition, subtitles] will enlarge one’s vocabulary, so that if one goes [to Jakarta] one day, one can already [speak the language]’.8 Outside Jakarta, 8

‘Soalnya daerah jauh dari Jakarta itu kan belum tentu tau bahasanya, belum tentu bisa ditangkap. Jadi nanti penggemarnya lebih banyak. […] menambah pembendaharaan kata, seumpamanya nanti ke sana kan bisa.’ Respondent 56.

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and particularly in Bali, respondents also indicate that Indonesian subtitles would make the serial easier to understand. A Javanese woman remarks that subtitles will enable her to explain the meaning of unknown Betawi words to her children. Against subtitling A substantial number of viewers, even those who admit that they find it difficult to understand the language of Si Doel, argue against the use of subtitles. The main argument is that without subtitles viewers can understand enough of what is being said. Some explicitly say that one can sufficiently comprehend the dialogues by looking at the pictures and the context in which a strange word is uttered. A Javanese respondent remarks that it would be odd to subtitle a serial like Si Doel: ‘Indonesian subtitled into Indonesian, that’s strange. It would be different [for instance] if it were Javanese translated into Indonesian; that would be normal’.9 Others argue against subtitles because they think it will be difficult to listen and read at the same time, because they cannot read, or because they expect subtitles to be distracting. As a Javanese high school student explains, ‘[Subtitles] aren’t necessary, it would even be confusing, watching while reading subtitles, it would be hard to concentrate then, wouldn’t it? It might even be irritating, you know’.10 Some respondents believe that subtitling the serial will make it less attractive, because the unique Betawi atmosphere would be less detectable. A Balinese entrepreneur emphasizes that he derives part of his viewing pleasure by making an effort to understand what is being said: ‘If I watch and there are subtitles it is too easy, so I don’t need to think, you know, it all comes down to watching without making an effort. […] So [what I prefer is] watching while trying to understand’.11 Similarly, another respondent argues against the use of subtitles, as it would restrict the meaning of the dialogues. Finally, a Javanese woman argues against subtitles because these would be too formal: ‘If it was [subtitled] it would look very formal, it would not depict daily life. That’s why I believe it would be better not to do it’.12 To understand respondents who are against subtitling even though they cannot understand all that is said, the concept of fuzzy interpretation is once again helpful. For these viewers, a meagre understanding of the language 9

‘Bahasa Indonesia pakai teks bahasa Indonesia, itu aneh. Kecuali bahasa Jawa diterjemahkan ke dalam bahasa Indonesia, itu lumrah.’ Respondent 64. 10 ‘Nggak perlu, nanti malah bingung, nonton sambil baca teks, nggak konsentrasi, kan? Nanti malah jeleh, gitu.’ Respondent 52. 11 ‘Saya kalau nonton ada teksnya terlalu gampang, jadi nggak perlu berpikir gitu kita bisa ngerti, nonton aja nggak ada usaha jadinya. […] Jadi nonton sambil berusaha untuk mengerti.’ Respondent 27. 12 ‘[K]alau dikasih kelihatan formal banget jadi nggak menunjukkan kehidupan sehari-hari. Saya pikir mendingan nggak usah.’ Respondent 68.

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that is spoken in the serial does not have a negative influence on their viewing experience. On the contrary, for them, making an effort to understand, that is, actively producing meaning from the linguistic jumble, contributes to the pleasure of viewing.13 Don’t know Several respondents doubt the need for subtitles. A Balinese hotel employee argues that whereas subtitles would help him to understand the language, it is not necessary if the purpose is mere entertainment. A young Balinese respondent thinks that subtitles would be helpful, if only she could read fast enough. Some Javanese respondents would like to see the difficult Betawi and Javanese words in Si Doel subtitled, but if the whole programme were subtitled they would find it annoying. Yet others are of the opinion that subtitles would certainly be helpful to understand the language, but that through them the special character of Si Doel would be lost. A substantial number of respondents who doubt the need for subtitles argue that they can imagine that people in other areas of Indonesia would appreciate them but that they would not be necessary for them. Though respondents are thus ambivalent about the need to subtitle Si Doel into Standard Indonesian, my research suggests that, particularly in areas further from Jakarta, both culturally as well as geographically, some viewers would appreciate subtitles in the national language. This is in conflict with the idea in broadcasting circles that the sinetron Si Doel is intelligible to viewers throughout Indonesia and therefore does not need to be subtitled. But even if broadcast professionals realized that some Indonesian viewers are in favour of subtitles, this would most likely not be a decisive factor in deciding whether or not to subtitle a particular programme. Subtitling the serial would be mainly to the benefit of viewers who have little experience with Indonesian and/or Betawi Malay, meaning those likely to be living in isolated villages or in areas far from the capital. As these viewers are probably not particularly interesting for the television stations in terms of buying power, subtitling the serial would not be profitable from an economic point of view. Most likely, then, broadcast professionals in Jakarta would dismiss the subject as irrelevant.

13

See Arps 1992 (notably chapters 17, 18, and 19) and Arps (forthcoming) for a similar observation regarding Javanese reading practices.

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Figure 11.3 Respondents in Yogyakarta perform task 1 during the viewing experiment

Table 11.1 Would you appreciate it if Si Doel were subtitled in the national language, bahasa Indonesia? Location

Bali (N=41)

Yogya (N=35)

Jakarta (N=30)

Total respondents per answer

Yes

13

18

16

No

13

14

5

32

2

3

7

12

Don’t know

47

No data*

13

–

2

15

Total respondents per

41

35

30

106

location * For various reasons, including failures of the research team to formulate certain questions correctly and technical problems in retrieving the recorded interviews, data were lacking for some respondents for certain questions. Whenever this was the case, I mentioned the number of the respondent in the ‘no data’ category. A detailed discussion of the processing of the data can be found in Appendix A.

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The language of Si Doel is entertaining My research confirms the assertion in public critical discourse that the language of Si Doel is entertaining for a nationwide audience. All Betawi respondents and long-term residents of Jakarta describe the language as ‘intimate’, ‘everyday language’, and ‘recognizable’. Those respondents who have had little exposure to Betawi Malay in their daily life tend to describe the language as a bit strange yet amusing. As a Jakartan respondent from Aceh, North Sumatra, puts it, ‘The language is rather funny, I suppose, even though I don’t understand it, but it’s funny, isn’t it. There are also [words] that I don’t understand, Betawi Malay [words], but it’s funny, you know’.14 Particularly Mandra is mentioned as being difficult to understand because of his language use. In the words of a Balinese housewife, ‘he just spits his words out, cos cos cos, like that, it’s rather weird how he talks, isn’t it? […] He just talks like plos plos plos, like that, he prattles’.15 Nearly all respondents view the language of Si Doel as being different from language use in mainstream sinetron. Most respondents describe the difference as one of Betawi Malay versus Indonesian. Some do state that Si Doel uses Betawi Malay, while other sinetron use Jakarta Malay. While in general respondents are positive about the language of Si Doel, some Javanese respondents remark that they consider it a bit coarse. The qualification of ‘entertaining’ does not equal ‘easy’. The question of whether viewers consider the language of Si Doel easy or difficult to understand prompts different answers from people with different language backgrounds. Table 11.2 shows that a great majority of the Jakartan respondents classify the language of the sinetron as ‘easy to very easy’, while the remaining eight respondents, most of whom have Javanese as their mother tongue, denote it as ‘rather easy’. In Yogyakarta too the majority of the respondents think of the language of the sinetron as ‘easy or very easy’, while small groups of respondents grade the language as ‘rather easy’, ‘rather difficult’, or ‘difficult to very difficult’. To compare, only three of the forty-one Balinese respondents classify the language of Si Doel as ‘easy to very easy’. Most respondents in this location label the language as either ‘rather easy’ or ‘rather difficult’. Two respondents describe the language of Si Doel as ‘very difficult’, while for five Balinese respondents no data were obtained on this subject. Not surprisingly, these figures prove that the further away from Jakarta they are, both literally and culturally, the less familiar viewers are with the language of the capital and hence with the language of Si Doel. 14

‘[B]ahasa itu rada-rada lucu kali ya, biar nggak ngerti tapi lucu, kan? Ada juga yang nggak ngerti, bahasa Betawi, tapi lucu gitu.’ Respondent 88. 15 ‘[N]gomongnya cos cos cos gitu, aneh-aneh tu bicaranya tu, bahasanya itu, kan? […] Ngomongnya plos plos plos gitu, nyerocos.’ Respondent 34. The word nyerocos, incidentally, is derived from Betawi Malay or Javanese (nrocos).

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Most viewers who admit that they find the language difficult nevertheless state that they can still enjoy it. As a Javanese student phrases it, ‘it seems that the sinetron Si Doel uses for ninety percent Betawi Malay, while adding about ten percent ordinary Indonesian. […] Evidently we more or less have to […] verify the words, “oh, what they mean with this and that is this!” So, it’s […] difficult but pleasant, watching Si Doel is difficult but pleasant’.16 Simultaneously, my data revealed that only few of the many respondents who labelled the language of Si Doel as ‘easy’ or ‘fairly easy’ before the viewing experiment were capable of carrying out the assignments flawlessly. When respondents who had made many ‘mistakes’ during the viewing sessions – meaning that they had been unable to provide adequate translations or fill in the missing words – were asked during the interviews afterwards whether they had had any difficulties in understanding the excerpts, few felt that they had. Instead, most respondents stated that they had had no problem in understanding the dialogues. A Javanese teacher explained that watching the excerpts had not been a burden. He admitted that he had not been able to provide all the answers, but he had just left some blank spaces open and felt very comfortable with it. The discrepancy between viewers’ estimated ability to understand the language of Si Doel before the viewing sessions and their ‘demonstrated ability’ can once again be explained with reference to the concept of fuzzy interpretation. As noted, this concept suggests that viewers construe meaning from as many words as they are able to comprehend. Table 11.2 Is the language of Si Doel easy or difficult for you to understand? Location

Bali (N=41)

Yogya (N=35)

Jakarta (N=30)

Total respondents per

3

26

22

51

Rather easy

17

4

8

29

Rather difficult

17

answer Easy to very easy

14

3

–

Difficult to very difficult

2

2

–

4

No data

5

–

–

5

41

35

30

106

Total respondents per location

‘[S]inetron Si Doel kayaknya sembilan puluh persen mereka pakai bahasa Betawi, yang sepuluh persen mungkin ada tambahan bahasa Indonesia yang biasa. […] Jelas sekali kita sedikit banyak harus […] membenarkan kata-kata, “oh, yang dimaksud dengan ini itu ini!”. Jadi […] susah tapi enak, nonton Si Doel itu susah tapi enak.’ Respondent 60.

16

XI Interpreting the language of Si Doel

303

The language of Si Doel is a reflection of ‘unmediatized’ Betawi Malay The claim of critical Betawi viewers that the language of Si Doel should be a faithful representation of the language used by native speakers of Betawi Malay is not of great interest to ordinary viewers on different locations. Virtually all respondents are aware though that the language used in the serial is Jakarta Malay or Betawi Malay, which is spoken natively by the orang Betawi. Only two respondents were less confident. One of them, a young girl whose native language is Javanese, believes that the language spoken in Si Doel is Indonesian. An elderly Javanese woman describes the language of Si Doel as a mixture of Javanese and Sundanese. The viewing sessions moreover reveal that specific Betawi idioms such as geretan (lighter) and belangsak (miserable) pose more difficulties to respondents from Bali and, to a lesser extent, Yogyakarta, than to Jakartan respondents. In addition, the Balinese respondents are particularly unsure about the meaning of some Betawi terms of address, such as Encang (Uncle), Encing (Aunt), Nyak (Mother), and Babe (Father), terms which are quite familiar for viewers in other locations. Some Javanese and Balinese respondents are also unfamiliar with the pronouns lu (you) and gue (I). Several respondents from the isolated Balinese village Munduk, for instance, have heard of the terms but do not know what they mean. A Javanese housewife believed that both lu and gue are Betawi Malay for the personal pronoun for the first person, while a Javanese becak driver was confident that gue means ‘you’. As expected, respondents seldom noted the misrepresentation of the two major subvarieties Central Betawi Malay and Border Betawi Malay, an issue that was vividly discussed in Betawi circles. As Table 11.3 shows, across locations thirty-one respondents stated that the main Betawi characters in Si Doel speak different language varieties, but only four knew that Babe Sabeni and Mandra speak Central Betawi Malay and Border Betawi Malay, respectively. All four were orang Betawi, and most were elderly. One of them describes the difference, ‘well, Mandra is from the kampong you see, whereas Benyamin is from Kemayoran [a district in the centre of Jakarta], his way of talking is a bit restrained, [meaning that he says] mau ke mane [instead of] mau ke manah, he is from the inner city.’17 The language differences that the remaining respondents perceived are of a different kind. Some viewers observed a difference in language use between the members of the Sabeni family and the language of Hans or Sarah, who are in fact non-Betawi characters. A Javanese schoolboy stated that Babe and Mandra talk with a heavier Betawi accent (medok) than Doel, Sarah, and Zaenab. According to a Javanese transport manager, Benyamin S. uses genu17

‘[K]alo si Mandra kan dari kampung, kalo Benyamin dari Kemayoran kan ngomongnya ketarik sedikit, “mau ke mane”… “mau ke manah”, dari kota dia.’ Respondent 101.

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ine Betawi Malay, whereas Mandra mixes his Betawi Malay with Indonesian. A Jakartan housewife from Aceh also believed that Babe is more fluent in Betawi Malay than Mandra. Considering Mandra’s language use, she even concludes that he is probably not a genuine Betawi. Some respondents phrased differences in the language use of the characters more generally as a matter of style. In doing so, the opposition kasar (course) versus halus (refined) was often mentioned, notably by Javanese respondents. Others remark that some characters use word-final -a, whereas others use word-final -e. One person said that differences in language use in Si Doel were only a matter of intonation. A Balinese woman, finally, believed that Mandra and Nyak Lela speak differently, but she could not explain how. Most respondents did not perceive any language difference, though: thirty-two respondents stated that they understood the Betawi Malay in Si Doel as one language, while thirty-five admitted that they did not know. For eight respondents no data were assembled on this question. This confirms Rano Karno’s claim that, with the exception of some of his Betawi viewers, in general people will not be bothered by the ‘absurd’ Betawi languagescape that he created in Si Doel. Table 11.3 Do the main Betawi characters in Si Doel use different language varieties, or do they all talk the same? Location

Bali (N=41)

Yogya (N=35)

Jakarta (N=30)

Total respondents per answer

Different

8

14

9

31

Same

7

9

16

32

20

12

3

35

6

–

2

8

41

35

30

106

Don’t know No data Total respondents per location

The language of Si Doel is an advertising asset Advertising discourse considers the language of Si Doel as an advertising asset. To test this assumption, I asked respondents whether they had ever heard of the word ngacir, the key word in the Honda-Doel advertising campaign and if so, whether they knew what it meant. The replies of respondents suggest that the language of Si Doel is an advertising asset indeed. As Table 11.4a shows, eighty respondents pointed out that they had heard of the word ngacir. Nearly half of them associate the term directly in one way

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or another with the Honda-Doel commercials, with television in general, or with the sinetron Si Doel. Across locations, eleven respondents spontaneously linked the word with the commercials for Honda motorcycles. Three of them even mentioned uninvitedly the type of motorcycle promoted in this series of advertisements, while a Balinese respondent reproduced the catch phrase of the campaign as tarikannya ngacir (its acceleration is wicked). Three respondents remembered that the term was used in a commercial in which Mandra performed, while four respondents stated that they knew the word from a commercial. Ten respondents said that they knew the term from the sinetron Si Doel, while five respondents pointed out that it was uttered by Mandra or some other Si Doel character. Six respondents related that they know the word from television in general. These data indicate that a substantial number of respondents remembered the word ngacir as being part of the extended languagescape of Si Doel. At least fifteen respondents across locations stated that they learned the word ngacir through the sinetron Si Doel or one of its characters rather than the Honda-Doel campaign. While providing no hard evidence, these data hint at the extent to which the boundary between the Doel commercials and the television serial Si Doel is blurred. A substantial number of respondents did not link (or did not directly link) the word ngacir to Si Doel or the Honda-Doel commercials. As eighteen respondents pointed out, they are familiar with the word from their direct environment. Remarkably, two of them indicated that they had heard the phrase ‘ampe ngacir!’ being used in their direct environment. As a Balinese tourism student phrased it, ‘I have heard of it but I don’t know its meaning. […]. The people here… [I] often hear “ampe ngacir”, but, see, I don’t know its meaning, [but] the people often [talk] like that’. 18 Some respondents who knew the term ngacir from their direct environment still mentioned Si Doel or the Honda/Doel commercials in their comments. A Javanese student, for instance, explained how the word is used in his vicinity: ‘Ngacir, well, [for instance], it’s like friends who want to go to college, [but] they are lazy, and it happens to be the last college [of the day], it’s like “we better skip it, we better run off”, so that resembles Mandra, [so they say] “let’s go!”’.19 Three respondents did not know where they had first encountered the word, while for seventeen respondents no or no reliable data were assembled. Again, my data suggest that knowing a word does not imply understanding it. Indeed, some respondents who claimed to know the word do not have a clue as to its semantic value. A Balinese waitress, who herself knows the 18

‘Pernah denger tapi nggak tahu artinya. […] Orang di sini… sering denger “ampe ngacir” tapi nggak tahu artinya lho, sering orang gitu.’ Respondent 22. 19 ‘Ngacir, ya itu temen itu ya mungkin ceritanya dia pingin kuliah, dia malas, kebetulan itu kuliah terakhir, “mending nggak usah mending ngacir aja”, dia ngomong gitu, jadi mirip-mirip kayak itu si Mandra, “pergi aja deh”.’ Respondent 60.

