While ‘The Bachelor’ is an aspirational romantic fantasy, writes the THR columnist, the Bravo show, whose castmember Thomas Ravenel has been accused of sexual assault, is an object lesson in how not to pursue love.
Can reality shows accurately convey the shambolic complexities of seeking romance in America? Watching the desperate relationship-challenged compete on The Bachelor and The Bachelorette is like watching Hunger Games set in a sunny Hallmark version of high school prom. Everyone ruthlessly stampedes toward their chance of being crowned prom king or queen, thereby validating their self-worth. The shows’ elaborate settings of gaudy gowns, sloppy kisses and blubbery confessions of everlasting love are a bedazzled projection of America’s idealization of romantic love — which is at once touching and infantile. And highly entertaining. We all wish the pursuit of love were as ordered and effervescent as on these optimistic shows. But, while The Bachelor franchise peddles rose-colored romantic fantasies of happily ever after, Bravo’s Vanderpump Rules and Southern Charm deliver the down-and-dirty daily lives of the messy quest for love, lust and shabby fame; in other words: what really happens in millennial relationships after the meet-cute fades. What they reveal about their attitudes about romantic relationships may be the most honest, heartfelt and horrifying of any of the reality shows.
While Vanderpump Rules shows the working-class folk with their sweaty sheen from hustling after celebrity, Southern Charm revels in the snooty antics of the slightly privileged class. There is a raw grittiness in the lives of these bartenders and waitresses and of the Southern family progeny with big dreams based more on the entitlement of hard bodies or family background than on hard work. But celebrity, which is a ride-or-die goal for the Vanderpump crew, is merely an amusing pastime for the cast of Southern Charm. It is clear that without the C-list celebrity of the show, the Vanderpump cast would quickly fade into quiet obscurity, recounting their days of glory as they pour drinks or deliver appetizers or marry wealthy. This group of waitstaff, bartenders and hostesses’ brazen aspirations to fame as actors, singers and performers is both commendable and sad. Commendable because we all want to root for the up-from-nothing artist who finds La La Land-like success. But wanting something doesn’t make you worthy of it. So, the sadness comes when we see what they’re willing to trade to clutch this tawdry hem of celebrity.
With the Southern Charm-ers, the impression is that when this show ends, they will not be as affected, either in their careers or social relationships. Their futures, although wobbly at times, are already at the end of a track built by the inevitability of tradition and wealth. These stereotypes are not true of every castmember, but it generally describes most. They may enjoy the benefits of minor celebrity, but it is not part of their vision board. They seem more intent on pleasing their families, which is why we see so many scenes of them visiting parents for advice, while the Vanderpump gang are mostly transplants, geographically orphaned by their ambition.
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