For Real: America's Next Top Model

More pre-blogger, unpublished musings from my personal archive:

Television reality shows typically exploit an inherent dishonesty, but perhaps not the one everyone immediately associates with the form. That's the situational lie, which we are all familiar with from countless social pundits and stand-up comedians, who complained incredulously and tiresomely about the first modern reality series: "they get to live in a huge apartment in Manhattan rent-free! That's not the 'Real World'." Since then we've become reconciled to the fact that the environment of the reality show participant is manufactured by the producers. In fact, the recent explosion of variety in reality programming was only possible through the conscious abandonment of any illusion of documentary objectivity. Starting with Survivor, rather than de-emphasizing the artificiality of the situations, reality series have made these the gimmicks of the show, and those string-pulling men behind the curtain have been brought to the front as Barnum-esque ringmasters.

The lie that these shows don't admit, then, is one more subtle and insidious: it's the suggestion that the participants in reality shows are somehow more genuine and appealing than fictional characters in a drama. They are real people, yes, but do they successfully stand in for average folks, as the genre seems to promise? Are they really more universally appealing than characters consciously scripted to represent common types? Certainly, fiction has its shortcomings. Whenever I see a film or television series that overtly panders to some idea of the "common man," I'm reminded of the Coen brothers' Barton Fink, who came to understand the insurmountable barrier between the writer and his audience. But reality does not guarantee universality. When large applicant pools of self-selected volunteers are whittled down according to a conscious or inadvertent agenda, the results are far from the random cross-section you'd hope for, and become functionally identical to the deluded efforts of poor Barton. So far, reality series have attempted to maintain the illusion of randomness by stressing the diversity of participants. But cracks in the facade show, to often comic effect, as when The Real World's formula of measured tokenism (the black one, the gay one, the virgin... but all incredibly hot) became too obvious to ignore. No, in this sense there is very little real about reality television. It just doesn't do it for me, regardless of the millions who insist that it's all in fun; that it may be trashy but it's "great television."

Imagine, then, my reluctance to watch UPN's competitive reality program America's Next Top Model. In addition to my reservations about reality TV, I found the supermodel competition element potentially very distasteful, especially following as it did the final episode of the consistently feminist Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I had no desire to watch a group of ambitious Barbies held up to represent typical women everywhere. And yet, here was a series concept that begged to drop this ridiculous illusion of normality. How could you show serious contenders for the title of supermodel as anything less than the physically abnormal beings that they are? This should be a no less meritocratic contest, in its own way, than would be a series out to find America's Next Top Math Whiz, but would the show's producers and impossibly proportioned prototype/host Tyra Banks attempt to fool us into thinking that supermodels are just like regular people? Would this be a twisted Eliza Doolittle scenario out to teach us that a little practice and perseverance, some table-manner lessons and walking with books on the head, can turn any girl into a fashion icon?
The answer was a refreshing, though harsh, "no." Even before the official start of the competition, the judges hijacked the semi-democratic contestant selection process, refusing to fill the required 10 finalists from a weak slate of volunteer candidates, opting instead to bring in two traditionally scouted wildcards. The stunned faces on the passed-over women, who in any normal situation would glow like ethereal fire against the rest of us dull gray heathens, but here were rejected as not having even the remotest potential for success, spoke of shattered illusions about a unapologetically specialized industry. The betrayal seemed to say, "you may be beautiful and sexy, but we're looking for a supermodel." It laid bare the truth that the supermodel look has less to do with beauty than with a compartmentalized uniqueness. So the conventionally attractive were passed over for a group of six-foot tall aliens. Whacked? Yes. But truthful, and despite my ambivalence about reality shows and the modeling industry, I was nevertheless intrigued.

As frank as this characterization of supermodel beauty, the series has been equally brutal in demystifying what it means on a personal level to work as a model. The judges and advisors don't dance around the fact that these women are expected to turn their bodies into products. It's not reactionary fringe feminism to say models are commodified; as represented by this program it's the stated policy of the industry. So the first episode was also a lesson in sobering humiliation. Finalists stripped and were weighed in front of each other and the audience, breaking a taboo of feminine modesty. And then all rules were thrown out the window with a visit to the beauty parlor, where the women lied down on tables and endured painful bikini waxes on national television.
This was some pretty distressing shit to watch. Network censors wouldn't allow the cameras to show everything, of course, but viewers were confronted with the indelible image of a woman having her legs lifted up like a baby who needed a diaper change, then screaming in pain as the hairs were ripped from her crotch. I generally find humiliation television rather loathsome. Some may be intrigued by the question of how debased people can be made to act for money or air time, but once you realize the answer is "very debased indeed," there aren't many more reasons to watch. But while other shows present humiliation against a group of willing, dumb volunteers as the content of the show, here it's at least given context. Banks, who at 30 is a wizened old veteran of the model game, is called upon to constantly remind the contestants that, though these trials may seem cruel and embarrassing, they are perfectly consistent with an occupation that demands absolute submission to the most unrelenting public scrutiny imaginable. You want to be a model? Be careful what you wish for. It's refreshing to see an industry so dependent on the illusion of glamour taking such an unglamorous look at itself.

