How reality TV illustrates emotional roles
I've been a casual watcher of reality TV for many years.
The reflection of slot machines on the surface of Oceans, a kinetic sculpture at Fontainebleau that mimics the movement of the surface of the sea.
I’ve been a casual watcher of reality TV for many years. I tune in for the heartwarming and creative shows like Love on the Spectrum and The Great British Bake-Off, and the occasional home renovation series. Those are fun. Years ago, The Bachelor franchise and America’s Next Top Model were appointment TV. I’ve never seen any of the real housewives, but I have watched Selling Sunset. A bit of Alone but never a single episode of Survivor. A good chunk of the Kardashians, though not in a long while.
I’m not an expert on the genre given my spotty record, but I am a curiously critical observer, especially fascinated with the outsized performance of femininity in the drama and competition shows, and specifically those that give us niche, hyperreal cultures—from the ultra-rich to the uber-religious. The shows I watch also have businesses that capitalize on the feminine identity, from fashion to real estate to family empires.
But it wasn’t until a few weeks ago, when I decided to binge The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives that this guilty pleasure tipped into something I wanted to write about. And even if you have zero interest in low-brow entertainment, or programming that is almost entirely emotional, these shows reveal insight into systems of relationships and the roles we adopt within them. Think of it like I watch reality TV so you don’t have to.
For reality dramas to work as entertainment, producers design systems of relationships that are somewhat combustable. Within these sealed-off ecosystems, people take on specific roles, including alpha, villain, underdog, heartthrob, train wreck, etc. Emotional roles like this aren’t dolled out as assignments but unconsciously picked up, and they belong to the system, regardless of who stays or goes. Example: when one villain is exonerated or eliminated, another emerges to take its place.
Years ago, a friend of mine auditioned to be on The Real World just out of college. In his interview, he tried to exaggerate aspects of his nature—he amped up his swagger by hitting on a girl at casting, attempting to paint himself as the player or heartthrob because that was the role he most wanted. But casting directors aren’t looking for people to play-act themselves … they’re considering what kind of world they can construct when people are triggered into being a version of themselves. They look to cast, say, those with a fixed sense of morality, rendering them more prone to engage in conflict. They’re seeking the self-centered, the self-doubting, and the unpredictable—all emotional temperaments more likely to catch fire. It’s not scripted, but it is staged.
For perspective, contrast this with hiring in the workplace, where your goal is to build systems of relationships that generate harmony, creativity, and flow. You might see glimpses of someone’s blind spots in an interview, but you’d likely consider them in the context of what you can support, not exploit.
Emotional roles are a part of every system, not just reality TV. In the workplace, we might take on roles such as confidant, optimist, peacemaker, critic, or disruptor. With a team of your subordinates, you play the emotional role of leader. With colleagues, you’re a partner. With your supervisor, you’re a follower. Other times, our emotional roles are communal. In a stadium, we become fans. At a memorial, we’re mourners. In a sanctuary, we’re believers, or supplicants.
And in front of reality TV, we’re witnesses, conferring legitimacy to the narrative.
Why do we care about reality dramas, and how do we square their entertainment value with the moral complexity and collateral damage of the genre? They’re both relic and the blueprint that taught us how to evaluate, inspire, and even govern one another today. The Real World introduced the confession booth in 1992, more than thirty years ago. Before this, people were mostly invisible, ordinary, and no one talked about turning themselves into a brand. No one knew how to perform the self.
My role as a witness is multivariate. Sometimes I watch to participate in the culture; to sling campy judgement with fellow fans. Other times, it’s like I’m eavesdropping. I don’t have to pay too much attention, but can still be proximate to the intimacies and dramas, no entanglement. I get to construct a narrative from fragments.
Still other times it’s a controlled release, a way to metabolize pain without naming it. When I put on one of these shows, I feel a sense of relief that none of it matters. I enter their funhouse worlds of distorted mirrors and optical illusions, where people embark on obsessive quests to discover who is taking accountability, who is setting boundaries, who is real or fake or there for the right reasons or only there to get ahead. Are you a Madonna or whore, saint or sinner, ally or rival, untrustworthy or loyal? Let me also judge with impunity.
And also let me sling my weight against their narrow, binary convictions. Let me invite complexity without apology. Let me ask what percentage of others’ convictions are true, not whether they’re entirely true, carte blanche. Let me become even more unique, even more free, even more singular and nuanced, beautiful and complex, and let that be true for others. Let’s find out what happens when we stop being prescribed, and start getting real.