In case you didn’t know, it was the Season 29 finale of the reality show ‘The Bachelor’ on 24 March.
Speaking as someone who would rather drive glass shards into her cankles than watch a moment of that programme, I boggled that it has been nearly 30 seasons of insipid singles trying to find love (and fame) in front of the camera, warts and all. There were enough pop-ups on Google to indicate that viewership is going strong, so can it be long before another batch of roses get dusted off to be presented to the next group of hopefuls? Only if another pandemic curbs liberal games of tonsil hockey with a bunch of relative strangers.
I definitely have a masochistic bone in my body, because despite finding the concept of the series excruciating – and having not watched one second of the latest season – I still read the recap of the finale. At least it was the ‘Entertainment Weekly’ version, which was clearly written with delight, referencing the ‘Proposal Platform’ and (my favourite) the ‘Tealight Candle Thunderdome’. The idea that the families of the two female finalists supported them being jerked around by the programme and the wishy-washy bachelor, Grant Ellis, beggars belief.
You’ve only known him for eight weeks and he’s been kissing everything that moves, handing out roses like a hawker at the Trevi Fountain, plus may really love the other girl, but this is the guy for you, sweetheart. We hope it works out.
I loathe pretty much all reality shows and competitions, although ‘The Amazing Race’ isn’t bad watching. I just wonder how much the youth of today think that any of them are real life.
Believe it or not, I succumbed to the notion of being on a documentary/reality programme many years ago, so I got a firsthand look at how some of these things are created.
A British production company wanted to follow around some residents in Cayman, in order to give a glimpse of life in the islands. Ordinarily I would have run a country mile, but a couple of people I knew were involved and it promised to be a really positive promotion for my home. So, I signed up.
The producers went through a few different scenes in which I would feature. One would be walking around some local restaurants; another would cover discussing the planning of an upcoming event; and the last was me working out with a trainer in the gym. Let that last one sink in for a moment. Clearly I was already ready to sell my soul for the chance of being on TV.
The first two scenarios went well. I roped my friend Christina in for the ‘planning an event’ setup, and she was a champ. We did take after take of us walking around a venue, discussing an idea that had to sound every time as though we’d just come up with it. Retaining that fresh enthusiasm by the 20th go-around (Director: “Let’s move that light there … this time, walk in from that direction instead … maybe point at a couple of the fixtures … ”) was tiring, but we managed it. However, it had nothing on what was next on the list.
I met the crew at a gym, where it was a few steps up to the building from the parking lot. Right off the bat, I was to walk up those steps for the camera, trying a different angle each time. Then they wanted me to jog it, and finally sprint it, like the iconic scene from ‘Rocky’. It may not have been the climb that Sly Stallone made to the Philadelphia Museum of Art, but it gave a mean impression of it after a while.
When we finally walked inside the gym, I was already sweating profusely.
They had clearly also sold the idea of this show to a very handsome male Aussie fitness trainer, who greeted me with a mouthful of perfectly straight, white teeth, ready to put me through my paces for the good of quality entertainment everywhere.
We began on the trampoline. I was to bounce up and down, while he corrected my form and everything else that proved to be wrong. The combination of his advice and the need to video multiple takes started to resemble a Carol Burnett sketch, rather than the elegant workout I had envisioned, which only continued as we moved to the treadmill. My pride had turned me into a trouper, but I didn’t have the muscles to back it up. And there was no break as we moved from element to element. They were on a tight schedule.
I was allowed a walking pace for a short while, but was soon asked if we could up the speed for variety.
“Sure,” I panted, as the motor whine went up an octave and the belt sped up under my feet. Forget Carol Burnett, how about ‘I Love Lucy’ and that legendary candy factory episode? And listen, if any teenagers or millennials are reading this, do yourselves a favour and get on YouTube to see what I’m talking about. Classic skits like that just don’t age.
To add insult to injury, the off-camera interviewer asked me questions about my life in Cayman while I simultaneously pushed my legs past their breaking point. Nature programmes sprang to mind.
“The African elephant, when startled, can attain speeds of up to 25mph … ” (Yeah … but elephants can’t jump, so explain the trampoline thing.)
Director: “What was it like growing up here?”
“Well, [gulp], it was amazing [huff, puff] – an incredible place to be as a child [gasp, stumble].”
Director: “Do you have much of a social life?”
“Ha! We go out a lot, (smile) [grimace], and there are some great bars around the island [wheeze].”
I was probably only on that treadmill for about 5-10 minutes; it felt like ages. And with my tomato face and dripping hair, even if this did make it to international TV screens, I doubted any single man would be leaping across his living room to get a closer look and hopefully some means of contacting me. Who is this VISION??!
It wasn’t long after the gym episode that I began to feel some pang of regret about participating in the whole project … and, mercifully, the gods heard my misgivings. The programme did eventually air, although it was so far removed from the original premise we’d all been sold on, that it in no way resembled the feel-good lifestyle piece it was supposed to be. Footage was manipulated to fit the new directive and the addition of a snarky host cemented it as more ‘Gotcha!’ journalism than anything else.
I didn’t know if I had made the final cut or not until it went live, and already aware of how the whole thing had been skewed, I didn’t sleep a wink the night before.
When I realised I’d been completely deleted from the footage, I was the complete opposite of insulted, upset or hurt. I was downright euphoric, and swore I would never do anything like that again.
I hope wannabe future contestants on ‘The Bachelor’ come around to the same way of thinking, but maybe not. If there’s no trampoline, how bad can it be?