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Watching Si Doel

word’s general meaning, makes a similar observation: ‘Many people [here] actually use ngacir. That is Betawi Malay, ngacir. Whereas in fact [those people] don’t know what it means’. Her explanation for the fact that people use a word that they don’t understand is that ‘it probably makes them happy’.20 Twelve respondents who knew ngacir through television in general, through Si Doel, or through some television commercial also admitted that they did not know what it means. The remaining twenty-seven respondents apparently apply the strategy of fuzzy interpretation to produce a satisfactory meaning, while for one respondent no data were obtained on this issue. As a Jakartan woman from Aceh, who said she knows the word ngacir from the sinetron Si Doel, explained, ‘I guess I don’t really know what ngacir means, but looking at [the pictures], it must be something like running or moving’.21 Using a similar strategy, a Jakartan contractor of Javanese origins arrived at a slightly different interpretation: ‘At the time, right, there was this […] commercial for Honda Astrea motor cycles, right, [which used] ngacir, like that… so one might say that it [means] nice or exciting, something that makes you feel nice or excited, exciting, like that’.22 Using fuzzy interpretation or tapping from their general knowledge, a substantial number of viewers from Bali and Yogyakarta arrived at meanings for ngacir that are far removed from its original connotation. Among them are small (kecil), very (banget), embarrassed (malu), to fancy (naksir), and to stroll (ngeceng). A Javanese becak driver explains that the word has different meanings, depending on the context in which it is used: ‘One may divide ngacir into different kinds. In fights, ngacir means loosing. Used by Doel and Mandra when discussing a motorcycle, it means that this motor runs fast’.23 According to a Javanese woman, who believes that the word was used by Mandra in the sinetron Si Doel, ngacir is a modest curse (umpatan halus). Similarly, a Javanese becak driver refused to explain the meaning of ngacir because he considered it too coarse. An elderly Jakartan housewife was confident that the word ngacir has no real meaning, and was convinced that it is fictive language (bahasa main-main) made up by Mandra. Most respondents who said that they knew the word ngacir did produce a meaning in accordance with its general connotation, namely ‘[to run] fast or smoothly; to leave without notice’. One Javanese respondent and two Jakartan 20

‘Banyak orang juga pake “ngacir”. Bahasa Betawi itu, “ngacir”. Padahal sebenarnya dia nggak tau apa artinya. […] [pakai kata itu] bikin dia happy mungkin.’ Respondent 16. 21 ‘Ngacir itu kayaknya nggak begitu tau tapi kalau diperhatikan itu ngacir kan lari atau jalan.’ Respondent 86. 22 ‘[W]aktu itu kan ada reklame motor Honda Astrea ya, ya kan “ngacir”, gitu… bisa saja dibilang enak atau asyik, sesuatu yang menyenangkan, sesuatu yang mengasyikkan, asyik, gitu.’ Respondent 95. 23 ‘Ngacir punika dibagi berbagai macam. Berantem niku ngacir kalah. Nek dalam perkataan si Doel dan Mandra istilahé montor, montor punika istilahé mlayuné banter.’ Respondent 64.

XI Interpreting the language of Si Doel

307

respondents, who claimed to know the word from the Honda-Doel campaign and commercials in general, stated that ngacir meant ‘to speed’ (ngebut). This interpretation supports my hypothesis that combining the ambivalent word ngacir with visuals that implicitly support one particular interpretation may subtly mislead its audience and hence potential consumers. Table 11.4a Have you ever heard of the word ngacir? Location

Bali (N=41)

Yogya (N=35)

Jakarta (N=30)

Total respondents per answer

Yes

24

30

26

80

No

7

5

3

15

No data

10

–

1

11

Total respondents per

41

35

30

106

location

Table 11.4b If you know the word ngacir, where do you know it from? Location

Bali (N=24)

Yogya (N =30)

Jakarta (N=26)

Total respondents per answer

Honda commercial

2

5

4

11

Mandra commercial

1

2

–

3

Commercial

–

1

3

4

Sinetron Si Doel

1

5

4

10

Mandra or other

1

2

2

5

Si Doel characters Television

2

2

2

6

Direct environment*

8

4

8

20

Other Don’t know**

1 –

– 1

– 2

1 3

No data

8

8

1

17

24

30

26

80

Total respondents per location *

Respondents were mentioned in this category when they indicated that they themselves or people in their direct environment, such as friends, relatives, or people in their neighbourhood, used the word ngacir.

** Most respondents mentioned in this category stated that they ‘just knew’ the word. Although it is likely that they had heard the word in their direct environment, they did not say so explicitly.

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308

Table 11.4c If you know the word ngacir, do you know what it means? Location

Bali (N=24)

Yogya (N=30)

Jakarta (N=26)

Total respondents per answer

[To run] fast/smoothly; to

14

18

20

52

3

6

1

10

leave without giving notice Other Don’t know

7

6

4

17

No data

–

–

1

1

24

30

26

80

Total respondents per location



Figure 11.4 Children and respondents in Jakarta watch the excerpts of Si Doel attentively

XI Interpreting the language of Si Doel

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The language of Si Doel threatens the development of the national language The influence of Jakarta Malay on the national language Ordinary viewers do not generally share the anxiety of linguists and other reflective language users that the proliferation of Jakarta Malay on national television through serials like Si Doel might harm the development of the national language. Table 11.5a demonstrates that across locations, a majority of fifty-nine respondents rejected this assumption. Eighteen respondents agreed with it, while nineteen respondents neither disagreed nor agreed or, as a Javanese becak driver phrased it, ‘don’t dare’ (nggak berani) to comment upon the issue. For eleven respondents, no data were obtained on this question. Most respondents who disagreed with the hypothesis stated that nonBetawi viewers of Si Doel knew that Betawi Malay is not their language. They explained that using Betawi Malay is a habit for the Betawi community, which they have inherited from their ancestors. The use of Betawi Malay in Si Doel is therefore logical and cannot be said to exert a negative impact. Rather, it should be honoured as being part of Indonesia’s national culture. As one of them phrased it: I am convinced that it will not damage [the national language], because people will automatically be aware that that is the language of the Betawi, [and] why should we use it if we are not orang Betawi? […] People are impressed when they watch this [television programme], like, “that’s Betawi, that’s Betawi Malay”, but after watching, we return to [our own languages]. You know why? Because if it doesn’t feel appropriate to use Betawi Malay […] I will not try it, the viewer will not try it.’24

Others argued that the proliferation of Betawi Malay on national television through such serials would not have a negative impact on the development of the national language because Si Doel is an art form or an entertainment form; because viewers know in which situations they are supposed to use formal Indonesian; or, interestingly, because the two languages are very much alike. A Balinese respondent believed that most people will only imitate the language of film and television ‘for fun’. This, he stated, will not harm the development of the national language. Two Javanese respondents believe that sinetron in general have little impact on language development in society at large. Finally, 24

‘Saya yakin itu tidak merusak karena orang itu akan sadar sendiri bahwa bahasa itu adalah bahasa orang Betawi, kenapa mesti kita pake kalo kita bukan orang Betawi? […] Orang itu terkesan pada waktu nonton film, “oh iya Betawi, bahasa Betawi”, tapi setelah nonton itu ya kita kembali lagi [ke bahasa kita masing-masing]. Karena apa? Kalo kita tidak pantas menggunakan bahasa Betawi […] saya tidak akan mencoba, si penonton itu tidak akan mencoba.’ Respondent 95.

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Watching Si Doel

a Balinese and a Javanese respondent argued that all languages are equal, and that one language can therefore not be accused of damaging the other. As noted, eighteen respondents agreed with the hypothesis that language use in television serials like Si Doel might have a negative effect on the development of the national language. Three argued that this serial is watched throughout Indonesia and might seduce viewers to imitate its language use. If many viewers did so, this imitative behaviour might have a negative influence on the development of bahasa Indonesia yang baik dan benar. Five respondents gave examples of changes in Indonesian that they attribute to this process. Some argued that the proliferation of Jakarta Malay has led to vowel changes in Indonesian. A Javanese pensioner observed, for instance, that the Indonesian word dapat (to get) is nowadays often pronounced as dapet.25 Others note the tendency to shorten word forms, and the dissemination of the personal pronouns lu (you) and gue (I) throughout Indonesia. A Javanese student remarked that one cannot blame television exclusively for this development: ‘I think it is not only because of Si Doel, but Jakarta Malay in itself has already damaged Indonesian. So the presence of Si Doel and its popularity will increasingly stimulate this movement away from using correct language’.26 Nineteen respondents either found it difficult to answer this question, or they felt uncomfortable giving their opinion on the subject. One respondent probably spoke for many when she clearly dismissed the question as irrelevant: ‘Do I agree or do I disagree, well, what’s it gonna be, I don’t know. [The main thing is that] if [the serial] didn’t use Betawi Malay, it probably wouldn’t be funny, right’.27 A Betawi housewife is of a similar opinion: ‘Dunno, such things I don’t know. But I like the way they talk’.28 Who uses Jakarta Malay and why? When asked whether they themselves ever used Jakarta Malay in their daily life, nearly half of all respondents stated that they did, against a majority of fifty-nine respondents who stated that they did not. For five respondents no data were obtained on this question. As Table 11.5b demonstrates, outside of Jakarta most respondents stated that they did not use Jakarta Malay. A substantial number of respondents, mostly but not exclusively people in their twenties or thirties, acknowledged that they 25

‘Punika tetembungan rumiyin “dapat” saniki “dapet”.’ Respondent 54. ‘Saya kira bukan cuma dari Si Doel tapi bahasa Jakarta sendiri sudah merusak bahasa Indonesia. Jadi dengan adanya Si Doel dan populernya Si Doel itu akan semakin mendorong melencengnya dari bahasa yang benar itu.’ Respondent 47. 27 ‘Setuju nggak setuju, gimana, ya, nggak tahu. [Pokoknya] kalau nggak ada Betawinya nggak lucu kali, ya.’ Respondent 88. 28 ‘Tau dah, kalau itu saya kurang tau, kalau itu. Tapi saya seneng ngomongnya dia.’ Respondent 105. 26

XI Interpreting the language of Si Doel

311

did. Some of them, notably Balinese and Yogyanese, modified their answer by saying that they only use this language in conversations with orang Betawi, at work, when joking, or at school. A Javanese student stated that he only uses Jakarta Malay when making an action (pas gaya-gaya aja), while a Balinese primary school teacher in his late fifties explained that he only employs this language when meeting an old friend. A Balinese high school student commented: ‘Maybe I use it with friends, I imitate words from [television] films, just for fun. With friends that’s no problem, right. We meet on the road, “hey, where are you (lu) going?”, just like that’.29 Incidentally, most of the Jakartan respondents who stated that they never used Jakarta Malay have Javanese as their daily language; none of them are native inhabitants of Jakarta. While the majority of respondents thus stated that they never use Jakarta Malay, it is remarkable that most of them interspersed their interviews with Jakarta Malay phrases even in non-Jakartan locations. It is for instance revealing that, when asked whether they themselves ever use the language, a substantial number of respondents answered negatively in Jakarta Malay with phrases like kayaknya sih nggak (I suppose I don’t). Other examples are the use of the negative particle nggak (no) rather than Standard Indonesian tidak, which is used by virtually all respondents except for some Balinese. There is also the frequent occurrence of Jakarta Malay particles such as sih, deh, and dong. Respondents moreover interlarded their Indonesian with grammatical constructions that are most likely derived from Jakarta Malay, such as the use of suffix -an for the comparative degree where Standard Indonesian has a construction with lebih. In addition, they frequently chose a verb form with the prefix N- or nge- and affix -in. Some respondents recognized in the course of the interview that they did in fact use elements of Jakarta Malay in their day-to-day conversations. For instance, an Acehnese woman who had been living for some time in Jakarta and who first claimed to speak Indonesian only, suddenly realized that at times she too uses Jakarta Malay: ‘But sometimes to my children, without being aware of it, I just blurt it out. […] Without being aware of it I also use “what are you doing?” (lu ngapain?)’.30 Most respondents, those who claimed to use Jakarta Malay themselves as well as those who claimed the contrary, can give examples of people in their direct environment who use Jakarta Malay. The question of why they themselves or people outside Jakarta use Jakarta Malay generated a variety of answers across locations. Some respondents believed that it is some sort of nostalgia for the capital city that causes people who have lived in Jakarta to keep using Jakarta Malay, even when they have already left Jakarta. A Balinese farmer and a Balinese student thought that 29

‘Mungkin saya pakai sama teman, meniru-niru kata-kata di film untuk main-main aja. Sama temen kan nggak apa-apa. Ketemu di jalan, “e, mau ke mana lu?”, gitu aja.’ Respondent 38. 30 ‘[T]api kadang sama anak saya, nggak terasa nyeplos aja. […] Nggak terasa ada juga “lu ngapain?”.’ Respondent 86.

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Watching Si Doel

non-native speakers merely use this language variety for fun. Others point to the impact of the frequent use of Jakarta Malay in the mass media, notably television, while a Balinese schoolgirl knew that at her school this language was used in fights to mislead one’s opponent. Twenty-eight respondents across locations argued that people use Jakarta Malay because they consider the language trendy or modern. As a Balinese waitress, who frequently uses Jakarta Malay herself, phrased it: ‘Because I like it, you know, I guess it’s, well, this is what’s in these days’.31 Similarly, a Balinese businessman concludes that ‘not using it feels like you’re missing out on something, so what do you do, well you just go along with it’.32 A Javanese student is of the same opinion and observes that ‘in general, Indonesians, notably the younger generation, are very scared of being told to be behind the times (ketinggalan jaman). […] This means that they have to follow what is trendy, they don’t dare to be different from the others’.33 Some respondents were less positive about the use of Jakarta Malay, associating it with people who want to brag. A Javanese woman even believed that, for instance, villagers who have worked in Jakarta would be laughed at if upon return to their village they insist on using Jakarta Malay. Other respondents, mostly residents of Jakarta, noted that most people talk in Jakarta Malay because it is very easy. As the only non-Jakartan respondent among them, a Balinese student who lives in Yogyakarta and uses Jakarta Malay himself, phrased it: ‘It just feels good, it’s easy to pronounce, I guess all people already know Betawi Malay, right, lu and gue have already been popularized’.34 Finally, a restricted number of respondents thought that people use Jakarta Malay because it is funny and intimate. One of them remarked that he likes to hear people talking in Jakarta Malay unless it is clearly not their regular language, in which case it sounds fabricated. A Betawi woman believed that it is simply ‘the nicest feeling to say lu, gue and stuff’.35 Her neighbour described the attraction of Betawi Malay over Indonesian as follows: ‘The way in which we can say, “no, I don’t want to, really” (ah, gue nggak mau, ah), actually Indonesian doesn’t have words similar to those, one has to talk like this and that. But in our language, no one cares, I can use whatever language I like. It seems our language is indeed rather free’.36 31

‘Habis suka sih, kayaknya gini, namanya juga jaman.’ Respondent 16. ‘Rasanya nggak pake itu kurang, ngapain sih, ya ikut-ikutan.’ Respondent 17. 33 ‘Secara umum orang Indonesia terutama generasi mudanya itu sangat takut dikatakan ketinggalan jaman. […] Artinya mereka harus ikut apa yang ngetren, mereka nggak berani beda dengan yang lain.’ Respondent 47. 34 ‘[E]nak aja sih diucapkan simpel lagi mudah, kayaknya semua orang udah pada ngerti bahasa Betawi lu sama gue kan udah merakyat.’ Respondent 73. 35 ‘[P]aling enak ngomong “lu gue”, gitu.’ Respondent 102. 36 ‘Kayak kita bilang, “ah gue nggak mau ah”, sebenarnya bahasa Indonesia nggak ada katakata kayak gitu, ngomong harus begini begini. Tapi kalo bahasa kita ah sebodo amat, gue mau pake bahasa apa kek. Kayaknya bahasa kita memang agak bebas.’ Respondent 104. 32

