Why I love Reality TV

I don’t watch a lot of television, but when I’m watching it’s usually Reality TV.  Some lazy Saturday mornings, I’ll veg out to Bravo for hours where the shows range from the highbrow (Top Chef) to the despicable (The Real Housewives Series) to borrow from New York Magazine’s Approval Matrix.  But I love them all.  In fact, I find I no longer have patience for network dramas and sitcoms.  There’s too much predictability.  And if I’m looking to get caught up in a plot, I’d rather watch a movie where things are wrapped up in a couple of hours, or better yet, read a book.

Everyone likes to pick on Reality TV whether they think it’s cruelly exploitative or a cesspool of pseudo-celebrity.  I agree in some cases it deserves both raps.  But for pure, instant gratification entertainment, I submit to you that Reality TV can’t be beat.

Reality TV has elevated the relatability of TV characters by replacing actors with average Joe’s and Jill’s.  And where the Reality stars are not average, it’s given us over-the-top, have-to-be-seen-to-be-believed characters that I don’t think would be possible to create in another format.  I’m talking about the “train wrecks.”  It started with Anna Nicole Smith, went through several derivations on VH1 (Flavor of Love, I Love New York) and is alive and well in any Bravo Real Housewives Series (Kim from Atlanta is my personal fave).  You could say on the one hand that people tune in for the voyeuristic thrill or to feel reassured about their own crummy lives by witnessing colossal acts of humiliation.

For me, train wreck Reality TV stars evoke complex emotions.  Amused disbelief–can this person be for real?  Unexpected moments of empathy–does the person realize how ridiculous they look and sound?  Insatiable curiosity–how will she feel when she watches the playback??  But even when Reality TV doesn’t employ train wreck characters, it pulls me in through the ever present question:  “If thrown in this situation, how would I react?”

As storytellers, Reality TV shows know that in order to have drama, you have to have conflict.  Yes, the conflict is often manufactured.  The worst example is Jerry Springer-style shows with their “surprise” guests and “shocking” confrontations.  But at its best, Reality TV knows how to heap on layers of conflict, all reaching a breaking point in the last five minutes of the show.  Someone gets voted out.  Someone wins the big challenge.  A contestant buckles under pressure and quits the show.  Then like a soap opera, the story goes on leaving you hungry for what will happen next.

Reality TV subscribes to a dubious set of values.  Physical beauty is everything.  Vanity is good.  It’s OK, even necessary, to win at the expense of other people.  It can play to all of the ugliest impulses of human beings (much like the Republican party).  But there are paradoxical moments that give me just enough reassurance that, as in the real world, things ain’t all bad.  Sometimes the little guy wins out.   When someone pushes themselves to reach a goal, there’s rewards (both intrinsic and material) to be had.  In the end, Reality TV’s dogged assertion that anyone can be famous is an infectious kind of optimism.  It may show people at both their best and their worst, but for me that central message is something worth tuning in for.

On Complex Villains – Fred Phelps

I recently came across a fascinating story about the Reverend Fred Phelps of the Westboro Baptist church.  Jon Michael Bell interviewed Phelps and his family in the mid-90’s, but his reporting, under the book title “Addicted to Hate”, was never published due to a dispute with the publisher.  Bell’s short, nine-chapter book circulates the Internet like a viral video.  It caught my eye because I’m drawn in by stories with complex villains.   I tend to view people as multi-dimensional in my life and my writing.  Tell me someone is “bad,” and I’ll spend hours working out the counterpoint.  The same goes for saints and heroes.  I guess I don’t like being told how I should think, and I believe there’s humanity in every individual, no matter how despicable their choices and behaviors.  That doesn’t mean I don’t believe in personal responsibility, punishment or making amends.  But I feel that by casting folks as pure evil, we miss an opportunity to understand human nature and ultimately to learn from it.

