You Make Me Feel Mighty Real

Look. I am really a very cultured lady. I spent my teenage years in rural WA with the ABC, the National Geographic and Vogue (in addition to a very diverse home library) for company.  I love a bit of Bronte. I admire  Austen.  I revere a bit of Greer. I consume Judy Blume. Roald Dahl is totes gnarl. I could go on.  Aside from books, I read The Australian, The Age. I’m even into quality cinema and am often found at our local art-house taking in something subtitled with a packet of mixed lollies rustling agonizingly in my handbag.  If I’m not there, you may find me watching Four Corners, Australian Story, Q and A and possibly eating something high-brow such as potted fish on brown bread.  I’m not an idiot, is what I am saying.  Let me go on.

So now that I’ve set the scene, and you’re aware of my smarts and diverse education, I must confess the truth.  Aside from the brown bread, the Blume and the Bronte, I’m extremely interested in reality television. Like an italicised extremely.  Like interested in an ‘I Totally Love It’ kinda way.   Some may think this is a paradox, but I really don’t.  I think it makes perfect sense.  I am a fairly smart girl.  I have a thirst for information. I love people. I love real life.  I love to get to know stuff.  I also love to think the best of everyone.  To me, these are perfect pre-requisites for a degree in realitee.  I am a Real Pro.  Let me tell you more.

The thing is, I like to challenge myself to digest the lives of others with an inquiring mind, a kind heart and a curious eye.  Perhaps you are scoffing?  Perhaps you think you are above the bronzed, blingy, lunchy, kaftaned world of real.   Maybe you think that reality telly is rot.  Scoff.  Well, I do not, I kid you not.  I’m quite certain that reality television is neither rot, nor a bad thing.  I think that reality telly personalities deserve their place on ours screens, just as fictional characters do. I love watching them.  It’s true.

When Chloe Sevigny declared that reality stars were diminishing our culture, I nearly choked on my highbrow Bircher Muesli (with sheep’s milk yoghurt and demerara sugar). Firstly, this comes from a lovely girl who wears her shorts pulled up to her chin.  Secondly, Ms Sevigny spent a HECK of a lot of Bill Hendrickson’s money on eBay in the first few episodes of  Big Love.  And I did not judge her for that.  Nor was I diminished by it.  Nope.  Let’s not even mention how mean she was to Margene.  Geesh. Short memory, Chloe. NOT very Principal-ed.

Someone nice pulled me up over this on Facebook, citing the motivation of some reality TV lovers as voyeurism and perhaps, superiority.  My motivation is certainly the former but most definitely NOT the latter.  When I say I love Reality Television, I really mean it.  I love the people (characters?!) who lay their lives (sort of) bare for us.  I love getting to know them, watching them relate to other people (characters?!) and predicting their next move.  I love being part of their team. I would not dare to assume I was nicer, smarter or more together than them. Oh no. They are people just like me. Yes,  I love seeing their struggles.  But I also love the way they surprise and delight me. I love their human-ness, despite their audience.  I love their tenacity and focus.   I love how they triumph, face adversity, how they have to face themselves so publicly or be revealed to all.   I love how real those dilemmas are. I do. Sometimes I face them too.

Aside from personal struggles, I am intensely fascinated by the possibilities of human interaction. Even though reality television provides us with a sort of choreographed version of this kind of interaction, I can not look away.  I CAN’T judge these real people, because they are just that, REAL!  Their reactions and responses seem genuine enough to me under weirdly contrived circumstances.  I mean, how would I act under similar circumstances?!  Probably not exactly like myself, but rather like myself in a reality TV show. I think.  So sue me.  Deliver me to Miss Sevigny and let her braid my hair outlandishly.

It’s so easy to point and laugh at the Snookis, the Nenes, the Simons, the Danielles, the Cocos, but I don’t do that.  I simply won’t do that.  These are REAL people, hence the moniker.  Who the heck am I to decide that their realness is wrong, trashy, vacuous, not REAL enough to be worthwhile?  And how could I possibly think that I know who they are, just from watching an hour a week of carefully edited and orchestrated footage.  Why are real life dramas considered less worthy than the plot-lines of many fictional dramas?   And who exactly are they diminishing, I wonder?  Me?  Surely I would notice if I was slipping away…  I seemed to be all here last time I checked.

Hello. My name is Pip, and I love reality television…

Do you like it too? I won’t tell…