XI Interpreting the language of Si Doel

313

Although I have not thoroughly examined the extent to which the participants in my reception research use Jakarta Malay in daily life, my data at least suggest that Indonesians in various places outside Jakarta incorporate elements of Jakarta Malay into their daily language, consciously and unconsciously. The data also reveal that one does not only encounter Jakarta Malay in the large cities: by the end of the twentieth century, even in more isolated areas of the archipelago people display features of Jakarta Malay when using the national language. These conclusions support the hypothesis of Muhadjir and others, that Jakarta Malay is indeed developing into the spoken variety of Standard Indonesian. Table 11.5a Do you think that language use in television serials such as Si Doel might have a negative effect on the development of Standard Indonesian? Location

Bali (N=41)

Yogya

Jakarta (N=30)

(N=35)

Total respondents per answer

Yes

3

10

5

18

No

21

20

18

59

Don’t know

9

4

4

17

No data

8

1

3

12

41

35

30

106

Total respondents per location

Table 11.5b Do you yourself ever use Jakarta Malay in your daily communications? Location

Bali (N=41)

Yogya (N=35)

Jakarta (N=30)

Total respondents per answer

Yes

13

11

18

42

No

25

23

11

59

3

1

1

5

41

35

30

106

No data Total respondents per location

Making meaning: Towards an understanding of the reception of television language Many studies on television reception emphasize that television programmes may mean different things to its different audiences (Ang 1985, Fiske 1987, Gillespie 1995, Qureshi and Moores 2000). While some theorists underline

314

Watching Si Doel

the ability of television viewers to actively and creatively construct meaning out of a television programme, others stress the structural limitations, be they of a financial or cultural nature, which viewers encounter as a result of their position in society (Moores 1993:116). Shaun Moores (1993:116) describes the different theoretical positions in terms of an opposition between ‘creativity’ and ‘constraint’. Most scholars agree, however, that viewers do not simply ‘decode’ the television programme according to the ‘codes’ set by the television maker. Rather, it is assumed that while textual characteristics restrict semiosis, viewers in particular contexts at particular moments actively read meaning into the television text. The results of the reception research outlined in this chapter suggest that viewers are not only resourceful in creating meaning out of the story that a certain television programme presents. Similarly, but with quite a different outcome, viewers are also creative in dealing with the language that a programme employs. Viewers who have no or a restricted knowledge of the language used in Si Doel try to make it meaningful by understanding as many words as they can and combining this information with other interpretative resources, such as the context in which certain words are uttered or visual clues. The strategies that audiences employ when interpreting the language of Si Doel emphasize that it is important to acknowledge the multimodality and the multimediality of the medium of television. The concept of fuzzy interpretation is also useful to understand how the aural/oral and the visual, the spoken and the written, and the verbal and the non-verbal interact. My research suggests, for instance, that whereas interpretative resources such as visual clues may help viewers to arrive at a certain interpretation of what is being said, this interpretation will not necessarily concur with the meaning that native speakers of that language would assign to it. In addition, as the numerous interpretations of ngacir demonstrate, visual clues can sometimes be misleading. As fuzzy interpretation suffices for the majority of the television audience, most viewers will feel satisfied anyway if they are able to understand the thrust of what is being said – or at least if they believe they do. Media researchers, most notably Fiske (1987) laud the relative freedom of actual audiences to read meaning into a television programme. When viewers exercise this same freedom to read ‘random’ meaning into the language of a particular programme, a language of which they are not native speakers, however, the case is altogether different. Such interpretations of television language are particularly fascinating if the language is supported by a community of native speakers in society at large (as it mostly will be). Despite the fact that semiosis is restricted by various factors, such as the context in which certain words are uttered and the sound- and imagescape that accompanies

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315

those utterances, viewers generate meanings that at times are far removed from the interpretations that are most common among native speakers. My research indicates that viewers of different language backgrounds do indeed read different meanings into the languagescape of Si Doel. It also shows that most viewers pick up some Betawi Malay (both vocabulary and grammatical constructions) through television. Many respondents admit that at times they use – or ‘imitate’ as some call it – elements of this language in their daily conversations. All of this suggests that programmes like Si Doel do play a role in the dissemination of Betawi Malay and the development of bahasa Indonesia. One can imagine that if throughout the archipelago millions of viewers freely interpreted the language of Si Doel and similar programmes for a considerable amount of time, this might affect the ‘unmediatized’ development of the two languages. Though processes of language dissemination and language change naturally depend on a range of other factors too, among them the prestige associated with a certain language variety (Wardhaugh 1998:207), programmes such as Si Doel, which have a large scope and enjoy nationwide popularity, at least expose non-native speakers of Betawi Malay to a language variety that they might not have encountered otherwise. The data obtained through the reception research only partly support the knowledge that professional viewers hold about the viewing practices of actual audiences. While broadcasting professionals in Jakarta assume that viewers throughout Indonesia are able to understand the language used in Si Doel and will not appreciate subtitles in Standard Indonesian, my data suggest that a substantial number of viewers, particularly those living in areas that are culturally and geographically removed from Jakarta, have little understanding of the precise text that is being uttered in the sinetron. Whereas some of these respondents for various reasons are not in favour of subtitles, others would appreciate a translation in the national language. From an industry perspective, however, such preferences of non-monitored audiences hold hardly any interest. My results also demonstrate that ordinary viewers hardly notice some aspects of the sinetron that are vividly debated in professional circles. The correct representation of Betawi Malay in the serial, which is a hot issue in Betawi discourse, appears to be insignificant to the majority of viewers participating in my research. On the other hand, the enthusiasm for the language of Si Doel as displayed in public critical discourse is upheld in ordinary viewers’ discourse. While most viewers do not share the anxiety of linguists that Jakarta Malay transforms the national language, the popularity of advertising key words such as ngacir among Jakartan, Javanese, and Balinese viewers, and the familiarity of many viewers across locations with this language indicate that Jakarta Malay is a potent force in the Indonesian languagescape.

316

Watching Si Doel

The discussions on subtitles and the key word ngacir once again illustrates the unequal distribution of power between those who produce television and those who watch it. Most importantly, the reception research sheds some light on the strategies that television audiences employ in their appropriation of television language. It proves that even for viewers who do not understand exactly what is being said – and for some viewers, precisely because they do not understand exactly what is being said – watching television can be a pleasant and meaningful experience.

CHAPTER XII

Si Doel and beyond In their exploration of the role of national television or, as they call it, the ‘national televisual project’ in New Order Indonesia, Sen and Hill (2000:116) conclude that the medium has been primarily employed ‘to extend Jakarta’s voice and vision to the far corners of Indonesia and beyond’. Taking the term Jakarta to allude to the Indonesian government and its political aspirations, Sen and Hill argue that subsequent Indonesian governments have considered the medium a political instrument rather than a form of entertainment. This book, in contrast, centred on the ‘voice of Jakarta’ (or rather, voices) in a literal rather than a metaphorical sense. Focusing on the leisure function of television rather than its political content, it explored the language of the television hit serial Si Doel anak sekolahan and the discourses surrounding it. Si Doel reflected the voices of Jakarta in different ways. For one, the serial portrayed the language and culture of the orang Betawi, the native inhabitants of Jakarta. While this sinetron was not the first Indonesian television programme that represented the Betawi community, it was among the first domestic sinetron that conveyed a story with a distinctive cultural background and was aired by a commercial broadcaster. It was also one of the few sinetron rooted in a specific locality which nonetheless appealed to a nationwide audience. For those reasons, it was considered a landmark event in the development of Indonesian television. One reason why Si Doel attracted the attention of viewers throughout the archipelago was that the serial depicted ‘ordinary’ people. In the mid 1990s, when Si Doel was launched, most mainstream sinetron portrayed the hurlyburly of big-city, upper-class people. Si Doel, in contrast, depicted the daily struggle of an ordinary Indonesian family in a kampong at the fringes of Jakarta. While the characters in mainstream sinetron generally had to put up with the high drama of kidnappings, major disasters, and revenge, the Si Doel characters struggled with down-to-earth problems such as financial insecurity, unemployment, corruption, and nepotism. Whereas the main character in the typical mainstream sinetron might be faced with the evil conspiracies of a jealous rival, the main characters in Si Doel worried about the impact of the krismon on their daily lives. Though mainstream sinetron enjoyed and

318

Watching Si Doel

still enjoy great popularity among Indonesian viewers, the nationwide success of Si Doel proved that viewers also appreciated a story that revolved around the underprivileged segment of Indonesian society. At least the serial showed that alternatives to the usual sinetron format were imaginable. Si Doel was partially successful because it gave voice to ordinary people rather than the urban elite. An equally important success factor, as argued throughout this book, was its language use. Both in public discourse and in personal communications, viewers mentioned the ‘natural’, ‘spontaneous’, and ‘funny’ dialogues of the characters as a reason for liking the serial. My reception research in Jakarta, Yogyakarta, and Bali confirmed that viewers across the country appreciated Si Doel among others for these reasons. Some informants acknowledged that both literally and figuratively, the serial spoke their language. There were viewers though who indicated that they did not understand the language (entirely or partially) and yet liked the serial. Whereas the language used in Si Doel was a key to its success, then, to some viewers its semantic value was of no importance at all. The language of Si Doel was a prominent theme among professional viewers as well. While Betawi critics and advertising professionals may have had little in common when evaluating the serial, at least they shared an interest in its language use. The language of Si Doel was approached differently in the various discursive environments though. The broadcasting world approved of the language of the sinetron because it was believed to be intelligible to Indonesia’s multilingual audience. The language of Si Doel was not merely tolerated but rather exploited as a broadcasting asset. An example is the Sunsilk Quiz, which instructed its quiz host to use Betawi Malay to create an atmosphere that suited the Betawi ambiance of the serial it accompanied. While broadcasters valued the language of Si Doel for its money-making possibilities, it was the advertising industry that expanded this principle. Advertising professionals appreciated the language of Si Doel for its ability to attract and maintain the audience’s attention. Noting the popularity of media products in Betawi Malay, advertising professionals used this language in their campaigns in an effort to impress viewers with the products on offer. And so when advertising agencies started producing commercials that parasitized upon Si Doel, they retained its language as an important advertising asset. In the case of the Honda-Doel commercials, for instance, the Betawi Malay key word ngacir was introduced, and the success of the advertising campaign was partly attributed to this word. Naturally, not all praise and criticism for the language of Si Doel was expressed in terms of financial gain. Television critics and other viewers introduced the category of pleasure to the debate, praising the language of Si Doel for its ability to entertain. While still employing an economic vocabulary, filmmaker and media critic Garin Nugroho considered the language of Si

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319

Doel its major ‘asset’ for its ability to make viewers laugh and for its liberating potential: Because Betawi Malay, well, […] it is not an allusive language […] it is not refined And the community is in need of such localness. You see, […] when we as nonBetawi watch Betawi people talking, we laugh twice. First, we laugh because it is comical. But we also laugh because the structure of Betawi Malay […] allows for jumps that we will never make or hear in Javanese, for instance, or in Indonesian. You can talk as you please, without hierarchical levels. […] That is liberating, you see. […] And because its roots happen to be Indonesian, that is to say Malay, a very large part of society can enjoy it.1

Critical Betawi viewers adopted a more serious tone in the debate. It was in Betawi discourse that the language of the characters was scrutinized and criticized in detail. While generally content with the exposure of Betawi culture on television and pleased with language use in the sinetron as a whole, Betawi critics at times denounced the language of Si Doel for its lack of accuracy. The most cautious treatment of language use in Si Doel is found in sociolinguistic discourse. Linguists and other reflective language users are ambivalent towards language use in the serial. On the one hand they agree with the use of Betawi Malay, because it supports the local character of the programme. But at the same time they warn against the potentially disruptive impact that the proliferation of Jakarta Malay in the media may exercise on the development of the national language. Si Doel became a television hit partly because it revolved around ordinary people who talked to each other in ordinary language. Other factors that contributed to the serial’s popularity were its presumed ‘Indonesian-ness’, the quality of the cast, the aura of sincerity and religiosity surrounding the persona of producer and director Rano Karno, his life-long experience as an entertainer, and the timing of Karnos Film and RCTI. Incidentally, Rano Karno himself explained the success of Si Doel first and foremost as a gift of Allah. 1

‘Karena bahasa Betawi tu kan […] dia tidak pasemon […] tidak penghalusan. Dan kelokalan yang seperti itu diperlukan oleh masyarakat. Kita kan […] kalau di luar orang Betawi menonton orang Betawi ngomong itu kita tertawa dua kali. Pertama, tertawa karena comic-nya. Tapi juga tertawa karena […] di dalam struktur bahasa Betawi […] terjadi lompatan yang nggak pernah kita alami dalam bahasa Jawa, misalnya, atau dalam bahasa Indonesia. Ngomong seenaknya, tanpa peringkat hirarkis. […] Itu kan pelepasan. […] Dan kebetulan karena dia akarnya bahasa Indonesia, artinya Melayu maka dia bisa dinikmati oleh lapisan masyarakat yang besar sekali.’ Interview with Garin Nugroho, 9 June 2000.

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The languagescape of Si Doel Language use in Si Doel reflects to a considerable extent the languagescape of Indonesia’s capital Jakarta. For one, the different ethnic and cultural backgrounds of the characters are underscored by their ways of talking, which reveal their native languages. In addition, the discourse of the characters displays several features of ‘unmediatized’ discourse: the direct, face-to-face, and unpremeditated discourse practices that dominate day-to-day interactions, and which obey to certain spoken and unspoken rules. While the language of television can never be an accurate reflection of face-to-face conversations, the language of Si Doel at least succeeded in creating the ‘illusion of reality’ that viewers tend to enjoy. Its multimodality and multimediality, however, set television language apart from unmediatized discourse. While the languagescape of Si Doel features a range of languages – among them the regional languages Javanese and Sundanese, and the foreign languages English and Chinese – the serial was most noted for its use of Betawi Malay. Viewers of the sinetron were not only exposed to Betawi Malay through the direct speech of the main characters (the ‘linguistic diegetic soundscape’). More subtly perhaps, they were also addressed in this language variety through other discursive channels like subtitles, credit titles, and other graphics (the linguistic semi-diegetic imagescape’ and ‘linguistic non-diegetic imagescape’). Both the soundscape and the imagescape belong to the languagescape proper of the sinetron. Betawi Malay is however also used in the secondary texts that Si Doel generated, and which were produced through the mechanisms of extended mediatization (the tendency of the media to recycle previous media messages) and discursive elaboration. The extended mediatization of Si Doel began with the 1932 Balai Pustaka book Child of Betawi. This children’s story formed the basis for several media manifestations of the semi-fictional character Doel, among them the sinetron Si Doel. After Si Doel had become successful, the sinetron became material for extended mediatization itself, generating a number of new media manifestations. The extended mediatization of Si Doel not only resulted in a recycling of characters and plot: significantly, the language of the serial was recycled as well. In its totality, this recycled language makes up the ‘extended languagescape’ of Si Doel. An example of a single word belonging to this extended languagescape is ngacir, the keyword in the Honda-Doel advertising campaign. But the extended languagescape also comprises the Betawi Malay ‘act’ of the host of the Sunsilk telequiz that accompanied the screening of Si Doel 4. It also contains the language ‘errors’ that television critics make when they mistakenly quote the character Mandra in Central Betawi Malay rather than Border

