A 3200 word defense of a much-maligned TV genre
Once, early in my tenure in a previous job, my big boss — the highest level executive in my chain of command — asked me about my life outside of work. We were in her beautiful corner office, sunlight brightening the room, a beautiful “Group of Seven” painting hanging on the white walls. There was a big screen with a camera above for teleconference calls. We were waiting for the virtual meeting to start and she wanted to get to know me a little better.
“You clearly know a lot about AI and technology. What AI books do you read outside of work?”
Almost without hesitation, I said — “Honestly, I watch a lot of trashy reality TV, like The Bachelor and The Bachelorette. Love is Blind. Vanderpump Rules.”
She looked at me with a puzzled look. I immediately felt ashamed and embarrassed. I just presented myself as a crude, uneducated pleb to my top boss — a veteran diplomat with a storied career. I was a fraud who was in over his head, not passionate about the field I was supposedly an “expert” in. I immediately regretted my words.
I felt the need to explain and justify.
“I use so much of my energy and brainpower during the day that when I get home, I just want to shut down and not think. I just want to ingest garbage television.”
In that moment, I felt she was judging me. Did I just ruin her perception of me as an intellectual? Not a sharp, smart, competent policy analyst? Did I lose her respect?
Ok, how can I save myself?
“Actually, I think of reality TV as a kind of game or sport. With winners and losers and strategies.”
Ok, did I do enough to explain myself? To save face?
Perhaps I came across as a “well-rounded individual” who wasn’t addicted to work, who had unique interests, who was an intriguing person. “I contain multitudes,”™ etc. etc. etc.
“I actually understand. When I get home, I just want to spend time in my garden. But I understand how difficult it is to take your mind off work.”
The screen turned on and the virtual meeting was starting.
*Phew. I think I saved myself.*
I was embarrassed, but I was confident that the work I do speaks for itself. In retrospect, I don’t think she cared at all. After over a year of working for her, I knew that she wasn’t just incredibly competent and effective at getting the job done. She was also super kind and cared for her employees. At the end of the year, as my contract was ending and I was onto the next opportunity, she stopped me in the hallway, thanked me for my work, and wished me well for my wedding.
“We couldn’t have gotten the job done without you. Thank you.”
I am smart. I am good at what I do. And yes, I love reality TV.
Before I met Rebecca, I was incredibly derisive of reality TV. I thought — this slop was absolute trash — there’s no way that any of these couples on The Bachelor or Love is Blind stay together — how is it possible that these people can be wasted every single night? — the conversations are vacuous and mind-numbing — the challenges are dumb — the people who go on these shows are terrible human beings and they’re all just acting — etc. etc. etc.
Reluctantly, I was hanging out next to Rebecca as she watched Clayton’s season of the Bachelor. It was near the end of the season with three final women to choose from. That stage of the season is known as “Overnights,” where for three consecutive nights, the Bachelor sleeps overnight with each of the finalists. Every season, it’s implied that the Bachelor is intimate with the women when the couple retreats to their hotel room and the cameras stop filming. However, I learnt later on that often the overnight time without the cameras and mics allow the couple to have sensitive conversations. They can discuss religion or politics, reveal any skeletons in the closet, or bring up any other topics they may not want to reveal to the general TV audience — and later I learnt that they might also discuss “strategy”… (I’ll get back to that later.)
As the show hurtled toward the Rose Ceremony — the elimination event where the Bachelor or Bachelorette choose their preferred candidates to move on or to eventually choose the winner — one of the women self-eliminated because Clayton had been intimate with the other two women. At the Rose Ceremony, he told the final two women that the other contestant had left of her own volition. And then he told both finalists that he loved them both. The two women broke down crying, with one of them crumbling on the stairs in despair in this modern architectural Icelandic opera house. It was ridiculous and gaudy… and absolutely enthralling television. It was like a modern Shakespearean tragedy broadcasted to millions watching across North America.
