Reality TV's Representation Problem

Disclaimer: This example of popular culture criticism was originally published at Little Village. This lacks a strong thesis statement and outside sources, but demonstrates the kind of tone you can adopt in your writing.

Do viewers often generalize groups based on reality television representations? — photo by Rachel Jessen

MTV recently debuted its newest controversial reality show: Scrubbing In. The show follows the lives of a group of traveling nurses in Orange County as they learn the ropes of a new hospital, party hard on booze cruises and “get up in each other’s grills.” Not only do these breast-enhanced and hard-muscled nurses look more like they belong on the beaches of Seaside Heights than in a hospital, but one, Tyrice, doesn’t even know how to start an IV. The drama, drinking and questionable medical knowledge not only raised concerns about Scrubbing In‘s representational accuracy of the nursing profession, but also inspired calls for nurses to boycott the show entirely.

Criticism and debate over the appropriateness or veracity of reality television programs are nothing new, but scrutiny seems to have become more common due to an increasing number of off-the-wall concepts focusing on specific groups of people. For example, when MTV’s Jersey Shore debuted in 2009, groups such as the National Italian American Federation condemned the show for its portrayal of Italian-American stereotypes and use of the ethnically problematic words “guido” and “guidette.” Backlash against the show became so mainstream that even Domino’s Pizza (you know, the essence of Italian-Americaness) pulled its advertisements.

Both Bravo’s Shahs of Sunset and Princesses: Long Island were met with similar dissention. Shahs of Sunset features a group of Iranian-American friends who must balance the demands of their traditional families with their more modern, hard-partying L.A. lifestyles. Accusations of stereotyping and racism abounded, and Persian groups called for alternative television representations of what Iranian-Americans are really like.Princesses: Long Island also portrays a group of friends, but this time the subjects are single, self-described “Jewish American Princesses” still living with their parents by day while consuming mass amounts of alcohol by night. Critics charged the show with not only promoting Jewish stereotypes in regard to marriage and family, but also anti-semitism because of Princesses‘ emphasis on money and materiality. Both programs inspired Change.org petitions for cancellation, Facebook pages encouraging public boycotts and, in the case of Princesses, an actual protest in Freeport, N.Y.

But let’s be clear: None of these programs are representative of entire groups of people any more than the crazy kids of Buckwild represent the entire state of West Virginia, or the teens on Breaking Amish represent all Amish or Mennonites. However, representations of upper-middle class, Christian, white identities have historically dominated television programming, so any depictions of cultural, racial, ethnic or religious minorities (and, I guess, nurses?) carry the unfortunate burden of standing in for large heterogenous groups.

There are inherent problems with and various reactions to every kind of representation, whether these reality shows or scripted sitcoms. Representations of African Americans throughout television’s history demonstrate the problems that arise in any kind of representation. The series Julia (1968-1971) responded to criticism of earlier problematic racial representations, such as those found on Amos ‘n’ Andy (1951-1953), by creating a seemingly colorblind world in which everyone is equal and happy. However, this “positive” representation of an African American woman lead to accusations of assimilationism and detachment from continued civil rights struggles and racism in the U.S. Later in the ‘70s, sitcoms worked to be more socially and politically relevant—i.e. “realistic”—such as Good Times (1974-1979), but were criticized for relying on stereotypes and being segregationist. This cycle demonstrates that universal happiness with the way large groups of people are visually depicted is not really possible.

So, while it’s worth striving for diverse or “positive” representations, or critically engaging with representations believed to be harmful or hateful, the ability to ever “accurately” represent any group of people is unattainable.

Plus, most of these programs aren’t as simplistic as their backlashes suggest. For example, while Princesses: Long Island does emphasize marriage as an important aspect of a young Jewish woman’s life, it also demonstrates in numerous instances a critique of that very idea. When Chanel cries to Casey about feeling weird and judged for being 27 and unmarried, Casey responds with “So what?” and tries to convince her that her single status is not only acceptable, but that it may be a good thing. In another episode, Amanda’s Mom tells her specifically not to get married, and states, “Do I look like I want to be called Grandma?” Both Shahs of Sunset and Jersey Shore also have redeeming qualities and push other boundaries despite their representational pitfalls, although it might take an entire column to make a convincing argument.

So, here’s a little pushback against these repeated representational backlashes. A backlash against the backlash, if you will. A lot of this controversy and anxiety stems from the fear that viewers may uncritically generalize what they see on TV to large groups of people or given professions, but it’s worth giving viewers a little more credit. Media scholar Susan Douglas argues that part of what viewers like about these reality shows is the feeling of superiority they give to those watching: Viewers know they aren’t being duped by these representations, and they aren’t generalizing entire groups of people based on these depictions. But, it is believed that other “less sophisticated” viewers may be doing so (when, really, those other viewers are thinking the same thing!). And if some viewers do truly believe what they see on Shahs of Sunset or Scrubbing In to be accurate representations of all Iranian-Americans or traveling nurses, then that is a problem television alone can’t fix.

Feminist Police Procedural: ‘The Fall’ successfully avoids crime show cliches

Disclaimer: This example of popular culture criticism was originally published at Little Village. This lacks a strong thesis statement and outside sources, but demonstrates the kind of tone you can adopt in your writing.