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Betawi Malay. Some of these ‘misrepresentations’ of Betawi Malay were noted by orang Betawi and other experts on Betawi language. It was also these people who drew attention to inaccuracies in the languagescape proper of the sinetron, such as the ‘incorrect’ use of the terms of address for Uncle or Aunt (Encang and Encing), and the erroneous representation of the major subvarieties of Betawi Malay. Partly to prevent such misrepresentations and partly in response to them, certain correction mechanisms were activated; for despite the verisimilitude of the languagescape of Si Doel, some ‘noise’ can be detected. With respect to the languagescape proper, various types of noise were produced during the three stages of the production process. During the phase of pre-production, Karnos Film tried to create realistic language by writing scripts that contained dialogues explicitly tailored to the characters meant to perform them. Scriptwriters made some language errors, however, as they also had to write the dialogues of the characters that spoke another language than they did. During the actual shoots, the misrepresentation of Betawi Malay was caused by the fact that actors whose native language was not Betawi Malay had to perform the dialogues of the Betawi Malay characters. This noise was partly undone by the native speakers present during the shoots who tended to correct the non-native actors if and when necessary. During the phase of post-production, finally, a non-Betawi editor produced Betawi Malay subtitles; this noise remained unfiltered. The ‘misrepresentation’ of Betawi Malay in Si Doel was ‘corrected’ in writings or speech (for instance during symposia on Betawi culture) and in the audiovisual media. An example of the latter is the sinetron Mat Angin, which aimed to set straight the ‘inappropriate’ use of the terms of address Encang and Encing in Si Doel. In addition, the ethnic radio station Bens Radio tried to counterbalance misrepresentations of Betawi Malay by using this language carefully in its programmes. Native speakers of Betawi Malay viewed the use of their language in the media with mixed feelings. They welcomed the fact that Si Doel contributed to the popularization of Betawi Malay by introducing this language variety to an audience that might never have encountered it otherwise. At the same time, they were concerned that the kind of Betawi Malay that is popularized through this and similar television serials would aggravate existing ideas about this language that are wrong but widespread. In addition, native speakers noted that the extensive use in the media of Betawi Malay and other varieties of Jakarta Malay might lead to a further blurring of the formerly distinct subvarieties Central Betawi Malay and Border Betawi Malay. While non-Betawi television viewers are increasingly exposed to Jakarta/ Betawi Malay, some elderly Betawi complain that their children are not interested in learning their native language, as they consider it boorish or

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kampungan. The position of Betawi Malay in contemporary Indonesia is delicate, then, to say the least. Most orang Betawi take pride in their Betawi identity and use this language unadulterated as a means to express and confirm their identity. For others, notably younger Betawi or members of other ethnic groups, using Betawi Malay exclusively is considered kampungan. Conversely, if speakers employ Standard Indonesian in all situations, their language use may be judged as stiff and unnatural. Using the exact mixture of Betawi Malay and the national language may earn the speaker the predicate of trendy or modern. Mediating Jakarta Malay In sum, both the television serial Si Doel proper and the secondary texts that it produced are vehicles of Betawi Malay – though sometimes a corrupted form of the language, according to some. At the same time other varieties of Jakarta Malay, these being Spoken Jakarta Indonesian and Jakarta Malay in its narrow sense, also proliferated in other television programmes. These language varieties are for instance used in mainstream sinetron and in the dubbed dialogues of foreign television programmes aired on national television in the 1990s. That Jakarta Malay is abundantly used in television formats that require an informal kind of speech, such as sinetron and talk shows, is not that surprising. More remarkable however is that the more ‘serious’ programme formats, such as the evening news, increasingly feature this language variety too. News broadcasts for instance use Jakarta Malay in their eyewitness accounts of ‘ordinary’ people, and include interviews with government officials who use Jakarta Malay or Spoken Jakarta Indonesian rather than Standard Indonesian to communicate their messages more effectively. The generous use of Jakarta Malay on national television in late New Order Indonesia is paradoxical, since the medium was at first successfully used to promote the national language. While television helped disseminate the national language during its first three decades, over the years, and notably after the introduction of commercial television, it increasingly contributed to popularizing Jakarta Malay, for example through serials such as Si Doel. While Si Doel has contributed to the popularization of Jakarta Malay, obviously this language variety has not been disseminated by that television serial alone. Far from that, processes of dissemination have been going on for decades and through several means. Jakarta Malay became increasingly known outside Jakarta through incessant flows of migration to and from the capital, notably after the declaration of Independence in 1945 (Abeyasekere 1989). The language was also used and thereby popularized by other media, such as newspapers, radio, and films, even books and theatre performances

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(Grijns 1991, Ikranagara 1988, Steinhauer 1980). In the course of various decades, Jakarta Malay was mediatized through numerous cultural and literary artefacts. These include the 1932 Balai Pustaka book Child of Betawi; the newspaper columns of Firman Muntaco and the novels by S.M. Ardan which appeared in the 1960s; the Betawi theatre performances staged in Taman Ismail Marzuki in the 1970s; the 1970s and 1980s films and pop songs by Benyamin S.; and the programmes of the ethnic radio station Bens Radio in the 1990s. Whereas these unmediatized and mediatized vehicles have contributed and are still contributing to the spread of Jakarta Malay, national television, notably after the advent of the commercial broadcasting system, has provided Jakarta Malay with a multitude of channels – both in the sense of television channels and in the sense of discursive channels – by means of which to reach a nationwide community of speakers. Though Si Doel has contributed to the popularization of Jakarta Malay, this serial was not the first and only vehicle of Jakarta Malay on national television. On the contrary, other domestic programmes that were set in a Betawi background preceded the sinetron, thereby ‘preparing’ both the broadcasting industry and its audiences for the language of this serial. After the phenomenal achievement of Si Doel, and partly because of it, other sinetron with a Betawi flavour (sinetron Betawi) were produced that also used this language variety as their language of communication. Still, the popularity of Si Doel with a wide variety of audiences and its incessant presence on the national screen since 1994 gave this programme and its languagescape an unprecedented reach. While television viewers from the late 1980s onwards have been increasingly exposed to Jakarta Malay in its various manifestations, its impact on their language behaviour is not as easily determined. Contrary to the popular conviction that the media have a considerable influence on the language behaviour of their viewers,2 linguists point to the difficulties of finding concrete and reliable evidence thereof. Arguing that the influence of the media on language development tends to be exaggerated, one linguist states that television ‘is the primary hypothesis for the motivation of any sound changes for everyone, it seems, except the sociolinguists studying it’ (Chambers 1998:124). Other language experts say that the media doing more than ‘reflect current language usage and extend it’ is a myth (Aitchison 1998:18). My reception research sheds some light on the ways in which Indonesian television may influence the language behaviour of its audiences. An examination of how viewers responded to and ‘appropriated’ the language of Si Doel revealed for instance that the popularity of this serial with certain viewers encouraged them to imitate its language afterwards ‘for fun’. In addition, 2

See for instance Toine Berbers, ‘Chinezen doorspekken taal met woorden uit Hongkong’, De Volkskrant, 2 October 1996, and Elizabeth Nash, ‘Brazil’s soaps wash away the mother tongue of Portugal’, The Independent, 7 May 1997.

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the reception research illuminated how the multimodality and multimediality of the medium contributed to as well as complicated viewers’ understanding of the language of Si Doel. The interplay between the aural/oral, the visual, the discursive, and the non-discursive enabled viewers to generate meaning for words they did not entirely understand – although such clues were at times ‘misinterpreted’, leading to meanings that were far removed from those that native speakers would assign to it. My research into the reception of television language furthermore revealed that the serial disseminated some vocabulary items, among them ngacir, the key word in the Honda-Doel advertising campaign; aulah gelap, which was popularized by Mandra; and tukang insinyur, an invention of Babe. This type of influence is acknowledged in sociolinguistic circles too. As J.K. Chambers (1998:125), the same scholar who doubted the strong influence of television on language, admits, it is beyond any doubt that mass communication diffuses catchphrases. To assess whether national television in Indonesia has a deeper influence on the language behaviour of its viewers, more profound and detailed research into the reception of media language is necessary. Considering the many similarities between Jakarta Malay and the national language, however, one might expect Indonesian television to exert an influence that goes beyond this diffusion of catchphrases. To determine whether and to what extent the proliferation of Jakarta Malay on national television influences the language behaviour of its audiences, it is necessary to know why individuals may want to change their language behaviour or adopt another language in the first place. According to sociolinguistic literature, people may want to change their language ‘to try to be like a “higher” social group or less like a “lower” one; to mark [themselves] off from “outsiders”; to achieve a feeling of “solidarity” with others; or to react to the pressures of the “linguistic marketplace”’ (Wardhaugh 1998:202). Others phrase the issue as a matter of prestige and inverse prestige. William Bright (1997:85), for instance, points out that people have been reported to imitate the speech of their monarch and the prestige that comes with it. At the same time, people from higher social classes also take up features of lower-class speech, for instance because of its associations with ‘masculinity’ or ‘natural authenticity’. The results of my reception research suggest that the aspects of ‘solidarity’ and ‘natural authenticity’ may indeed be part of the reason why people adopt Jakarta Malay. The conditions for the popularization of Jakarta Malay at the expense of Standard Indonesian are at least favourable. For one, Jakarta Malay has an image of being modern, trendy, progressive, democratic, and critical, whereas the national language, at least the institutionalized version of it, has been criticized for being stiff, unnatural, and hollow. Jakarta Malay moreover lacks associations with the cultural neo-colonialism that other regional languages,

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most notably Javanese, are accused of. In addition, the proliferation in different genres of Jakarta Malay on national television implies that millions of television viewers are exposed to this language variety on a daily basis. Taking into account that television is known for exerting subtle and unconscious effects on its audiences – the medium ‘plays an intimate role in shaping our day to day practices’, according to Ang (1991:6) – this daily exposure to Jakarta Malay may subtly and gradually influence the language use of its viewers. As Jakarta Malay and the national language are closely related, Jakarta Malay vocabulary items and grammatical constructions can easily be assimilated into the national language. Throuhgout this book I showed that by the late twentieth century, national television in Indonesia still promotes the use of proper and correct Indonesian. Through both its soundscape and its imagescape, as well as through adjacent mechanisms such as extended mediatization and discursive elaboration, however, the medium also popularizes Jakarta Malay in its various manifestations. While the medium was initially used to help disseminate the national language to unify the nation (Kitley 2000:42), national television in late New Order and post-Soeharto Indonesia may have an opposite effect on the language behaviour of its viewers. Whether Jakarta Malay will develop into the acknowledged variety of spoken Indonesian throughout the archipelago, as for instance Muhadjir (2000) has suggested, will become clear in the decades to come. Judging from its resemblance to the national language and its connotations of honesty, transparency, modernity, and democracy, Jakarta Malay at least fits in perfectly with the spirit of the Reformasi. Jakartan voices and the voice of ‘Jakarta’ Whereas critical discourse analysis – the theoretical approach on which I draw extensively in this book – tends to focus on ‘actual’ instances of language use rather than fictional utterances, a critical analysis of language use in and around a fictional genre also illuminates the relationship between ideology, language, and power. As my analysis of Si Doel shows, the study of language and discourse in entertainment programmes is intricately linked to socio-economic and political issues. The impact of the monetary crisis on the production and broadcasting of Si Doel, the Westoxification debate which dominated discussions in public critical discourse, and the involvement of various ministers in the changing policies on subtitling and dubbing are but a few examples. In additon, and provided one is willing and able to read (or rather, watch) ‘between the lines’, one may detect some socio-political commentary in these seemingly innocent programmes. A critical reading of sinetron for instance reveals how Indonesian television makers creatively

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avoided censorship, especially before the era of Reformasi, when overt criticism of the government and its policies was not tolerated. As in other repressive societies, humor was a strategy to which producers resorted when they wanted to address a sensitive issue. Policies of land expropriation in Jakarta, for instance, which have been disadvantageous to many orang Betawi, are virtually never discussed openly in Si Doel or other sinetron Betawi. When the issue is explicitly addressed, as in the kaulan scene in which Doel and his family search for the remainder of their ancestral land on a golf course and in a football stadium, it is transformed into a comical sequence of scenes. The title song of the sinetron Pepesan Kosong (‘Hollow Talk’), which critically denounced the displacement of the Betawi from the centre of Jakarta, reveals another censorship-avoiding strategy. While it would have been virtually impossible to express such overt criticism in political genres such as news or talk shows, its packaging in a light-footed song enabled this critical note to pass the censors. Another telling example is the use of Chinese in Si Doel. While the use of any Chinese language on Indonesian television was not allowed before the Gus Dur administration, Hans and A Hong in Si Doel 1 were able to perform a dialogue in Mandarin Chinese without Karnos Film being reprimanded. The use of Chinese in this scene either passed the censors unnoticed by accident, or it was judged not to have any disruptive potential (the reason behind the television ban on Chinese), as it was classed as ‘mere entertainment’. The prattle of the character Mandra and Babe’s grumpiness and jokes were additional safe domains for uttering discontent – at least this is suggested by the fact that these characters were more vocal in their commentary and criticism of Indonesian society than any other Si Doel character. It is Mandra, for instance, who sounds the only critical note on land-clearing policies in Jakarta. Mourning at the grave of his brother-in-law, Doel’s father Babe Sabeni, Mandra suddenly fears that the grave may be destroyed to make room for the building of a new apartment complex. When Mandra asks Doel for his opinion, the latter, significantly, remains silent. In addition, and as a reflection of demands in the Betawi community that the next governor of Jakarta be of Betawi descent, in a conversation with his son Babe jokingly refers to the possibility that Doel might one day fill this position. Whereas popular culture can be used to express political criticism, other examples, such as the 1992 ban of the television hit Gossip lenong, remind us that in New Order Indonesia even the ‘innocent’ domain of entertainment did not escape the political climate that existed in the country at large. The discontinuation of Gossip lenong was most certainly linked to producer Harry de Fretes’ affiliation with the opposition party PDI. This idea is re inforced by the fact that in the wake of the Reformasi, RCTI reran Gossip lenong at prime time.

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Si Doel succeeded in relaying the voice of Jakarta ‘to the far corners of Indonesia and beyond’, enabling ordinary residents of Jakarta to discuss their ordinary problems in ordinary language on national television. One should, however, keep in mind that the serial still had to abide by the rules of that other ‘Jakarta’. Television discourse in late New Order and post-Soeharto Indonesia The first series of Si Doel anak sekolahan was produced in 1992; the sixth series was broadcast in 2003. In total, the production and broadcasting of this serial spans a time frame of more than one decade, a decade during which Indonesia experienced some drastic political developments. The production of Si Doel started on 18 August 1992, one day after the founding date of the Indonesian nation. When this first series was produced, the sinetron industry was still in its formative years. At the time, three commercial television stations were operating (RCTI, SCTV, and TPI) next to government station TVRI. Slowly but surely these commercial stations, which initially had been orientated towards other countries, notably the United States, started to explore the potential of its domestic programmes. One remarkable political event that strongly affected the relationship between the Netherlands and Indonesia was the IGGI affair. On 25 March 1992, some months before Si Doel 1 was shot, president Soeharto announced that his administration would thenceforth reject any aid from the Dutch government. The announcement was a reaction to the Dutch stance on human rights issues in Indonesia, particularly with regard to the Dili massacre in Indonesia’s former province East Timor, which took place on 12 November 1991. In addition, Soeharto called on the Netherlands to step down as chairman of the Inter-Governmental Group on Indonesia (IGGI). The IGGI issue was casually reflected in the first series of Si Doel in a dialogue between Hans and Doel. When Si Doel 1 was broadcast, in January 1994, two new stations had been added to the commercial system, ANTV and Indosiar. The Soeharto regime was still firmly in control of the nation. Shortly after the broadcasting of Si Doel 1, Karnos Film prepared the shootings of its sequel. Si Doel 2 was aired between 7 October 1994 and 21 April 1995, when the sinetron industry was beginning to blossom. The economy was fairly stable and the New Order government was still confidently in charge. As private television was developing into a fully fledged industry, the drafting of Indonesia’s first Broadcast Law, which started in 1987, was given a new impulse. Children’s welfare organizations, which worried about the portrayal of explicit violence and sexuality on television, as well as the broadcast stations themselves felt that the industry was in need of clear regulations

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(Kitley 2000:299-300). The Broadcast Law would not be discussed and ratified by the Indonesian parliament, however, until the screening of Si Doel 3. The third series aired for nearly a year, from 26 February 1996 to 10 February 1997. During this period, commercial television was thriving and, partly as a consequence of the former, the sinetron industry was booming. The Broadcast Law was ratified by the Indonesian parliament on 9 December 1996, but for various reasons Soeharto initially refused to sign it. Politically speaking, this period was characterized by an outbreak of communal violence in various places throughout Java. Probably the most shocking event to occur in the period when Si Doel 3 was broadcast was the attack on 27 July 1996 on the national headquarters of opposition party PDI in Jakarta by its Soerjadi-led faction and the armed forces. The attack, which would lead to the founding of Megawati’s PDI-Perjuangan (Struggle PDI) became known as ‘Grey Saturday’. It sparked ‘the worst rioting in the city since 1974’ (Van Dijk 2001:10-11). The most turbulent political developments of the decade were, however, yet to come. In July 1997, Indonesia, together with other Southeast Asian nations, was hit by a monetary crisis that would eventually develop into a socio-political crisis whose impact was felt in all domains. On 31 October 1997, while Karnos Film was shooting its fourth series of episodes, Soeharto signed an agreement with the IMF in an effort to rehabilitate the Indonesian economy and stabilize its currency. The agreement specified that Indonesia would receive a US$ 43 billion loan from IMF and other donors. In return, the country was to implement a number of financial and policy measures (Schwarz 1999:338; Van Dijk 2001:82). Earlier that month, incidentally, on 1 October 1997, Soeharto finally ratified a revised version of the Broadcast Law. The krismon directly influenced the production schedule of Si Doel 4 (Karnos Film could not afford to shoot footage in Switzerland, as it had planned) and its broadcasting format (the quiz that envelops the sinetron). At the same time, and increasingly so in early 1998, massive student protests were organized throughout Indonesia. The students called for their president to resign, expressing their wish for reformasi, by which, as noted in the introduction, they meant drastic socio-political and economic reforms in various domains, true democracy, transparency, and freedom of speech. The student movement contributed significantly to the most extraordinary domestic political event of that decade, namely the stepping down of president Soeharto on 21 May 1998. During the fifth episode of Si Doel 4, which was broadcast on 16 May 1998, the sinetron was interrupted by a newsflash in which it was announced that the president considered withdrawing from his presidency. When the next episode of Si Doel was broadcast, president Habibie had already taken over the highest command. After the fall of Soeharto, one urgent task awaiting the Habibie adminis-