I was skeptical, but I decided to give it more of a try. So I watched The Bachelorette. And then I watched Bachelor in Paradise — an “All-Stars” format of the most popular “Bachelor Nation” contestants — where hot singles spend several weeks at a resort, drinking heavily, having fun, and trying to “find love” (Sound familiar?). And then I started watching Love is Blind. And eventually I graduated to Vanderpump Rules and The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives.
Over the past month and a half, Rebecca and I have tuned into Crave every night (except Wednesdays and Saturdays) at 9pm to watch a show that can only be described as “Beast Games meets soft-core porn” — Love Island. Throughout June to early July, the show airs everyday, operating in almost real-time as episodes are filmed and edited in the previous 24-48 hours before airing. Wednesdays are rest days, while the official “recap” podcast are streamed on Saturdays.
Love Island is Bachelor in Paradise cranked up to overdrive. It is so overstimulating and yet mind-numbing at the same time. The conversations are incredibly dumb but absolutely hilarious. They argue about how their relationships may not be “sincere” (iykyk) because they’re “lustful.” Some conversations become truly viral moments (“I’m a mommy.” “Mamacita!”) that inspire Statistics Canada social media posts. The challenges have no stakes to the “competition” of the show and they involve lots of making out, dry humping, and… goop? Like weird slime that they end up completely covered in. Megan Thee Stallion makes an appearance to host one of the challenges involving cakes being thrown at people’s faces. Big emotional moments are soundtracked by covers of Natalie Imbruglia’s “Torn” or Snow Patrol’s “Chasing Cars.” One character is doing the splits while yelling “FUCK YOU!” with a fist up in resistance. It is a real fever dream, but I am completely entranced.
Producers introduce certain elements throughout the season — like “Casa Amor” — to stir up drama and maybe even pressure long-standing (boring) couples to break up. On “Movie Night,” scenes from the season are screened in front of the entire cast, including footage of private conversations that conflict with what they’ve said to another person. Or maybe the producers show footage of cast members having sex or doing something else scandalous in order to stoke an uproar. It’s pure evil — perhaps even torture — on behalf of the producers and there’s no hiding behind some facade of niceness. These people are pawns in the story that the show is trying to present to the audience.
It is absolutely absurd and demands a lot of your energy and attention. But because it’s the biggest show of the summer, it becomes part of public discourse and the societal zeitgeist. And it is so mesmerizing to watch this fantasy world play out before your very eyes.
Why was I starting to enjoy this TV genre — something I used to sneer at and look down upon?
I started to realize that reality TV is fantasy. It’s entertainment. The lives these people live are so far removed from my day-to-day life. I can’t drink the insane amounts of alcohol that these people drink. I’m not getting into these ridiculous fights with ex’s or supposed “friends.” I’m not screaming over other people or splashing drinks in anyone’s faces. I’m not stealing sunglasses on a trip to Hawaii. I’m not doing (enough) coke to warrant three nose jobs in a season. It’s entertaining to see these ludicrous individuals ruin their lives because their stories are not normal. Reality TV shows exist in their own universes that, ironically, feel disconnected from actual reality. For each episode, I can inhabit a foreign world for an hour or so (including American pharma commercials) and disengage from my actual life. I can put aside my work stress and financial anxieties and existential angst. And shockingly… it’s relaxing?
I also realized that reality TV may not be scripted, but it is fictionalized in a sense. There are plots and character development and story beats and tropes. The producers are trying to create storylines. The omnipresence of these overlord producers means they are always in control. They create an air of surveillance, taking away any sense of privacy. They manipulate the “characters” to act in certain ways. Maybe they plant the seeds of doubt or resentment that could spark arguments and fights. Or maybe the producers feel like there’s chemistry between a couple, so they stoke the fire and try to put the characters into situations where they can become closer emotionally. And after filming, before the show airs, the producers will edit the footage and cut together scenes in ways that might make you detest “villainous” characters and make you cheer on “heroes.”
