I Will Say This Though About Reality TV

 The other night I found myself scrolling through multiple streaming platforms in the hopes of finding something that piqued my interest. Just like cruising Grindr in a small town it became clear my only options might be serial killers. 

Recently I’ve been seeing Instagram reels with clips from the reality dating show, Love Island UK. Most of the time the quick clips are out of context, so I have no clue what exactly is happening and not just because of their dreadful British accents. Three white wine spritzers in, I figured I was in the appropriate headspace to click on the new season of the US version to see what all the hype was truly about. Maybe it will be just the right amount of trash to hook me? Maybe it will surprise me and be my new guilty pleasure show? I mean, what could be so bad? I soon found out, almost everything. 

For those unfamiliar with the series, Love Island follows single hopefuls put on a tropical island who “couple up” and compete in games and challenges. Throughout their stay at Villa Penicillin, contestants are tempted  and drama ensues when they are forced to decide if they want to remain with their current partner or “recouple” with someone new. To me, this concept is not only played out but pretty weak overall. I mean, I’m a child of the 90s and grew up with shows like Temptation Island. That show actually wrecked some homes, whereas Love Island just bruises some egos. If there are any physical bruises, you likely wouldn’t see them anyways. I’m pretty sure the kraft services budget for this show was cut in half and the other 50% went towards bronzer. Some of these girls are so overly dusted brown it borders on being culturally insensitive. 

After being introduced to the first ten contestants of this season, it was clear they weren’t plucked from a local MENSA meeting by any means. I mean, anyone with common sense wouldn’t sign up for this show to begin with. It’s likely the only requirement the men had to meet on the application was proving they have a mattress on their floor. I knew I was really in for a rough watch when I saw there was a contestant named Kaylor. That’s right. Kaylor. Apparently her parents couldn’t decide on Katie or Taylor and rather than flip a coin thought “why not both?” She looks like Katy Perry cosplaying as Sabrina Carpenter, which might be what Katy needs to do these days to actually get on the charts. Kaylor is every bit the 20 something conservative white woman stereotype you’d expect: loves Chipotle, long walks in Target, and showed almost no romantic interest in the male POCs. 

I found one of the most common denominators each contestant kept mentioning was how they had never been in a real relationship or had a relationship longer than 2 months. Rather than looking inward to say “it’s me, hi, I’m the problem it’s me”, they decided to air out all their red flags on television instead. They’d insist about how much they wanted to find love, which to me seemed like a thinly veiled coverup for their true intention: boost their Instagram follower count and get a free tropical vacation with an open bar. After 3 episodes, and three more spritzers, I finally turned the show off in an effort to save what remaining brain cells I have left after my 20s. Clearly, this Love Island show was not for me.

If I’m being honest, reality dating shows have never truly captivated me. For starters, these shows are overtly heteronormative and I have no real interest in watching a straight person find “the love of their life” that they’ll just dump once the fanfare wears off in 2 months. Maybe 3 months if they don’t give each other chlamydia right away. Bachelor Nation? Gross! Why is it fine for straight women and men to date 25 people at once, but when gays do it over Pride weekend we’re told we’re “morally corrupt” and “going to hell”? Love Is Blind? Honey, the gays have been doing “blind love” for decades, except our pods are called glory holes and you don’t exactly talk for hours in there. Sometimes you don’t talk at all. You just spend a few minutes with your dick in a wall and then hope you don’t wake up with a burning itch the next day.

Being 36 years old, I was witness to the “birth” of reality tv. I watched the first seasons of Survivor, Real Housewives, and Big Brother, which are still on the air but in very tired formats. I was there for the trainwrecks that were The Anna Nicole Smith Show, The Osbournes, and of course, Being Bobby Brown. That was prime reality television, where people were just being themselves and not fully thinking about how they’d be perceived by the public or what brand deals they may be offered after being on the show. Reality TV made some average Joe Schmos G-list tv stars overnight and Andy Warhol’s premonition about everyone having their 15 minutes of fame was quickly becoming a (no pun intended) reality. But now, in 2024, I think most reality tv show formats have run their course and the entertainment aspect of it has dried up like a Real Housewife in rehab. Realistically, Tiger King should have been the clear indication reality tv had hit a new low, but 2020 was a very odd year so of course the public would platform exotic animal owning hillbillies. I mean, why wouldn’t they? A reality game show host was president that year. At this point, the only show that might reinvigorate my interest in unscripted programming would be a reboot of The Swan. NOW THAT’S WHAT I CALL TELEVISION!