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tration was to transform the calls for reformasi into actual policies. As part of these policies Habibie ratified a new Press Law on 23 September 1999. The new Law allowed the print media to operate without the specific (and easy to manipulate) permits (known as SIUPP or Surat Izin Usaha Penerbitan Pers) that were required during the New Order administration. Habibie moreover issued five new broadcasting permits, as such diversifying both the television landscape and patterns of ownership. The Reformasi had a clear impact on the discourse of Indonesian television as well. During this period, talk shows in which state politics and the Reformasi were discussed proliferated on the national screen. These programmes moreover appealed to audiences that had not been interested in news and current affairs before the era of Reformasi. The freedom to openly criticize the government was exercised in several sinetron too.3 The discourse of the Si Doel characters in episodes produced in the post-Soeharto era was not remarkably different from their way of talking in previous episodes. The Reformasi was however mirrored in some of the character’s utterances. When Si Doel 5 was shot, in late 1999 and early 2000, Indonesia had witnessed yet another change of presidents. The new president, Abdurrahman Wahid or Gus Dur, influenced the development of national television in a number of ways. For instance, he took a sympathetic stance towards the Chinese-Indonesian community, and annihilated by Presidential Decree an earlier ruling that forbade Indonesians of Chinese descent to publicly exhibit their culture or religious conviction.4 This government stance freed the way for Metro TV, one of the new television stations, to broadcast a news programme in Mandarin Chinese. More controversially, the new president dissolved the Ministry of Information, or Deppen, in October 1999. In his view, the management of information in contemporary Indonesia should not be monopolized by the government, and the task of distributing information could be partly fulfilled at the provincial level.5 One consequence of this measure was that the much-debated Broadcast Law, which had been drafted under this department, lost its legal basis. Meanwhile numerous demonstrations, organized by students and others who criticized the half-heartedness of the government in shaping the reform process, were still blocking Jakartan traffic on a daily basis. Whereas Si Doel never used footage of any demonstration, as other sinetron did, the characters 3

See for instance Sal, ‘Berita Reformasi di Televisi Swasta’, Kompas, 17 May 1998; Veven Sp. Wardhana, ‘Reformasi Sinetron dan Sinetron Reformasi di TVRI, Kompas Online, 12 September 1999, viewing date 29 September 1999. 4 Gus Dur issued his Presidential Decree on 18 January 2000 as Keputusan Presiden 6/2000. It invalidated Presidential Instruction no. 14/1967, which had been issued by the New Order government. 5 Putu Setia ‘Dari Dialog Presiden Gus Dur dan Wakil Rakyat’, Tempo Online, 18 November 1999, viewing date 29 July 2003.

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sometimes alluded to them. For instance, one night, when her husband-tobe Mas Karyo does not return home as expected, Doel’s sister Atun worries whether he hasn’t accidentally been shot during a demonstration. Si Doel 5 was the first sequel that was broadcast by RCTI’s competitor Indosiar. This station appeared to have a stronger financial backing than its competitors, and emerged from the crisis relatively unscathed. On 23 July 2001, Megawati Soekarnoputri took over the presidency from Abdurrahman Wahid; hence the sixth series of Si Doel was once more shot and broadcast under a new president. At first it was feared that the new president would revitalize Deppen, restricting the newly earned freedom of the media.6 Eventually, however, a State Ministry of Communication and Information (Kementerian Negara Komunikasi dan Informasi) was created, whose legal means to interfere with the Indonesian mediascape were restricted.7 During the production of this latest sequel of Si Doel, another important development with respect to the Indonesian mediascape was the new president’s ratification on 28 December 2002 of a revised Broadcast Law (UndangUndang Penyiaran No. 32). Perhaps the most remarkable aspect of this law in the context of the present study is its section on the scope of broadcasting.8 The new Broadcast Law specifies that in a few years’ time, the broadcast reach of all commercial television stations will be confined to a restricted area. According to television critic Wardhana, who was involved in the drawing up of this law, the phrase ‘restricted area’ should be interpreted as denoting the provincial level at most.9 Broadcasters and television critics hope this paragraph will stimulate the coming into being and flourishing of a regional commercial system of broadcasting, in keeping with the spirit of regional autonomy which thrives in Indonesia, particularly since the Reformasi. Increasing demands for decentralization have led, for instance, to the passing of the Regional Autonomy Law under the Habibie administration. Backed by this paragraph a number of media professionals set up a network of private local television stations (Jaringan Tivi Lokal or ‘Local Television Network’) throughout Indonesia. The aim of this network, as mentioned, is to exchange programmes that are produced in a local setting and inspired by the cultures that flourish in the regions where these stations are located. It is hoped that the exchange of ‘ethnic’ programmes will increase a sense of mutual respect and understanding between different ethnic groups in Indonesia, which in turn will contribute to an easing of ethnic tensions in post-Soeharto Indonesia. When Si Doel 6 was broadcast, from January 6

Tra/wis, ‘Presiden Megawati Harus Pertahankan Kebebasan Pers’, Kompas Online, 25 July 2001, viewing date 2 August 2003. 7 Personal communication with Veven Wardhana via e-mail, 12 August 2003. 8 Undang-Undang Penyiaran No. 32, notably paragraphs 20 and 31. 9 Personal communication with Jimmy Silalahi via e-mail on various occasions.

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through May 2003, ten local television stations had affiliated themselves with the Local Television Network. Broadcasting locations included Manado (Sulawesi), Papua, Riau (Sumatra), and the Moluccas. This Local Television Network goes a step further than Si Doel in its vision of national television. For whereas Si Doel has been praised for its Betawi setting and its ‘Indonesian-ness’, and was appreciated, to a certain extent at least, in many locations throughout the archipelago, it still depicts but one ‘ethnic’ group out of the hundreds of groups and cultures that make up Indonesian society. As the television industry in New Order Indonesia was centred in Jakarta, one could even view Si Doel as a product of Jakarta, which was produced in the centre of power for consumption in the centre and the periphery. The Local Television Network, by contrast, is truly cross-cultural in its intention. The section on the reach of broadcasting in the 2002 Broadcast Law may produce commercial Indonesian television that, both in scope and in content, reflects the multi-ethnic, multi-cultural state within which it operates. Initiatives such as the Local Television Network may persuade television makers to look more seriously beyond Jakarta. In the end, this may result in the discourse of Indonesian commercial television becoming truly ‘national’ at last.

APPENDIX A

Design of the reception research Preparing the reception research Between October 1997 and May 1998, my research assistant and I conducted some thirty informal interviews on Si Doel. We randomly asked various persons (including friends, passers-by, taxi drivers, fellow passengers on public transport) for their opinion on the sinetron Si Doel and its language use, and on whether they felt that this serial needed subtitling. We also asked respondents if they could name three commercials in which one or more characters of Si Doel performed. The majority of these interviews were done in Jakarta and Yogyakarta; their average length was ten to fifteen minutes. All interviews were taped and then transcribed by my assistant and analysed by me. Based on the results of these informal interviews, I developed a more focused and structured set of questions to be used in a more elaborate reception research situation. This research was eventually conducted between 23 February and 21 March 1999. During this period two assistants and I interviewed one hundred and six respondents.1 As I was eager to find out whether viewers throughout Indonesia could understand the language of Si Doel equally well, the research locations were chosen to include respondents from different language backgrounds. The selected locations were in Bali (the city Sanur and the isolated mountain village Munduk), Central Java (Yogyakarta proper and Kota Gede), and Jakarta (the districts of Pasar Rebo, Cireundeu, and Lenteng Agung). The reason for choosing locations in Bali and Central Java was that from a lingual and cultural point of view, they differed sufficiently from Jakarta, the cradle of Betawi culture. To include a location with speakers of Javanese, the largest regional language of Indonesia and mother tongue of approximately one third of the country’s population, makes sense for numerical reasons alone. I moreover selected Bali because I wanted to include another location in which a distinctive, non-Malay language was spoken, and which was located 1 Wiwin Budiyanti, who also assisted me in Jakarta with developing the first set of questions and conducting the first series of informal interviews, assisted me throughout the research. The other assistants were Kristiawan Redemptus (in Bali and Yogyakarta) and Anton Budi Santosa (in Jakarta).

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somewhat further away from Jakarta, both literally and metaphorically. I also included Jakarta, the native city of the Betawi community whose language is represented in the sinetron, as a location. As I expected that particularly the Jakartan respondents would be capable of understanding the language of Si Doel, I wanted to compare their results with those of respondents that had other language backgrounds. The locations on Bali and in Central Java were represented by respondents from cities, small towns, and kampongs. In Jakarta, I made an effort to involve both Betawi and non-Betawi respondents. Setting up the viewing experiment On each location, the first move to be made was to find a suitable place to conduct the reception research. Proper locations included the guesthouse or hotel in which my assistants and I (henceforth: the research team) stayed, or, if we knew the respondents, their homes. In fact any locality would do, provided it featured a television set that we could use. The research team brought the remaining audiovisual equipment along. If it were decided to hold the viewing experiment at a hotel or guesthouse, the research team would ask permission to invite respondents from the owner of the property. Sometimes these preparations also included negotiating a fair price for using the television set that was located in the lounge or dining room of the facility. Before the actual research, I had selected eight scenes from the first two series of the sinetron Si Doel. The first scene featured the title song, while the remaining scenes portrayed the major Betawi characters as they were having conversations. The eighth scene featured Mas Karyo, who was holding a monologue in Javanese with Betawi Malay subtitles. Two videotapes with the selected excerpts, arranged in chronological order, were prepared at my request by production house Karnos Film.2 Each scene was at the most a couple of minutes in duration. In total, these scenes featured all major Betawi characters and their respective idiolects. 2

When Karnos Film processed my request, it turned out that the video excerpt of Mas Karyo, of which I possessed a subtitled copy (taped from television), had been stored at the production company in its original (non-subtitled) form. Editor Mas Tony, in charge of subtitling the video excerpt that I had taped from television, kindly produced new subtitles for me on the spot. When I hinted at the fact that these subtitles differed from the ones on my copy, Mas Tony assured me that this did not matter. The subtitles were merely provided to help viewers understand a certain scene, he argued, and as such, no precise or verbatim translation was called for. Instead, an approximation of the meaning of the Javanese monologue would suffice. While I did not agree with his viewpoint, this slight subtitling change did not affect my purposes, so I left it at that. During the reception research, some Javanese respondents did note that the Javanese monologue had been translated incorrectly though. Respondent # 60, a Javanese student, explained the discrepancy between spoken monologue and subtitles by saying that some Javanese expressions were probably untranslatable in Betawi Malay.

Appendix A

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As I believed that viewing all the video excerpts and performing assignments for each of them would require too much of a respondent’s time, I asked each viewing group to watch and perform tasks for only three excerpts. In addition, each respondent was shown the excerpt of Mas Karyo. In this way, seven ‘viewing combinations’ and hence seven sets of forms (labelled A to G) were produced. This meant that each viewing group was exposed to a different combination of video excerpts and subsequently was to fill in a different set of forms than the previous group. The disadvantage of this approach was that it would not be possible to produce quantitative data for all one hundred and six respondents based on the results of the same viewing experiment. As I was not so much interested in counting the number of ‘mistakes’ that viewers would make in processing the forms, but rather was curious to know the dominant viewing strategies that viewers would employ in assigning meaning to unfamiliar words, I did not consider this a major problem. Besides, the fact that different viewing groups were to perform tasks for different video excerpts would afterwards enable me to compare which of the three tasks at hand (understanding, translating, and listening) viewers found most difficult to accomplish. If one assignment was felt as most difficult across respondents, regardless of the video excerpt they had been watching, this would prove that the difficulty of the assignment was not due to the fact that any of the three excerpts used more difficult language. Moreover, for those results that I did want to compare for all respondents, I could take recourse to the in-depth interviews that were held after the viewing sessions, and in which the same set of questions was used for all respondents. Before the actual start of the research, the team viewed the tape that contained the selected video excerpts several times. Thereafter, the provisional transcriptions of the dialogues and monologue that I had provided were checked and – if and where necessary – corrected by my assistants and me. The corrected transcriptions were subsequently multiplied and the resulting forms arranged in sets of three (meaning that they contained the dialogues of three scenes).3 I subsequently instructed the research assistants on the way in which the reception experiment was to be conducted. I emphasized that our first task was to make respondents feel comfortable during the viewing experiment. In addition, respondents were to be repeatedly reassured that there were no wrong answers. They were to be convinced that every honest answer would be the right answer for that respondent, an answer that would be much more valuable than one produced with their neighbour’s advice. I moreover instructed my assistants to perform the interviews based on the 3

Respondents from Bali also received a form with the transcription of Mas Karyo’s Javanese monologue. When it turned out that this form was unnecessary and even distracting for the purposes of the research, I decided not to use these forms for the respondents in Yogyakarta and Jakarta.

336

Appendix A

questionnaire we had compiled, meanwhile allowing respondents to answer elaborately and in their own words. Conducting the reception research Recruiting respondents At this stage, the first respondents could be ‘processed’. The questionnaire was tested on the first three viewing groups, which consisted of eight respondents. Afterwards, the questionnaire was discussed by the research team and adapted where necessary. This means that some questions were rephrased in terms that were more colloquial whereas others were deleted. Thereafter, the questionnaire remained unchanged. Respondents were recruited in groups of two or three. They were selected at random, but the research team did try to involve as many women as men. An effort was also made to cover different age groups and educational backgrounds. The research team approached potential respondents by asking them if they would mind participating in a research project on television. The sinetron Si Doel was not mentioned at this stage, in order not to influence a respondent’s attitude. Whenever it was difficult to persuade a potential respondent, the research team would hint at the fact that he or she would receive a small amount of money in return. This promise was essential for instance when recruiting tukang becak or petty sales men and women, whose estimated time off work had to be compensated accordingly. The viewing session Once respondents had been recruited, they received a short introduction as to the course of the research, after which they were shown one of the seven possible viewing combinations. Meanwhile, the research team tried to imitate a ‘normal’ viewing situation, to the degree that it is possible in the given context. This implied that the team served respondents a drink, made small talk before, during, and after the first viewing, and encouraged participants to relax and enjoy the images. During the entire session, all members of the research team would be ‘responsible’ for one respondent each, meaning that they were to make sure that the respondent in question felt comfortable and understood the task at hand. After the first showing, the tape was rewound and prepared to be played once again. This second time, viewers were asked to watch the excerpts more carefully. It was only at this point that respondents were instructed about the small task (conducting the three assignments) that awaited them. Each

Appendix A

337

respondent then received a set of forms consisting of three pages with the written dialogues of the video excerpts just shown; ballpoints were distributed. If respondents were unable to write or read, a member of the research team would do this for them, taking due care that the answers were not overheard by other respondents in the viewing group.4 The first assignment was to mark the words in the written dialogue of the first excerpt that respondents did not understand. To refresh their memory, the accompanying excerpt was played while respondents were performing this task. For the second assignment, respondents were to translate the Betawi Malay words that were underscored on the second form, which contained the dialogue of the second scene, into Standard Indonesian. To remind respondents of how this dialogue sounded, the specific excerpt was played simultaneously. For the third assignment, respondents were to fill in the gaps that were deliberately left out in the written text of the third form. For this purpose, the third excerpt was shown once more. This time, the tape was stopped briefly after each gap in the written text, providing respondents with sufficient time to fill in the missing word or words. Concentration was most essential at this stage, and the research team took care that the excerpt was clearly audible. Respondents were encouraged to write down exactly what they had heard, regardless of whether they thought this was Indonesian, Jakarta Malay, Betawi Malay, or any other language. The fourth excerpt was a Javanese monologue by Mas Karyo, subtitled into Betawi Malay. No task was to be performed for this excerpt, as its main purpose was to illustrate a question about subtitling, which was posed during the interview that followed. The interview After the viewing session, which generally lasted twenty to thirty minutes, depending on the behaviour and response of the specific viewing group, each member of the research team invited one respondent to join him or her for an interview based on the questionnaire. Care was taken that respondents could not overhear the answers of fellow respondents. Each interviewee was asked for permission to tape the interview. 4

This was problematic when the research location was small and respondents had no choice but to sit close together. Most illiterate respondents were older though, and this often meant that they suffered from hearing problems, which in this respect was rather advantageous for the research team. As this way of processing the forms would take slightly more time, illiterate respondents often mentioned their answers after the other respondents had finished, in which case they did not influence them.

