So there I was, watching Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and thinking that these women on this show, ostensibly created to highlight the lives of wealthy women, were the real deal. They were actually wealthy (well, except for Kim Richards, but they needed her crazy eyes) and living these charmed, ridiculous lives. I was also thinking that Camille Grammar lives in an alternate reality, but that’s besides the point. ANYWAY, I thought about how busted and broke housewives like the basically-bankrupt Teresa Giudice, Lynne Curtin, and NeNe Leaks are really just pretending to live the lifestyles of the rich and famous while dodging calls from their creditors. I get that reality television is far from real, but hot damn, at least have the common courtesy to cast your show to actually match your premise, you know?
Sure, I’m crabby right now. I sound like Andy Rooney. But it’s lazy production. Documentary filmmakers might come up with awesome ideas for films. They have to find real subjects to film. You might have a great premise for a reality show, but if you want to make a great show, you’ll find subjects who are actually what you purport them to be. It’s just one of the liberties these shows have been taking with “reality”. Reality television has started running rampant over its viewers, and I’m not taking it any more. This isn’t ‘Nam, reality producers. There are rules. And, in homage to Bill Maher, I think it’s time for some New Rules for reality television.
- If you don’t have a Wikipedia entry about you, you cannot be cast on a “celebrity” show. Case in point: someone please explain to me why Keyshia Cole’s mom (ahem, biological mom who didn’t even raise her) is fit to be cast on Celebrity Rehab? Call Intervention for that noise. One of Tiger Wood’s mistresses is “addicted to love”? Robert Palmer is dead, lady. That’s one hell of a stretch, VH1, and you know it.
- If you quit a reality show, you quit a reality show. This week’s episode of Survivor had not one, but two quitters. TWO. In one episode. And both NaOnka and Kelly (the quitters) both still get to go on and serve on the jury that decides the eventual winner of $1,000,ooo. Call me crazy, but if you decide for whatever reason that you aren’t going to stick it out, you’re done. No jury. No reunion show. No press tour. You’ve reneged on your (albeit shitty and close to indentured servitude) contract. And if spades teaches us anything, it’s that reneging is a damn near felony. Don’t get me wrong. If your dad is on his deathbed with cancer, go on and be with her. If you fall into a fire and need to be helicoptered out of Borneo or whatever, you should probably do that. There are such things as extenuating circumstances. But if you can’t take the heat and are just a quitter, you quit everything. I don’t want to see your quitting-ass face, you quitting quitter.
- All celebrity reality shows must have one “busted hair metal veteran”. I ask you, who would disagree with this rule brought forth by Laurie? Vince Neil is on a fucking ice skating show. Why would you watch this shit unless you had the chance to see some Motley Crüe moose knuckle? Rock of Love was mostly cool because viewers kept hoping that Bret Michael’s strategically-placed bandanna-with-horsehair would slip and show his undoubtedly-bald-and-unmetal dome (well, that and chicks doing chach shots off each other).
One of the pioneering shows of the genre was The Osbournes, which was only successful because people just could not believe that the Prince of Fucking Darkness was now a doddering, domesticated semi-invalid. The harder they rock, the further they fall. Ratings gold. Trust me, producers. You’ll make back what you spend in furnishing eyeliner, and your viewers deserve it. - Please, declare a moratorium on new giant family shows. We get it! You’re just like us! Except you do things in bulk! And drive busses! It’s chaos!
Snoozefest. I respect your right to reproduce in mass quantities. I don’t respect your choice to turn your litter into a cash cow, and I question your ability to care for said brood without network money. I have no desire to see any more families who are using more than their fair share of the earth’s resources. Truth be told, it’s not that interesting any more. Did we learn nothing from Octomom?
- And while you’re at it, cut the dating shows. Shows like The Bachelor, The Bachelorette, or Rock of Love rarely create actual love. Trista and Ryan are the exception, not the norm.
These shows are just vehicles for aspiring famewhores to get their fifteen minutes and maybe an STD. While you’re at it, would it kill you to vet the relationship status of your contestants who are supposed to be looking for love? What’s with this whole “Surprise! I have a girlfriend!” business? Don’t even get me started on the feminist implications of women “competing” for a virtual stranger’s affections. Cut the pretense before the entire country gets herpes via association. It’s starting to smell in here. - Viewers need, nay, demand, reasonably-sized episodes. I can handle a two-hour Dancing With The Stars, if that’s what it takes to get through twelve contestant dances and a few professional ensemble numbers. But this whole The Biggest Loser being two hours long EVERY WEEK thing? Yeah, I quit watching. Cut out the Extra sugarfree gum and Jennie-O turkey shilling and repeated scenes before and after the frequent commercial breaks, and there’s no reason this show can’t fit into 42 minutes. You’re greedy, NBC and your show is incredibly worse for it.
What’s your new rule for reality television?
