Ask anyone their opinion of reality television.
There’s a good chance they’ll claim to hate it. Despise it. They may even begin some rambling rant about how reality television is somehow responsible for ruining America, destroying art and culture as we know it. That is their official, edited-for-content opinion, of course. However, behind closed doors, there’s a pretty good chance they’re a frequent guest of the Big Brother household, or a regular patron of Hell’s Kitchen. Everyone has a weakness.
I, admittedly, am no exception. Why, just tonight I plopped down on the couch with my pepperoni pizza pocket, remote control in hand, and proceeded to flip through the channels, searching for the perfect program to accent my dining experience. As luck would have it, none of my trusted standbys were available. As my microwaved meal cooled in my
lap, becoming less and less appetizing by the minute, I finally settled on Playing it Straight, a show I’d never seen or heard of before.
Basically, a group of eligible bachelors— some straight, some gay, all adorable, vie for the affections of one lovely lady, whose job it is to crank up her gaydar and weed out the queers in the bunch. All sticky social implications aside (isn’t it a little unsettling that the entire premise of the show is labeling a person’s sexuality based on a set of preconceived “gay” or “straight” behaviors?), the show was nothing new.
It was the same old stock reality show fodder with a light twist of controversy thrown in to mask its obvious stink.
And yet, I watched it. In its entirety. Instantly, magnetically, I was transfixed. Who was gay? Could it be the charming southern boy with good old-fashioned manners and a suspicious love for hair products? Or was it the sophisticated city dweller, whose fashion sense was, well, a little too spot-on for a straight man? Surely, if I were in her position, I’d easily be able to distinguish between gay man and straight.
And there you have it, I’d taken the bait. Cut to top television network executives high-fiving each other in their corporate
offices—they’d hooked another unsuspecting viewer.
Why do we love reality television? Why do otherwise respectable, intelligent people, with general good taste in art, music, and literature, and a healthy interest in politics and world events allow reality television to infiltrate their lives? Really, I do not go about my day trying to determine the sexual orientation of complete strangers.
(Well, not usually.) What is it, then, that makes reality television such a deliciously guilty pleasure?
We’re in love with ourselves.
If you were offered a spot on American Idol, you’d take it, right?
Despite the fact that you have terrible stage presence, buckle at the thought of performing before a crowd, and cannot, for the life of you, carry a tune? All things considered, you would make a huge fool of yourself, but you would perform nonetheless. Why? Because for one fleeting moment, you would be a star. We all possess a desperate, attention-seeking side, likely instilled in us through some fault of our parents, which craves the love and adoration of the masses.
Reality television appeals to that weakness because the stars of the shows are not actors, but everyday, average folks, like us. Now, “real people”— those of us who aren’t particularly talented, intelligent, or, let’s face it, attractive, have a chance at being broadcast into millions of homes each night. It gives us a certain satisfaction knowing that, hey, if a mousy schoolteacher from Wisconsin can make it onto prime time television, so could I!
We love watching others squirm.
Sometimes, after an exhausting eight hours of taking abuses from your boss, coworkers, and customers, it’s only natural to be feeling a tad sadistic at day’s end. If you’re in the mood to watch someone else suffer for a change, what better way to satisfy your craving than with a good dose of reality television?
Reality shows are all about conflict and drama. Cheating lovers, warring roommates, racial tensions and bigotry are all nasty to deal with in the real world, but in the realm of reality television, these issues make for top-notch entertainment.
It can be intriguing to observe how others behave when confronted with delicate, moral-defining dilemmas and character determining situations. At its best, reality television teaches us about human nature, about what happens when opposing viewpoints collide.
You shouldn’t be tuning into The Real World merely for the cat fights, rather, for the valuable insight it offers into the complexities of the human mind. At least let that be what you tell people.
We are bored.
I don’t know about you, but I can’t remember the last time I had a bevy of beefy bachelors vying for my affections. Or the last time I was sent on a whirlwind trip around the globe in search of clues and cash prizes.
Aside from or the occasional brush with death on the freeway, or the frivolous calorie splurge at the local ice-cream parlor, I find life within the confines of suburbia to be a little less than thrilling.
Luckily, I can look to reality television to add a little spice to my otherwise bland, flavorless existence.
Reality television is irresistible because it allows us to live vicariously through the characters on screen. Begin with a glamorous location, add an unlikely fantasy situation, preferably involving hunky costars, stir in some drama, say, a competition of sorts, and you’ve got yourself a winning reality show. So until I find myself on a tropical island surrounded by sarong-wearing cabana boys, I’ll continue to get my excitement via the tube, thank you.
Like it or not, reality television has become a part of most our lives. We make excuses for watching it, claiming there is nothing else on, or that a particularly cruel family member forces us, on a regular basis, to tune in. But in the end, we know we are guilty.
Lacking in substance, high in entertainment, reality television is junk food for the brain. It leaves us feeling sick and nauseous, we pledge to abstain from it forever, but in the end, we always go back. If The NewsHour with Jim Lehrer is carrot sticks—not particularly enjoyable, but full of quality content, The Bachelor is a prime rib steak—fat, juicy, undeniably bad for us, and oh-so good.
But why not indulge from time to time? As the age-old adage goes, everything in moderation. After catching up on the latest governmental proceedings on C-SPAN, why not indulge your naughty side? Go ahead and flip the channel to see what crazy antics Mr. Kutcher is up to on Punk’d. After all, you deserve it.
Just don’t tell anyone.