338

Appendix A

After these interviews, which generally took fifteen to thirty minutes, all respondents received an envelope with Rp 10,000 (at the time equal to about 1 US$) and a thank-you letter expressing the gratitude of the research team for their cooperation. This letter also stated the names of the research team members and a contact address. Analysis of the reception research After the research had been conducted, I tabulated all one hundred and six sets of forms that were completed during the viewing sessions. I also did a qualitative analysis of the interviews, which had been transcribed verbatim by research assistant Wiwin Budiyanti. During this analysis it turned out that respondents had not produced reliable data for all questions. Various factors caused this. For instance, members of the research team at times failed to formulate certain questions to their interviewees in a way that they were fully understood, or even failed to pose certain questions at all. In rare cases, respondents had to leave before the end of the interview. Parts of some of the taped interviews were irretrievable due to technical failures. Rather than dismiss these interviews as useless and thereby fail to appreciate the efforts of the participating respondents, I analysed the interviews question by question. If data lacked for some respondents for certain questions, I mentioned the number of the respondent in the ‘no data’ category.

APPENDIX B

Example of a set of forms Assignment 1 Circle the words you do not understand. Engkong dan Mandra membicarakan rencana Mandra untuk melamar Munaroh: Engkong: Mandra: Engkong: Mandra: Engkong: Mandra: Engkong: Mandra: Engkong: Mandra: Engkong: Mandra: Engkong: Mandra:

He Mandra, emang lu udah yakin bakal diterima lamaran lu ama dia? Ya ampun Babe, kalau belum pasti ngapain sih Babe saya suruh dateng ke sono? Bukan begitu, Ndra. Kan gue kenal siapa tu Ja’im. Orangnya alim, tekun. Apa dia mau punya mantu lu? Nah lu, sembahyangnye aje nggak lempeng. Ya, Babe. Nyang penting kan Munaroh mau ama saya. Urusan Babe ni sih sebodo amat. Bener juga ya. Eh iya, sekalian bawa oleh-oleh buat Munaroh, ya. Oleh-oleh? Ya, apa aja dah oleh-olehnya. Ya dah, ntar gua ke pasar sekalian beliin cincin buat Cing Rodiah. Cincin? Kok Babe malah beli cincin buat Cing Rodiah? Emang kalau gue beliin cincin dia, kenapa lu. Mau tau urusan orang aja. Diem lu! Cincin? Diem lu! Buat Cing Rodiah?

Appendix B

340

Assignment 2 Translate the italicized words into Standard Indonesian. SDAS II-4 Babe dan Nyak membicarakan rencana mendadak Engkong untuk kawin lagi dengan seseorang yang bernama Rodiah: Babe: Nyak: Babe: Nyak: Babe: Nyak:

Umur tinggal sejengkal, badan udah bau tane, masih aja pengin kawin. Biarin aje kenape sih Bang. Abis gue gedhek banget. Itu nenek lenjeh bener. Nakel. Gelendotan aje kaye keong. Biarin! Namanye juga penganten baru. Emang sih penganten baru, tapi stock lame. Ah, kulitnya aje udah diwiron. Idih Abang, sewot aje bawaannye. Mendingan ngopi deh.

Assignment 3 Listen carefully to the dialogue and fill in the missing words. SDAS II-4 Tadinya Mandra dan Atun narik oplet berdua; Mandra sebagai sopir, Atun sebagai kenek. Pulang dari narik, mereka ditegur Babe: Babe: Atun: Mandra: Babe: Atun: Babe: Atun: Nyak: Atun:

Adik lu nggak punya pikiran? Masa sih Atun dijadiin kenek? Dasar [………..]. Bukan Bang Mandra yang maksa, Atun yang mau sendiri. Tu Abang denger sendiri, kan. Dia nyang maksa saya, saya yang [………..]. Tapi lu sebagai [………..] mau aja dipaksa ame ponakan. Lu seneng ye, kalo liet die [………..] kayak Tarzan? He Atun, lame-lame lu jadi kaye Tarzan beneran. Biarin, Atun ngarepin upahnye. Ape? Upe? Iye, Be. Upahnye kan Atun bisa kumpulin, buat daftar kursus. Lagian Abang kagak pernah perhatiin si Atun. Iye, kalo ame Bang Doel aja ape-ape dikasih. [………..] Atun minta kursus rias pengantin aja Babe udah marah [………..]. Biarin, kalo nggak dikasih duit, Atun tetep jadi kenek. Nggak

Appendix B

Babe: Atun: Babe: Atun: Babe: Atun: Babe: Atun: Babe: Mandra: Babe:

341

[………..] Bang Mandra juga nggak ape-ape, Atun banyak kok kenalan sopir-sopir di sono. Pake ngancem lu. Berape? Uang muke empat puluh ribu. Uang muke, kaye kredit aja lu. Nih. Tu, tiga puluh. Empat puluh, Be. Banyak amat sih. Udah abis ini. Yaaa. Ni. Sepuluh lagi Be, buat praktek. Praktek apaan? Ya praktek, namanya juga ngerias. Abis duit gue dah. Ya, tinggal [………..]. Syukur… Syukur, syukur!

APPENDIX C

Glossary abang (Bang)1 akang (Kang) anak Betawi azan babe (Babe) bahasa Betawi bahasa Indonesia bahasa Jakarta Bamus Betawi ceuceu (Ceu) encang (Cang) encing (Cing) engkoh (Koh) engkong (Kong) gambang kromong

Hadits haj hajji hajjah Idul Fitri jago 1

older brother (Betawi Malay) older brother (Sundanese) member of the Betawi community call for prayer (Islam) father (Betawi Malay) Betawi Malay Indonesian Jakarta Malay Badan Musyawarah Betawi; Consultative Body for the Betawi, the umbrella organization for all officially registered Betawi associations older sister (Sundanese) older uncle or aunt (in Central Betawi Malay), or older uncle (in Border Betawi Malay) younger uncle or aunt (in Central Betawi Malay), or younger Aunt (in Border Betawi Malay) older brother (term of address for Chinese men) old man, grandfather (Betawi Malay) Jakartan type of music that is characterized by the use of a mixture of Chinese and Malay instruments, among them a kind of xylophone (gambang) and a set of tuned small kettle gongs known as ‘gong chime’ (kromong) the traditional collection of stories relating words or deeds of the prophet Muhammad. the pilgrimage to Mecca man who has gone on pilgrimage to Mecca woman who has gone on pilgrimage to Mecca the first day after the fasting month of Ramadan fighting rooster, fighting champion

Between brackets I note the usual appearance of the word when it is used as a term of address.

Appendix C

kampungan kaulan kaum Betawi kelas atas kopiah kodrat wanita krismon

lenong ngacir ngaji nyai (Nyai) nyak (Nyak) ondel-ondel oplet orang Betawi peranakan pencak silat Ramadan rebana Reformasi

rumah produksi rupiah setoran sholat

343

boorish to fulfil a vow Betawi community affluent part of Indonesian society, elite Islamic head covering for men New Order concept denoting the essentially sophisticated nature of women krisis moneter; monetary crisis, often used in a broader sense to denote the socio-economic and political crisis that was gravely affecting Indonesia and other parts of Asia in the late 1990s traditional Betawi theatre that centres on heroes and criminals (repertoire includes the stories of ‘Si Pitung’) [to run] fast or smoothly; to leave without notice (Betawi Malay) attending religious classes on the Koran older woman, grandmother (Betawi Malay) mother (Betawi Malay) human-size puppets that are traditionally used in Betawi processions large car used to transport passengers along fixed routes native inhabitant of Jakarta, ‘Betawi’ someone of mixed ancestry (often used in connection with locally born Chinese Indonesians) Indonesian martial arts form ninth month of the Islamic calendar, fasting month for Moslems Jakartan type of music that is dominated by tambourines; often used to accompany Islamic songs Reform era; used to denote either the tumultuous period leading up to and directly following the stepping down of president Soeharto in May 1998, or political liberalization and economic and political transparency in general production house the Indonesian currency the money that one gains by operating an oplet to perform the five-daily Muslim praying ritual, or that ritual itself

344

sinetron suku bangsa takbiran tanjidor tarikan topeng totok turun ranjang umroh warung

Appendix C

sinema elektronik/elektronis; Indonesian television series, notably television drama ethnic group nightly religious ceremony during which the greatness of God is praised (Islam) Jakartan type of music that is played by an orchestra modelled after the European-style brass band acceleration speed traditional Betawi theatre about family life, interspersed with dance and clown scenes ‘genuine’ or ‘pure’ foreigner (often used in connection with first-generation Chinese migrants) Betawi practice that compels one to marry the widow of one’s deceased brother the short pilgrimage to Mecca recommended for Muslims who can spare the money small shop

APPENDIX D

Abbreviations and acronyms ABRI ANTEVE BIYBB Golkar IGGI H. Hj. JM KKN krismon Deppen LKB MJM MPR PDI PDI-P PPPB PPPI RCTI RP RJM RT

Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia; Armed Forces of the Republic Indonesia Cakrawala Andalas Televisi (‘Sumatran Heavens Television’) bahasa Indonesia yang baik dan benar; Good and Correct Indonesian Golongan Karya (‘Functional Groups’) Inter-Gouvernementele Groep voor Indonesië (‘InterGovernmental Group on Indonesia’). hajji; religious title for a man who has performed the pilgrimage to Mecca hajjah; religious title for a woman who has performed the pilgrimage to Mecca Jakarta Malay term denoting practices of corruption, collusion, and nepotism (korupsi, kolusi, nepotisme) krisis moneter (‘monetary crisis’) Departemen Penerangan (‘Ministry of Information’) Lembaga Kebudayaan Betawi; Institute for Betawi Culture Modern Jakarta Malay Majelis Perwakilan Rakyat (‘People’s Consultative Assembly’) Partai Demokrasi Indonesia (‘Indonesian Democratic Party’) Partai Demokrasi Indonesia Perjuangan (Indonesian Democratic Party for Struggle) Pusat Pembinaan dan Pengembangan Bahasa; Centre for Language Development and Cultivation Persatuan Perusahaan Periklanan Indonesia; Indonesian Association of Advertising Agencies Rajawali Citra Televisi Indonesia (‘The Royal Guardian of Indonesian Television’s Image’) rumah produksi Rural Jakarta Malay Rukun Tetangga (‘neighbourhood association’)

346

SARA SCTV SI SRI sinetron TJM TPI TVRI UJM UUP warnet WJM

Appendix D

suku (ethnic group), agama (religion), ras (race), antargolongan (inter-group relations or class); Surya Citra Televisi Indonesia (‘The Sun of Indonesian’s Television Image’) Standard Indonesian Survey Research Indonesia sinema elektronis/elektronik Traditional Jakarta Malay Televisi Pendidikan Indonesia (‘Indonesian Education Television’) Televisi Republik Indonesia (‘Television of the Republic of Indonesia’) Urban Jakarta Malay Undang-Undang Penyiaran (‘Broadcast Law’) warung internet (‘internet café’) West Jakarta Malay

APPENDIX E

List of interviews All interviews were held in Jakarta, unless stated otherwise. The inter­ viewee's job is mentioned only if this is not clear from the context in which the interview was mentioned. Interviews (general) 1997 Rano Karno, 31 October 1997 Erwin Ariodarma, 3 December 1997 Eduard Depari, 9 December 1997 Deddy Mizwar, 13 December 1997 Ali Shahab, 15 December 1997 Thamrin Thalib, 19 December 1997 Syamsuddin Ch. Haessy, 29 December 1997 1998 Edo Arazy, 6 January 1998 Tino Karno, 10 January 1998 Ali Shahab, 17 January 1998 Rano Karno, 19 January 1998 S.M. Ardan, 19 February 1998 Ruddyanto, 20 February 1998 Eduard Depari, 15 April 1998 Antariksawan Yusuf, 23 April 1998 Tino Karno, 29 April 1998 Rano Karno, 29 April 1998 Quek, director of Animata, Singapore, 21 May 1998 Noor Azlan Bin Salim, TV12, Singapore, 28 May 1998 Rano Karno, 3 September 1998 (telephone interview)

348

Appendix E

1999 Ridwan Saidi, 12 February 1999 Muhadjir, 17 February 1999 S.M. Ardan, 19 February 1999 Ida Farida, 17 March 1999 Hani Surjaseputra, managing director of Animata Datawi Indopura, 17 March 1999 Mella Sabina, RCTI, 25 March 1999 Harry de Fretes, 25 March 1999 H. Bahrum, 28 March 1999 Abdul Chaer, 30 March 1999 Adi Sunaryo, PPPB, 14 October 1999 (telephone interview) Rano Karno, 26 November 1999 (telephone interview) 2000 H. Tabroni, 1 May 2000 Edo Arazy, 16 May 2000 H. Sophyan Murthado, 20 May 2000 Veven Wardhana, 23 May 2000 Rano Karno, 26 May 2000 Yahya Saputra, 27 May 2000 Antariksawan Yusuf, 30 May 2000 Thamrin Thalib, 30 May 2000 Pak Bendot, 2 June 2000 Adolf Siregar, 6 June 2000 Ndang Sutisna, 6 June 2000 Garin Nugroho, 9 June 2000 Raam Punjabi, 9 June 2000 2001 Veven Wardhana, 2 April 2001 2002 Rano Karno, 23 August 2002 2003 Veven Wardhana, 12 August 2003

Appendix E

Interviews (reception research on Si Doel) Lukman, 20 March 1999 Marhasan, 20 March 1999 Mrs. Aisyah, 21 March 1999 Nurbaeti, 21 March 1999 Andriani AN, 21 March 1999 Hj. Nyai, 21 March 1999 Nurjanah, 21 March 1999 Siti Zubaedah, 21 March 1999

349

appendix F

Si Doel fragments on DVD 1 2

3 4

5

6 7

Signature tune: this signature tune makes a provocative statement on the Betawi. The Sabeni family: this scene, which lasts approximately three minutes, introduces virtually all the major characters and clarifies the relationships between the members of Doel’s family, which I will be referring to as the Sabeni family, after Doel’s father. Doel at university: Doel is involved in an academic discussion in a classroom at his university, the Universitas Teknik. The car crash: Sarah’s expensive car collides with Doel’s rusty oplet when the Doel suddenly stops in the middle of the road. After the accident, Sarah, who was driving, and her friend Ati emerge from the car. Ati reacts to the incident with annoyance and immediately becomes involved in a quarrel with Mandra, Doel’s driver’s mate on the occasion. Sarah, on the other hand, remains calm and offers to pay for the damage she has caused to the oplet. Sarah’s thesis, part I: One day Sarah visits her cousin Hans. To her great surprise, she runs into Doel, who is studying at Hans’s place. Only then does Sarah discover that Doel is in fact a fellow-student and Hans’ friend. She also learns that Doel is an anak Betawi. A final-year student of anthropology, Sarah was originally planning to write her undergraduate thesis on the people of Irian Jaya. Once she finds out that Doel is a Betawi, she decides to change her research subject and write about Doel and the native inhabitants of Jakarta instead. During the obligatory stage in her research of participant observation, Sarah follows and photographs Doel during his daily activities without his being aware of it. Sarah’s thesis: Hans objects to the idea that his friend will be used as a research subject without knowing it, but Sarah sticks to her plan. Zaenab vs. Sarah: Particularly Doel’s father is in favour of Doel’s friendship with Sarah. Doel’s mother however still remembers Zaenab, the daughter of an acquaintance. When Zaenab and Doel were young, their respective parents agreed to give their son and daughter in marriage to

Appendix F

8

9

10

11

12

13 14

15

351

one another. Now that Babe has come to know and appreciate Sarah, he claims not to remember this agreement. The exams: When the date of the final exams approaches, it turns out that the financial situation of his family forces Doel to withdraw from the exams. Hans finds out what is bothering his friend and offers him a loan, but Doel declines. Hans then feels compelled to remind Doel of the reason he went to college in the first place: to disprove the general opinion that the Betawi never make it to university. A serious talk: Babe and Doel have a serious talk about Doel’s struggle to become an engineer. Doel explains to his father that he feels guilty for not yet having succeeded in becoming an engineer, despite the large amount of land that his father sold to help him become one. Selling land: One day a land broker and his client, a businessman from Taiwan, arrive at the Sabeni family’s premises with the intention of buying this land. As the Taiwanese cannot speak Indonesian, Hans, who turns out to speak Mandarin Chinese, offers to act as an intermediary. Babe and the businessman then engage in negotiations. Because Babe asks for Rp 500,000 per metre while his interlocutor only offers one tenth of that price, they fail to reach an agreement. The land transaction, Part I: Hans considers the failed negotiations a perfect opportunity to help his friend. He and Sarah decide to buy the land for Sarah’s father, who is a businessman too and needs a plot to build a storehouse. Because Hans knows that Doel would not agree with what they are doing, he keeps the transaction a secret from him and asks Doel’s parents to do the same. The land transaction, Part II: Although they do not understand the why, Babe and Nyak agree to keep their mouth shut about the land transaction, although one day Doel’s mother almost discloses the secret by accident. Suspicious Lela: While both Lela and Sabeni are grateful and excited that their land will be sold, Lela is puzzled by the fact that the buyer has agreed to the price without haggling over it. The land transaction, Part III: The next day Sarah takes Doel’s parents to the notary, where the transaction is formalized. When Doel’s father is asked to sign the contract, it becomes apparent that he is illiterate. A solution is quickly found: Babe signs the contract in the traditional way with a thumbprint. Tukang insinyur: After the exams, Doel returns home, where his family is anxiously awaiting the results. Looking downcast, Doel heads straight for the house. Only when his father hesitantly asks how things went does Doel reveal that he has actually passed the exams. The family is overjoyed, and in a moving scene Babe sets out to spread the news to the neighbours.