Most people know Fred Phelps as an audacious, gay-hating evangelist.  He coined the motto:  “God Hate Fags,” and turned it into a communications campaign.  He pickets the funerals of people who died from AIDS, and he protests memorials for hate crimes victims, most famously Matthew Shepherd.  His views are too extreme for even anti-gay Christian groups like Focus on the Family.  He calls these slightly tolerant folks “fag-enablers” or “fags” themselves.  He’d be a frightening guy if he hadn’t become a caricature, lampooned on late night talk shows, Howard Stern and, of course, Jerry Springer.   “Family values” Republicans dismiss him as a fringe element (Phelps actually campaigned for Al Gore in the 1980’s), and he and his family/congregation (they’re pretty much one in the same) have been barred from entering the UK.

What people might not know is that Phelps had a career as a civil rights attorney in the 60’s and 70’s and helped overturn Jim Crow laws in the Midwest.  He even received an award from the NAACP  in 1987.  Phelps was since disbarred for harassing a female witness and perjury, but he’s an intelligent, well-educated man.  It makes me wonder what was the turning point for this guy?  What led him to launch into a monolithic campaign to save America by destroying gays?  He doesn’t conform to our comfortable beliefs about what makes a person homophobic – lack of education and/or ignorance.  I find it very hard to believe that Phelps intellect cannot grasp the concept of human diversity, the fact that homosexuality is not communicable, that AIDS comes from a virus, not a class of people.

When reporter Bells interviewed Phelps’  adult children, some of the answers came out.  Two of his sons and one daughter describe terrifying scenes of domestic abuse directed toward them and their mother.  It was physical and not surprisingly verbal.  One of Phelps’ sons believes that Phelps turned his rage toward gays after his kids were too old to abuse.  They paint a portrait of a sadistic man intolerant of any deviation from his authority, and they believe that their siblings who remain loyal to their father (Phelps has a total of 13 children) haven’t come forward about the abuse because they are living in fear.

The picture coming together for me is a person who is paranoid-delusional with a persecution complex rooted in deep-seated insecurity.  Phelps attacks those he’s afraid of – children he will one day be unable to control and gays who challenge his shaky hold on masculinity.  Somewhere in his development, I think Phelps’ sense of self was deeply fractured, an injury he could only repair by creating a fantasy of self-importance with conspirators always threatening to bring him down.   Even when Phelps was working for civil rights, colleagues remember him as fiercely oppositional, a crusader; it was always him against the world.  Maybe Phelps was victimized himself as a child.  Maybe the abuse was sexual, which is why his rage turned toward gays.  None of this is so extraordinary really.  There are plenty of people with similar psychological profiles in our mental health system:  narcissistic or borderline personality and bi-polar depressives.  From a diagnostic standpoint, there is plenty of evidence of Phelps’ maladaptive coping.  It lost him his job and his relationships with his family and most certainly many friends.  One of his sons also reports that Phelps abused crystal meth.

Still, Phelps manages to function better than most folks with severe mental illness.  He’s a functional delusional, not a one-dimensional monster, but dangerous through his destructive acts toward others and himself.  A great inspiration for storytelling.

Rewrite blues

So I resolved to post a progress report on my writing projects every Wednesday.  This one barely makes deadline at 11:38PM EST.  I have an excuse.  I came down with a pretty bad head cold last week and am still getting back up to 100%.  I’ve got my box of tissues stationed by the keyboard.

My manuscript is up to 49.6K words / 194 pages.  That may sound like decent progress but here’s the thing.  I reached a scene where Richard’s relationship with his angel mentor Rafi takes a critical turn, and it just didn’t read right.  I realized I needed to go back and evaluate previous scenes between the two guys.  My diagnosis:  more rewiting and finetuning.  I’m trying to really get into Richard’s head.  Kind of frustrating since I thought I knew the guy after almost five months of “living” with him and charting out his life.  Oh well.  It’s part of the process.  This set me back about 50 pages so I’m actually further from the end of my manuscript than I was last week.

But hopefully the story is getting stronger.  Next week, I have two full days to devote to writing.  I’m hoping my pre-Thanksgiving post will be full of optimism.  Right now, Richard is once again immersing himself in psychology texts to figure out how to think like a psychotherapist.  But he’s not whiny.