But for all of the show's likely inadvertent bucking of reality TV convention, it would still be unendurable were it not for some serendipitous casting. For, as much as it is, like American Idol, a talent competition, the show also observes the Real World-esque drama created by forcing its subjects to share an apartment and work together. Through information gleaned from these interviews and confessionals, it's clear that most of the would-be models' life aspirations begin and end with the rewards promised by the show. They've dreamed for years of becoming supermodels, and this is their chance. So a fundamental homogeny belies differences in personality and experience. These conditions should not encourage the most interesting interactions. But one of these women is not like the others.

For those who don't automatically sympathize with fashion industry ambition as the guiding force in life, there's the reluctant Elyse. An atheist and prospective medical school student, the waifish contestant clashed with Christian fundamentalist plus-size model Robin in the first episode (a priceless moment showed Robin confronting Elyse with a bible passage identifying Jesus as the only true God, as if she just hadn't gotten around to reading that part yet) and by the second was about ready to throw in the towel, complaining that her house-mates were too inane to tolerate. In a private, emotional tirade she relentlessly cursed out nearly everyone in the competition, including one of the show staff who had questioned her ability to succeed in medical school. It was a desperate and not entirely fair outburst, but I read into it my own frustration with all the bland reality show stars in the form's short history, and it cemented her appeal for me. And as an emotional catharsis for the conflicted contestant, it seemed to do the trick; by the end of the episode she was recommitted to the competition, as if emboldened by the challenge represented by this hegemony of superficiality.

Events have transpired since then to prove that maybe the greatest advantage a potential Top Model can possess is not, like in other competitive reality series, driving ambition and willingness to play dirty, but instead a steely detachment from the drama. There is no incentive to directly challenge the other models, to exploit weaknesses, or to stab backs. The greatest impediment to success for any of these women is themselves. Elyse and her eventual pal, the joyfully crude, Joan Jett-esque Adrianne, mock the show and the seriousness of their rivals' resolve. The various trials they are expected to perform - which have included getting skankified for a Stuff magazine spread, posing with a snake, and stripping down for a greasy "simulated" nude photo shoot - do not shock them because they have few illusions about the nature of modeling. Most of the others, in contrast, approach each new task with naive sincerity. They're shocked, shocked to learn that they must often subjugate their individuality to the whims of the photographers, make-up artists, and personal trainers. And they each wear their ambition on their shoulders, while Elyse especially has separated her hopes for happiness from the outcome of the competition.
It's this indifference bordering on antagonism to the series' challenges that sheds light on what has been missing from reality television. Though reality participants are ostensibly transparent - constantly confessing their deepest secrets to the audience - they are curiously free of self-awareness when it comes to their relationship to the show (unless, of course, the editors have systematically excised this footage). Most volunteers are either shameless exhibitionists or falsely coy crypto-exhibitionists, and none dare bite the hand that feeds them, so committed are they to remaining as long as possible in the spotlight. Fictional characters are trapped by conflict and endure three harrowing acts to find their way out, but the stars of reality shows have volunteered for the job, and attempt to draw out their suffering indefinitely. This is not drama, this is embarrassing desperation. Elyse brings to Top Model an element so lacking to this newest of TV genres that it has also seemed the most stylistically retrograde: irony.

And yet, the producers of America's Next Top Model seem hopelessly unaware of what makes their show so interesting. Not realizing that the most engaging situations and characters in reality television are discovered, not created, they've packed each episode with false dramatics and bombast. So the weekly climax is drained of all suspense by a laughable ritual ceremony. Banks is forced to give the same speech each week, and then repeat the same sentence over and over to those potentials who will remain: "Congratulations, you're one step closer to becoming America's next top model." If she said this line only once per episode, we might not mind the forced emotional reading she gives it each time. But after that first breathy intonation, it begs to be rattled off in a throwaway manner, or abandoned altogether. Instead, with an actor's resolve she attempts to make each successive reading more convincing, and succeeds only in making the whole enterprise more absurd. Why do reality shows so often treat its ostensibly adult audiences like Teletubby viewers? As if the only way to really get through to us is by bludgeoning us with repetition. I find it very difficult to believe that there is anyone alive who appreciates reality TV on the level that it seems designed to be appreciated. Who can take seriously these ceremonies and artificial rites of passage when they are so ineptly and humorlessly executed? America's Next Top Model shows that the genre itself may not be doomed, despite the best efforts of its practitioners.