352

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

Appendix F

Sarah’s birthday party: Sarah has invited Doel to attend her birthday party. At this party Roy, Sarah’s self-proclaimed boyfriend, discloses Sarah’s secret: in front of all the other guests he informs Doel that Sarah is writing her undergraduate thesis on him and the other members of the ‘primitive’ Betawi community. While Doel is visibly shocked by Roy’s announcement, he remains calm and gives Roy a powerful reply in which he accuses him of being unethical. He then gives Sarah a small present and leaves. Upon his departure, Sarah bursts into tears. Disappointed Doel: After discovering Sarah’s hidden agenda, Doel is angry and disappointed. Above all, he is frustrated that Sarah apparently considers him a ‘primitive’ instead of her equal. In addition, Doel is very disappointed in his best friend Hans, who has kept this secret from him and who to some extent is even involved. The reconciliation: After Doel’s initial anger and frustration fade, he approaches Sarah to discuss what she has written about the Betawi. Eventually Sarah is made to acknowledge that she is as strange in the eyes of the people whom she studies as they are in hers. The graduation ceremony, part I: Doel leaves for the university in his graduation suit. As is customary among Betawi, his family and neighbours escort him. A rebana band, performing Islamic songs to tambourine music, heads the procession, and firecrackers are lit to mark the occasion. The graduation ceremony, part II: After the graduation ceremony, Doel looks around at the parking lot to see if he can spot Sarah, but because there is no sign of her, the family decides to go home straight away. When they are already at the verge of departure, Sarah suddenly appears. Running towards the oplet, she shouts happily that she too has passed her exams. As every episode does, this final one closes with credit titles. A job offer: Doel is offered a very attractive job in Natuna, a small archipelago near the border with Malaysia. Though this would be an excellent job opportunity for Doel, his father refuses to grant permission. In fact, in a rage Babe tears Doel’s appointment letter into pieces and Doel is forced to turn the offer down. The oplet: In the second series, Babe Sabeni hands the task of driving the oplet over to Mandra. Though Mandra is promoted, he is still expected to hand the money he earns from driving the oplet to Babe at the end of each day. Wedding plans: Mandra as a rule falls short at whatever it is he is doing or planning to do. The most dramatic example of this is his tragic failure to marry his beloved girlfriend Munaroh. In this scene, Mandra discusses his wedding plans with his father, Engkong Ali.

Appendix F

24

25 26

27 28

29

30

31 32

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The proposal: Engkong Ali proposes to Nyai Rodie on the very same day that Mandra had wanted to propose to Munaroh. Despite his protests, tradition forces Mandra to accompany his father to Ali’s wife-to-be, while in fact he had planned things the other way around. Sabeni and Lela join the proposal ceremony too, although they feel sorry for Mandra. Discussing the newlyweds: Sabeni expresses his doubts about Engkong Ali’s sudden marriage to Lela. The motorcycle: Engkong Ali buys a brand new motorcycle for Doel to facilitate Doel’s search for a job. Mandra is frustrated, because his father never buys him any presents. This leads to an argument between Mandra and Doel. Sarah, Zaenab, and Doel: Sarah and Zaenab both like Doel and try to win his heart. In this scene, Sarah is on her way to Doel’s house when she bumps into Doel and Zaenab. The tanjidor player (first occurrence in Chapter 8): This excerpt features an old man, Engkong Ca’at, whose job is to repair the brass instruments used in tanjidor. When Engkong Ca’at learns that Doel is an engineer who ‘knows a great deal about machines’, he asks him to fix a tanjidor instrument for him. Doel is taken by surprise by this unusual request, but accepts the challenge. With some help from a professional repairman, Doel eventually succeeds in his mission. Babe is ill: Babe is ill and seems a bit depressed. Lela tries to persuade him to take his medicine and to think positive. She also reminds her husband with an Arabic quote from the Koran that Islam teaches them to be patient. The scolding: Atun aspires to become a beautician. When her father disregards her request, Atun decides to earn the money herself; hence she joins Mandra as driver’s mate on the oplet, something that normally only men are. When Babe finds out, he is very angry with his daughter at first. Atun defends herself, saying that like her brother, she too has educational aspirations. Mister Kredit (first occurrence Chapter 4): Kang Mamang is a Sundanese hawker of household appliances. Here he pays a professional visit to the Sabeni family. Adulterous Babe (first occurrence Chapter 4): Various people have told Lela that Babe is seeing another woman. Initially Lela refuses to believe these rumours, but then she picks up some signals herself. To find out the truth, Lela decides to pay her husband a surprise visit when he is operating the oplet. When she spots ‘the other woman’, Lela crosses the street and walks quickly towards the oplet. She gets into the car just a few seconds after the special passenger. Babe, who does not know who

354

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34

35

36

37

Appendix F

is getting on the oplet, starts yelling at a person who turns out to be his own wife. Suicidal oplet (first occurrence Chapter 4): Lela has caught Babe in the act and is furious. For days she refuses to talk to her husband. She declines to cook for her family, leaving some money on the table instead. Lela does not want to share a bed with her husband and prefers to sleep in her daughter’s room. This situation continues for some time until one night Lela wakes up and seizes a coil of rope. The next morning Mas Karyo is the first to discover what has happened. His eyes wide open because of what he sees, Karyo can only murmur how terrible it is. It then appears that Babe’s oplet has been hung in a tree. When Babe discovers that his car has ‘committed suicide’, as he phrases it, he furiously inquires who is responsible. Lela reveals that she did it. Yelling at her husband, who looks down in shame, Lela explains why she vented her anger in this way. Paying a devotional visit (first occurrence Chapter 3): In this excerpt, the Sabeni family pays a visit to their ancestors’ land to keep a vow (kaulan). Sabeni had once sworn that if Doel succeeded in becoming an engineer, he would pay his respects to his ancestors. When his wife reminds him of this promise, Babe decides that they will keep it the next morning. Even though a football stadium and a golf course have been built on the land that his ancestors used to own, Sabeni persists in his intention to pay a visit. The family thus enters the stadium, where they arrive in the midst of a football match. As they are about to settle down on the football field to have a picnic, they are sent away. The trip then continues to the golf course, where they search for the place where Sabeni’s parental home used to be. Karyo can’t pay the rent (first occurrence Chapter 3): Babe Sabeni has threatened to expel Mas Karyo from his premises if Mas Karyo does not pay the rent at once. That evening, Mas Karyo tries to borrow money from Atun. As he sneaks to her room, he quietly starts talking to himself in Javanese. This monologue was later subtitled in Jakarta Malay by one of the editors. Mas Karyo argues with his wife (first occurrence Chapter 3): Mas Karyo and Atun return home after an afternoon of shopping in the city. They are talking in Jakarta Malay when suddenly Sofia, Karyo’s wife (soonto-be ex-wife) ‘from Java’, interrupts the conversation. Addressed in Javanese, Mas Karyo is triggered to respond in Javanese too. This Javanese dialogue was also subtitled in Jakarta Malay. Lebaran (first occurrence Chapter 5): This is the prologue to a standalone episode of the sinetron, which was produced for the occasion of Idul Fitri, the end of the fasting month of Ramadan.

Appendix F

38 39

40 41 42

43

44

355

The Doel movies (first occurrence Chapter 1): trailer of movies Child of Betawi and Child of Modernity. Contains signature tune, sung by Rano Karno as a child. Social advertising campaign for PIN/anti-polio (first occurrence Chapter 1): Si Doel actors perform in campaigns addressing social issues. One such campaign is the yearly national anti-polio campaign, in which Si Doel actors have performed since 1995. The actors, notably Mandra and Rano Karno, were chosen as mascots for this campaign because both children and adults were familiar with them. Their assignment was on the one hand to convince parents of the need to vaccinate their children, and on the other to reassure children that a vaccination was nothing to be afraid of. Social advertising campaign for education (first occurrence Chapter 1): This campaign, entitled Aku anak sekolah, tries to encourage people to prioritize educating their children. Social advertising campaign for the general elections (first occurrence Chapter 1): This campaign, entitled Setiap suara punya makna, stresses the importance of democratic, free, and non-violent general elections. The production of Si Doel (first occurrence Chapter 2): A major event in the fifth series is the marriage of Doel’s sister Atun to neighbour Karyo in a Betawi wedding ceremony. This excerpt contains images of the production of this particular episode. At this wedding, which dominates the final episode, it is suggested that Doel and Sarah will be the next couple to be married. The Sunsilk quiz (first occurrence Chapter 6): Tika Panggabean, a female entertainer who for the occasion is dressed as a Betawi woman, hosts the Sunsilk Quiz. A couple of minutes before a new episode of Si Doel 4 is to be broadcast, Tika welcomes viewers to the quiz. After her introduction, Tika suggests that viewers watch the coming episode of Si Doel carefully so that they will be able to answer the quiz questions afterwards. The quiz host also hints at some matters that will be treated in that week’s episode, and reveals the passwords viewers will need to participate in the quiz. Commercial for Ramayana (first occurrence Chapter 9): In the RamayanaDoel commercial, Babe Sabeni, Doel, and Mandra return home from the communal prayer session (sholat Idul Fitri) held on the morning of Idul Fitri. At home, they meet up with Atun and Nyak Lela. According to tradition, the members of the family then ask each other for forgiveness. Next Atun shows her new clothes to her uncle Mandra, who comments that she looks smart. It turns out that both Mandra and Atun have bought their clothes at the Ramayana storehouse. A voice-over, dubbed by Rano Karno, announces that Ramayana now offers high discounts on its products.

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Appendix F

Commercial for Honda 1: The first Honda commercial was produced and aired in 1993, with a Jakartan actor named Barkah playing the role of the main character Doel. The ad shows that Doel – a white caption at the bottom of the screen explicitly mentions the name of the character – has problems with his motorcycle: his bike, obviously not a Honda, proves unable to climb a steep road. In addition, it is suddenly out of petrol, which has apparently happened many times before. Doel decides to sell his troublesome motorbike right away, but to his great disappointment he receives little money for it. A voice-over then starts recommending Honda motorcycles, while the images illustrate this account. Commercial for Honda 2: This commercial highlights Honda’s position as market leader. The ad revolves around Mandra’s father, Engkong Ali, who thinks he knows the owner of every Honda that passes by. When someone riding a Honda motorbike drives by without greeting him, the old man murmurs, visibly annoyed, that it is very impolite of his son to ignore him, ‘There, that’s Mandra who drives by, how disrespectful of him’. Luckily, Doel, who gives Zaenab a ride on his Honda motorcycle, can set the record straight. He explains to his grandfather that apart from Mandra and him there are scores of other people who own a Honda motorcycle. Commercial for Honda 3: The person who is eager to buy a motorcycle in this commercial is Mas Karyo, the Sabeni family’s Javanese neighbour. Mas Karyo tries to persuade Mandra to bring him to a Honda dealer. When Mandra hesitates, Mas Karyo promises to treat him afterwards to drinks or a meal.

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Audiography Obrolan Betawi, Bens Radio, 15 April 1998, 4-5 p.m. Obrolan Betawi, Bens Radio, 22 April 1998, 4-5 p.m. Obrolan Betawi, Bens Radio, 24 June 1998, 4-5 p.m. Filmography Djaya, Sjuman (director) 1971 Lewat Tengah Malam. Djakarta: Allied Film of Indonesia. Djajakusuma (director) 1971 Malin Kundang (anak durhaka). Djakarta: Remadja Ellynda Film. Jusa Biran, Misbach (director) 1967 Menjusuri Djedjak Berdarah. Djakarta: Persari, Ifdil Film and Perfini. Rano Karno (director/producer) Unreleased Petualangan Si Doel. Singapore: Animata; Jakarta: PT Karnos Film. Schadt, Fritz G. (director) 1972 Lingkaran Setan. Djakarta: Dipa Jaya Film. Sjuman Djaya (director/producer) 1973 Si Doel Anak Betawi. Djakarta: Matari Film. 1976 Si Doel Anak Modern. Jakarta: Matari Film. Sudjio, Lilik (director) 1957 Anakku Sajang. Djakarta: Safina and Persari. Weir, Peter (director) and Rudin, Scott (producer) 1998 The Truman Show. Hollywood: Paramount Pictures. Videography Karno, Rano (director/producer) 1994-2003 Si Doel Anak Sekolahan 1-6. Jakarta: Karnos Film. Kusuma, Husein (director) 1997 Fatima. Jakarta: Wahana Kusuma. Mizwar, Deddy (director) 1997-99 Mat Angin. Jakarta: Demi Gizela Citra Sinema.