In these universes, disconnected from space and time, there are specific norms and tropes and rules. These “universal laws” of reality TV don’t make sense in “reality,” but they make sense within these constructed worlds. Characters fall in love with these grand romantic gestures, but when they leave the show and return to their daily lives, they rarely stay together. Rebecca has a philosophy that shows like Vanderpump Rules are built on three pillars: alcoholism, infidelity, and misogyny. You can feel disgusted, but if you can dissociate, you can put aside your morals for about an hour and laugh at or feel pity for these characters. The sooner one realizes that these norms only exist within these universes and that what is considered normal within these shows is not considered normal in the real world, the easier it becomes to accept that reality TV is what it is and you can enjoy it for what it is.
Reality TV has always traditionally been seen as only for women’s enjoyment — just “melodramatic” content. But in recent years, there has been a growing movement of commentators — podcasters, YouTube video essay creators, and even academics — that are studying reality TV in a nuanced, in-depth way. They are subverting our expectations on the conventional view that reality TV is “mindless,” “dumb,” “low-brow,” or the regrettably outdated misogynistic view that the genre is “something only women watch.”
When I started to describe my theories about reality TV to Rebecca, she told me to start listening to a podcast called Game of Roses. Two former TV writers — fondly nicknamed PaceCase and Bachelor Clues — bonded over their obsession of the Bachelor franchise and reality TV more broadly. Over the years, they’ve fleshed out a grand theory about reality TV — particularly the Bachelor shows and other dating shows — that conceived of shows in this genre as “games.” They literally wrote a whole book called “How to Win The Bachelor: The Secret to Finding Love and Fame on America’s Favorite Reality Show.”
In their philosophical framework, contestants or characters are actually “players” who make plays or game moves. For example, one could play the “personal trauma card” (or “PTC”) where a player tells the lead or another player a sad story about their life to garner sympathy. This move would strategically position oneself as someone who can show vulnerability and authenticity, someone who is open emotionally and ready for love, someone who is on the show “for the right reasons” (or “4TRR”). There are rules to the game — things you can and can’t do. Errors will set you back or potentially be fatal to your gameplay and could lead to your elimination from the show.
Game of Roses theorizes that there are actually “Four Audiences”:
- First Audience: The Lead (ie. The Bachelor or The Bachelorette)
- Second Audience: Other Players (ie. Your fellow contestants)
- Third Audience: The Producers
- Fourth Audience: The Home Viewers/The Public (ie. what we traditionally think of as the “audience”)
Our usual idea of “winning” the game is to make it to the end and be presented with “The Final Rose” and an engagement ring by the First Audience, and thus live “Happily Ever After.” But in today’s influencer-dominated society, Game of Roses highlights that the real “victory” is winning over the Fourth Audience — the post-show game, the accumulation of social media followers, and leveraging your new found fame for a new life. Building a high-profile on these shows can be lucrative and that, if players play their cards right, they can extend their “fifteen minutes of fame” to score brand deals or be cast in other reality shows (like Dancing with the Stars or The Traitors). For a select few, reality TV fame has landed them real acting gigs or even hosting a new reality TV show themselves.
A cardinal sin is pointing out the “meta-game” or explicitly pointing out the “fakeness” of the show. You absolutely cannot by any means break the “kayfabe” of the show (to use wrestling parlance). The Third Audience has complete control of the narrative, and if you attempt to go off the rails, not only will they give you the “villain edit” — they will humiliate you to the Fourth Audience, ensuring the destruction of your post-show fame and subjecting you to viral public criticism.
If a player can become a reality TV star, it can change their lives and the lives of their families. These “players” can go from trying to make ends meet through dead-end jobs to being able to buy homes for their parents. In many ways, it’s like a professional athlete making it to the “big leagues” and getting their first huge payday. Reality TV stars can live off of sponsored content or take on new opportunities that only amplify their reach. “Dark Lord” Ariana Madix (a Game of Roses inside joke) herself jumped from Vanderpump Rules to become the Emmy-nominated host of Love Island.