Index advertising 43-4, 54, 90, 162, 165-6, 172, 175, 254-6, 263, 315, 318 ban on 42, 236 industry 31, 235-8 Si Doel see Educated Doel and advertising Aku anak sekolah 35 Aku dan sahabatku 35 Alisyahbana, Sutan Takdir 261 Aman Datuk Madjoindo 17, 18, 20, 23-4, 30-1, 33, 36, 38-9, 63, 86 Ambon 18, 106, 230, 275-6 anak Betawi 24, 27, 30-1, 222, 269 ANTV 43-5, 228, 229, 273, 283, 327 Arabic 109, 123, 152,154, 156, 158, 272, 277 Ardan, S.M. 266, 323 audience elusive 172, 202 measurement 172-3, 202, 289 monitored 201 Si Doel see Educated Doel and audience television 47, 90, 103, 157-8, 163, 173, 185, 201-2, 263-4, 288, 290, 313-6, 321, 323, 325 upper-class 2, 168-9, 171, 191, 229 bahasa Betawi see Betawi Malay bahasa Indonesia see Standard Indonesian bahasa Jawa see Javanese language bahasa Sunda see Sundanese Bakrie Group 44 Balai Pustaka 17, 18, 20, 22-5, 38, 320, 323

Bali 18, 106, 202, 289, 298, 306, 318, 333-4, 335 Balinese 109-10 Bamus Betawi 213, 233 Bandung 173, 182, 200-1, 275 Banyuwangi 273 Batak 106, 126, 145, 147, 158, 181, 229, 275, 280 Batavia 106-7 Bens Radio 223-6, 233, 253, 321, 323 Benyamin Suaeb 24, 27-8, 30, 61, 65, 78, 81, 88, 197, 199, 213, 230-1, 266-8, 303, 323 Betawi 141, 213, 222, 268, 303-4, 311, 319, 322, 326 community 1, 17-9, 26, 36, 41, 75, 81, 88, 106-8, 110, 113, 127, 161, 209, 231, 233, 253, 265, 309 culture 2, 58, 77, 87-8, 170, 184, 206, 214, 220, 224-5, 228, 231, 233, 249, 265, 267, 319, 321 development of Jakarta 26 education 19-21, 25-6, 31, 37-8, 50, 202, 216, 223-4 see also Educated Doel and education ethnicity 113, 211, 221 ‘genuine’ 41, 50, 57, 132, 212, 215, 224, 304 identity see identity; Islam 51, 63, 214 land issues 59, 227 see also Educated Doel and land issues language 103, 111, 35, 184 see also Betawi Malay

372

Index



modernity 28, 37-8 sinetron see sinetron Betawi stereotypes 50, 53, 215, 223-4, 228, 233 traditional theatre 77, 80, 140, 143, 145, 169, 217, 323 Betawi Malay 18, 19, 21, 38, 107, 113, 141, 149, 169-70, 181, 190, 212-5, 2201, 225, 230, 249-50, 253, 259, 259, 261, 264-70, 275-6, 281, 289-90, 292, 294-9, 301-4, 306, 309-10, 312, 315, 318-322, 334, 337 BIYBB see Good and Correct Indonesian Bogor 182 Broadcast Law 44-5, 189, 265, 271, 274, 277, 283, 327-31 Brunei Darussalam 193 budaya daerah see regional culture Caraka, Purwa 84, 97 CDA see critical discourse analysis censorship 227, 281, 326 Child of Betawi (book) 17-25, 33, 36, 63, 320, 323 Child of Betawi (movie) 22, 24-30, 35, 36-7, 50, 73, 76, 186, 247 Child of Jakarta 18, 22 Child of modernity 27-9, 33, 36-7, 50, 77-8, 186 China 248 Chinese Indonesian 5, 44-5, 69-70, 106, 120, 329 see also Educated Doel and representation of Chinese Chinese 44, 54, 59, 69-70, 82, 109, 123, 147, 193, 282, 293, 326, 329 see also Educated Doel and representation of Chinese class 2, 68-9 code-switching 113, 124, 133 Constitution of 1945 43, 259-60 Corporate Doel 1, 30 critical discourse analysis 5-9, 103, 127, 132, 149-151, 210, 325 critical linguistics 8-9

cultural practice 46-7 culture 3, 74, 274, 329 Betawi see Betawi foreign 171, 279 global 105 local 71, 330 national 49, 66, 161, 309 popular 67 regional 55, 169 translation of 287 Deppen see Ministry of Information Developing the Indonesian language 272-3 discourse 1, 5-6, 8-10, 58, 62, 70-1, 73, 123, 127, 133, 135-6, 151, 251, 288, 290, 331 advertising 249, 256, 297, 304 Betawi 59, 161, 209, 213, 216-7, 223, 226, 231, 233, 297, 315, 319 broadcasting 46, 161, 166, 171, 174-5, 180, 297 definition of 5-6 framing 6, 70, 161 practices 7, 73, 76, 105, 161, 163, 185 public critical 176, 186-7, 198, 200-1, 204, 207, 297, 301, 315, 327 sociolinguistic 261, 264, 270, 297, 319 theory 6-8 discursive elaboration 161, 201, 204, 233, 277, 320, 325 event 8 practice 66, 73 processes 140 Djaya, Sjuman 23-4, 26, 30-1, 36, 63, 73-4, 76,79, 186, 188, 247 Djojonegoro, Wardiman 278-80, 282 Doel’s adventures 29, 32-3, 36-7 Doel commercials see Educated Doel Educated Doel 1, 5, 11-2, 29, 30, 36, 38 advertising 96-8, 167, 176-80, 184, 196, 237-57, 304 see also Educated Doel and commercials

Index

audience 32, 34-5, 37-8, 63, 66, 70-1, 75-6, 84, 89, 91, 100, 103, 135, 148, 152, 156-8, 165-6, 168, 170-1, 175, 178, 182, 184-6, 193, 198, 200-2, 204, 206, 211, 215, 220-1, 225, 266, 287- 316, 317-8, 321, 323 Betawi 59, 61-5, 91, 161, 165, 200, 209 BIYBB 309-10 broadcast rights 167 commercials 31, 36-7, 238-57, 305-8, 318, 324 see also Educated Doel and advertising copyright 39 development of Jakarta 88 education 57-8, 62, 64, 68-70, 217-9, 242 see also Betawi and education ethnicity 55, 58, 68-70, 118, 126, 132, 144-5, 147, 194, 202, 217, 320 gender 66, 70, 79, 218-9 Islam 69, 83, 94-5, 216, 222, 244 land issues 81-2, 216 see also Betawi and land issues language 53, 259-83 mainstream sinetron 74-5, 79, 83, 148, 191-2, 196-7, 201, 206, 301, 318 modernity 62, 217, 219 monetary crisis 179, 182-3, 194-8, 317, 325 see also monetary crisis production 7, 73-100, 135-58 ratings 171-79, 184, 193, 196, 199-200 representation of Betawi 141, 143-6, 149, 188, 191-4, 197, 199, 202, 215- 222, 232, 256 representation of Chinese 59, 69-70, 82-3, 97, 145, 147-8, 158, 320, 326; representation of Javanese script 136-45 stereotypes 217, 219, 221, 232 see also Betawi and stereotypes subtitling see subtitling traditional theatre 122, 124 unemployment 87, 242-3, 317 elite 2, 56, 69, 71, 75, 91, 116, 141, 263, 317-8 see also audience and upperclass

373

ethical policy 20 ethnic 192-3, 206, 231 background 79, 89, 184, 207, 225, 229, 260 group 54, 62, 106, 157, 209-10, 280, 330-1 programming 45, 330-1 extended mediatization 35-6, 320, 325 Farida, Ida 31, 63, 73-5, 80, 84, 87-8 Fatahillah 106 Fatima 226, 228-9, 232 film industry 23, 43, 189, 279 collapse of 48, 74, 77 Fretes de, Harry 168-70, 227, 326 gender 2, 3, 68, 128 genre 9, 11, 46-7, 71, 73, 75-6, 133, 161, 168-9, 192, 254-6, 264, 275, 325 Gereja Betawi 214 globalization 1-2, 188, 249 Global TV 44 Golkar 34, 44, 170 Good and Correct Indonesian 262, 264-5, 272, 274, 279-80, 325 Gossip lenong 168-70, 184, 206, 226, 326 Gus Dur see Wahid, Abdurrahman Habibie, Bacharuddin Jusuf 44, 328, 330 Hakim, Christine 48 Harmoko 189, 278-9, 282 Hartono, R. 282-3 Helen and the boys 273-4, 277 identity 9, 132 Betawi 113, 209, 212, 233, 322 cultural 41, 49, 203, 215, 287 ethnic 110, 215 gender 68, 287 local 215 national 1, 49, 203, 215, 287 IGGI 67, 327 Indo 54, 56, 116, 123 Indonesian see Standard Indonesian

374

Index

Indosiar 43, 45, 63, 66, 91, 162, 167, 175-6, 198-9, 257, 327, 330 Institute for the Advancement of Betawi Culture 18, 161, 213-4, 233, 266 Internet 4, 11, 105 jago 19, 25 Jakarta 1, 5, 13, 25-6, 50-1, 53, 56-7, 59, 64, 66, 71, 74, 79-80, 82-3, 87-9, 96, 110, 114-5, 133, 138, 142, 145, 148, 158, 164, 169, 181, 200, 213-4, 217, 221, 224, 237, 247, 259, 262, 265, 267-71, 273, 275, 281, 297, 299, 301, 311, 313, 315, 317-8, 320, 322, 325, 327, 327, 333-5 development of 106-7 Greater Jakarta 173 land issues 211, 213, 227, 326 language see languagescape and Jakarta Jakarta Malay 82, 96, 107-21, 125-6, 128, 136, 138, 140, 142, 145-9, 153, 156-7, 190, 205, 247, 250, 254, 270, 273, 277, 289, 301, 309-13, 315, 319, 321-5, 337 Java 289, 333 Javanese culture 19, 20, 55, 79-80, 90, 98, 106, 120, 142, 145, 194, 196-7, 201-2, 213, 229-30, 265, 275, 280, 289 language 91, 109-10, 118-21, 125, 136, 139, 143-4, 147-9, 155-8, 212, 230, 260, 267, 274-7, 280, 289-90, 295, 298-9, 301, 303, 319-20, 325, 333-4, 335, 337 Johor 261 Karno, Rano Child of Betawi 23-4, 26-27 Educated Doel 29-32, 36-8, 66-7, 73, 163, 165, 170, 176, 186, 191, 194-5 see also Educated Doel and Karnos Film Karnos Film 35, 38-9, 49, 63, 73, 76-7, 80, 81, 87, 93-4, 98, 99-100, 119, 135-58, 162-6, 184-5, 195-6, 201, 204, 207, 209, 248, 256, 276-7, 319, 326-8, 334 see also Educated Doel and production

Kaum Betawi 212 ketoprak 90, 143, 275 krisis moneter see monetary crisis Laksono, Agus 44 Lampung 203 language advertising 237, 249-254 Betawi see Betawi Malay commodification of 8 foreign 118, 263-4, 271, 276-7, 279, 282 local 105, 275 national see Standard Indonesian policies 123 regional 104, 118, 158, 213, 260, 264-6, 268, 271-2, 274, 276, 280-1, 324, 333 Si Doel see Educated Doel and language television see television and language Language Centre 261, 264, 272, 279 languagescape 103-7, 271, 275-6 Indonesia 104-5, 267, 315 Jakarta 110-13, 118 Si Doel 114-134, 127, 132-3, 162, 135-58, 304-5, 315, 320-3 see also Educated Doel and language Lembaga Kebudayaan Betawi see Institute for the Advancement of Betawi Culture lenong 53, 78-9, 142-3, 168-9, 210-12, 227 Liem Sioe Liong 44 local content 170 appeal 44, 165, 171, 189 locality 2, 206, 249, 317 local programming 2, 157, 165, 168, 176, 189-90 Lombok 109 Losmen 75 Madiun 138 Madura 230, 267, 275 Malay 259-61

Index Malaysia 74, 193, 261, 278 Manado 106, 230, 268, 275-6, 331 Mat Angin 226, 228-231, 233, 275, 321 Medan 173, 200-1, 270 Metro TV 44, 329 Metro xin wen 44 Minangkabau 106, 280 Ministry of Information 42-3, 45, 48, 81, 100, 271, 283, 329-30 Ministry of Justice 39 Moluccas 331 monetary crisis 4-5, 35, 67, 88, 162-3, 237, 248, 259, 283, 328 see also Educated Doel and monetary crisis multimediality 70, 151, 290, 314, 320, 324 multimodality 70, 149, 151, 158, 290, 314, 320,324 multiple authorship 73, 145 Multivision see sinetron and mainstream Munduk 202 Muntaco, Firman 221, 227, 266, 323 nation 2, 3, 5, 42, 54, 68, 70, 261, 264, 325, 327 (Neo) hollow talk 226-8, 326 New Order 1, 3-4, 7, 34, 41, 54-5, 58-9, 62, 66-70, 74, 161, 185, 236-7, 282, 287, 317, 322, 325-7, 329, 331 Noor, Soekarno M. 23-4, 76 Nugroho, Garin 2, 190 Old Order 3 oplet 33, 50-1, 53, 56-7, 63-4, 81, 87, 117, 129-31, 152, 199, 219, 228, 292 orang Betawi see Betawi Orde Baru see New Order Orde Lama see Old Order Padang 276 Palapa satellite 41, 43, 193, 236, 263 Panca Sila 3, 43, 70 Papua 331

375

Partai Demokrasi Indonesia 170, 326, 328 personal pronouns 109, 111, 114-8, 127-8, 131, 133, 142, 148, 205, 303, 310 Portuguese 109 production house 2, 76, 163, 165-6, 168, 278, 282 Punjabi, Raam Jethmal 48-9 Pusat Pembinaan dan Pengembangan Bahasa see Language Centre Rajawali Citra Televisi Indonesia see RCTI ratings 2, 63, 171-3, 186, 201-2, 225, 256 RCTI 1-2, 30, 37, 42-5, 49-50, 63, 66, 75-6, 84, 98-100, 157, 163, 165-72, 175, 178, 180, 183-5, 190, 193-6, 198, 201, 203, 238, 256-7, 319, 326-7, 330 reality 5-6, 104, 161, 203 illusion of 103-4, 124, 132, 145, 320 realseemingness 135, 143, 158, 321 rebana 63, 217 Reformasi see reform movement reform movement 1, 3, 4, 34, 67, 100, 170, 198, 325-6, 328-30 Riau 261, 331 Rukmana, Siti Hardiyanti Hastuti 43 rumah produksi see production house Saidi, Ridwan 108 Salim Group 44 SARA 4, 43, 55, 68-9, 74-5 SCTV 42-5, 47, 172, 214, 278, 327 Semarang 173 semiotic modalities 149, 151, 153-4, 157-8 Shahab, Ali 94 Si Doel Anak Betawi see Child of Betawi Si Doel anak gedongan see Corporate Doel Si Doel anak Jakarta 18 Si Doel anak Jakarta II 22 Si Doel anak konglomerat 87 Si Doel anak modern see Child of Modernity

376

Index

Si Doel anak pegawai 87 Si Doel naik haji 76 Petualangan Si Doel see Doel’s adventures Si Doel anak sekolahan see Educated Doel Sadikin, Ali 211 Semarang 173, 200-1 sinetron 2, 11, 41, 45, 67, 70, 74, 76, 80, 82, 90-1, 145, 162, 171, 275, 318, 325, 329 definition of 1 domestic 317 genre 46-7, 84, 165 industry 163, 168, 188-9, 264, 327-8 mainstream 48-9, 70, 94, 184-5, 187, 276, 322 sinetron Betawi 200, 222, 226-32, 275, 323, 326 Singapore 32, 193 Si Pitung 24, 36, 78 Sitti Nurbaya 75 social semiotics 8, 149, 151 Soeharto 1, 3-5, 43, 54, 66-8, 236, 278, 325, 327-30 Soekarnoputra, Guruh 168 Soekarnoputri, Megawati 45, 328, 330 Sondakh, Peter 44 Spoken Jakarta Indonesian 107, 111-2, 116-8, 147-8, 152, 205, 277, 322 Srimulat 54, 79, 90-1, 143-4 Standard Indonesian 4, 10, 38, 59, 69, 104, 106, 111-13, 114, 116, 118, 120, 121-3, 126, 136, 144-8, 153-4, 157, 170, 205, 247, 259-64, 266-9, 271-4, 277-81, 282-3, 289, 294, 297-304, 311-3, 315, 319, 322, 322, 324-5, 337 subtitling 162, 190, 263, 273 Educated Doel 96, 99, 118-9, 123, 148-9, 152-3, 156-7, 193, 290, 297-300, 315, 334 debate on, and dubbing 264, 271, 277-83, 325 Sudiro 211 Sudwikatmono 44 Sukarno 3, 4, 189, 261, 276

Sumatra 106, 108, 203, 230, 275, 301 Sumbawa 265 Sunda 91, 97, 106, 109-10, 120-2, 147, 158, 212-3, 229, 267, 275, 303, 320 Sunda Kelapa 105 Surabaya 173, 200-1, 237 Surakarta 261 Suryono, Haryono 198 Taiwan 248 tanjidor 212, 216-7 Tanjung Priok 24, 50 television audience see audience commercial 10, 41-3, 48, 71, 172, 236-7, 254, 270-1, 274, 322, 328; deregulation 264, 271 introduction of 4, 10 language 108, 123, 150, 155, 158, 261, 264, 271, 287, 296, 313-4, 316, 321-5 local 1, 45, 168, 184, 330 nation-building 4, 10, 262-3 national 1-3, 10, 48-9, 74, 82, 161, 189, 237, 264, 275-6, 309, 317, 322-3, 325, 331 regional 274 term of address 127-8, 133, 220, 225, 230-2, 303, 321 text 135 primary 161 secondary 161, 176, 180, 204, 207, 222, 226, 277, 320 Thamrin, Muhammad Husni 212 Tjahyono, Harry 63, 73, 87-8, 138, 191 topeng 53, 78-9, 142-3, 169, 211-2, 217, 227 TPI 43-5, 172, 190, 228-9, 278, 327 transnational 36, 42, 235 Trans TV 44 Trihatmodjo, Bambang 44 TVRI 41-2, 75, 100, 236, 262-4, 272, 274-5, 278, 327 TV7 44 Undang-Undang Penyiaran (UUP) see Broadcast Law

Index Unicef 17, 34-5, 37, 197 upper-class see elite

Westoxification 189, 202, 206, 325 Wiranto 100

viewing figures see ratings

Yogyakarta 138, 275, 300-1, 306, 327, 333, 335

Wahid, Abdurrahman 44, 329-30

377