Podcasters like Game of Roses highlight that the genre is cutting-edge and increasingly experimental about the way society engages with content. Their thoughtful analysis exposes how reality TV actually reveals something about our culture and our societal values.
However, reality TV also doesn’t exist in a vacuum. The genre reflects society, including all its flaws. In these universes, only heteronormative, straight relationships can exist.¹ Male characters boast their “alpha” characteristics in a bid to woo the woman. Up until recently, female contestants seek traditional marital relationships based on Christian values where the man is the “provider.” Most of the people cast are white, while people of colour are cast as “token characters.” Anti-blackness is a real issue, where several contestants have gotten in trouble for saying the “N” word. And in the era of Trump and MAGA and Andrew Tate and incel culture, these “kids” manifest their ideologies in the treatment of their romantic partners, and thus showing off to the rest of the audience.
One of the themes of discussion from this season’s Love Island has been “the performance of emotional intelligence,” as one writer brilliantly put it.. Reality TV stars are weaponizing “therapy speak” (on Love Island, primarily the men, but everyone does it — see The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives) to excuse their bad behaviour. They’ll talk about “taking accountability” and “you’re entitled to your space and your feelings” and “I’m speaking my truth.” But as Jasmine Melody points out, “Gen-Z has adopted a new language for virtue signaling with one another that involves a lot of perfect phrases and acknowledgements of feelings.” What this is actually leading to is that reality TV stars are presenting themselves as morally superior because they are “working on themselves,” so the other person’s emotions are invalidated. It’s an emotional bludgeoning that doesn’t actually lead to conflict resolution and healthy relationships.
These shows may not be completely “real,” but they have real-life consequences. Recently, the would-be lead “Bachelorette” and The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives star Taylor Frankie Paul’s season was cancelled after a leaked domestic violence video. We knew that she had a history of domestic violence — it’s a central storyline in Secret Lives. I don’t think it would be ethical for me to share the gruesome details of the video here. But all that to say that it has set off a chain of events where the legal battle over her custody of her children is out there for the public to see and judge. The lives of her children will forever be changed because of Paul’s actions. I think it raises a real question of whether it’s ethical to watch. For us, the viewers, it’s fantasy. For these people, it’s their real lives.
I do think there are real valid late-stage capitalism critiques of American entertainment and better writers than I have discussed the connection between the rise of authoritarianism and the Disney-fication of American culture. MAGA and redpill politics are being blatantly flaunted on our screens.
No, I don’t feel guilty watching reality TV, but the genre has some real consequences on society that we should at least be wary about. I think the lesson is that we, who are being entertained, should be more thoughtful about the content we consume — whether it’s reality TV, or a Marvel film, or a Michael Bay film, or even a Nolan film. We should all be critical about the stories, messages, and morals and values that are being presented to us.
I love reality TV.
It’s not exactly the same high that I get when I watch the Raptors play, but reality TV can often feel like sports. These shows are games and the cast are players and they have strategies and plans to “win.” Their on-screen actions are “plays” that can either help them advance to the next stage or self-impose penalties. On-screen time and social media follower numbers are statistics. There are narratives and momentum swings and heroes and villains.
Reality TV blurs the line between what is true and what is false. These shows seek to portray authentic relationships and want you to believe that these storylines are real. That friendship and love are real. But in the pursuit of authenticity, the genre demands that you accept the “kayfabe,” to immerse yourself in the fantasy.
I’m smart. I am good at what I do. And yes, I love reality TV. Why should I have felt embarrassed telling a senior diplomat how much I loved reality TV? The genre is captivating. It’s like sports with its own rules and norms and narratives. Reality TV is absurdist fantasy — far-off universes light years away from the real world I actually live in. For a while, I can put aside the anxieties of the world and dissociate from the gravitas and dilemmas of adult life.
¹ Except for The Ultimatum: Queer Love.