Effective detective: Stella Gibson (Gillian Anderson) hunts a serial killer in The Fall.

American television is known for being especially violent against women, or for depictions of sexual violence. Crime shows like CSI, Criminal Minds, Stalker and True Detectivegenerally portray women as victims of murder, sexual assault, abduction, stalking and other horrendous crimes. Of course women are more likely to be victimized, making these representations, perhaps, just a reflection of our regrettable reality, but it’s arguable that television violence also contributes to that reality.

While I don’t believe television directly makes individuals violent, I do believe there to be a relationship between the on-screen and the off-screen, between the violence and objectification we see in crime show after crime show and the violence, victim-blaming and victim-silencing that occurs in our own neighborhoods. Personally, I worry about my own desensitivity to these fictionalized images on television and sometimes wonder whether they further numb my emotional response to reports of sexual violence in real life.

 

And that’s why I’m sick of all the sexual violence proliferating our televisions and, of course, our communities. I’m sick of camera shots that linger on bound limbs and exposed skin, on expressions of terror and bloody crime scenes. Too many women are treated as just another case of the week to be solved by television detectives, and it’s hard to encourage viewer empathy for the inhuman, the body treated as mere evidence.

Given this constant objectification of women’s bodies, an objectification that doesn’t stop after death, apparently, it’s unsurprising that crime or police series are generally seen as being the antithesis of feminist entertainment.

However, one BBC show, The Fall, is working to reverse this trend and is even gaining popularity amongst U.S. viewers, who generally love violence. The Fall features Detective Superintendent Stella Gibson, played by Gillian Anderson, who investigates a serial killer, Paul Spector, played by Jamie Dornan (of Fifty Shades of Grey). Not only is Gibson portrayed as a superior detective in comparison to her male counterparts, but she is overtly and unapologetically feminist. For example, when asked by a male colleague, “Why are women emotionally and spiritually so much stronger than men?” Gibson responds by saying, “Because the basic human form is female. Maleness is a kind of birth defect.” In another episode, Gibson quotes Margaret Atwood in a discussion about the gendered realities of violence: “Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them.”

The Fall is a welcome feminist intervention to the police procedural for other reasons, too, including the fact that women are not only the most well-developed and complex characters on the series, but they are also the strongest and most supportive of one another. Further, the show is sex-positive and doesn’t entertain the too-common television trope of women sacrificing personal success in order to achieve professional success.

But, perhaps, more importantly, The Fall humanizes those who have been victimized by Spector, detailing each woman’s history, delicately and selectively depicting the bodies of victims, and allowing Gibson to express sadness and anger toward the perpetrators of such crimes, even crying for one deceased woman, Alice Monroe. Conversely, Spector is one-dimensional, hollow, weak and altogether ordinary in his hate for women, and Gibson doesn’t hesitate to call him out as being such, saying, “You are a slave to your desires, you have no control at all, you are weak, impotent, you think you are some kind of artist, but you are not … you try to dignify what you do, but it’s just misogyny, age-old male violence against women.”

Gibson is also sensitive to the way victims are talked about by her fellow Belfast detectives. When one woman is framed as being “innocent,” or virtuous, Gibson points out the implications of such a description by explaining, “What if he kills a prostitute next or a woman walking home drunk, late at night, in a short skirt? Will they be in some way less innocent, therefore less deserving [of our empathy/sympathy]? Culpable? The media loves to divide women into virgins and vamps, angels or whores. Let’s not encourage them.” This echos the same push in our own community to stop blaming the victims of crime and to instead focus on those who perpetrate violence as well as the social norms, systems and institutions that implicitly condone such violence.

For these reasons, The Fall critiques the very genre to which it belongs and the society within which its narratives resonate. Of course, the show can still be faulted in numerous ways (can we seriously get some more women behind the camera?!), and the violence is still hard to watch, but hopefully it demonstrates a more empathetic, compassionate and nuanced way to tell stories of violence against women, stories that fight against such trends rather than reveling in them.

In Defense of "Here Comes Honey Boo Boo"

This was originally published in LIttle Village and was written by myself and A.C. Hawley

*Disclaimer: This post lacks a strong thesis statement does not have full citations.

The mid-August debut of TLC’s “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” (HCHBB) was surrounded by an inordinate amount of hype for a reality television show. However, the hype wasn’t because TV critics  anticipated a quality television program to peddle to their Twitter followers, but rather they questioned what a show like HCHBB might say about the status of contemporary humanity. But how could one family and their “gay” pet pig inspire debate concerning western society’s decline? For answers, we’ll have to down some Go-Go Juice (the preferred beverage of the show’s titular character, a mixture of Red Bull and Mountain Dew) and start from the beginning.

“HCHBB” features June Shannon and Mike Thompson, better known as “Mama” and “Sugar Bear,” and their four daughters, Anna (“Chickadee”), Jessica (“Chubbs”), Lauryn (“Pumpkin”), and Alana (who goes by “Honey Boo Boo,” “Smoochie,” “Mootie Moot” and about 15 other nicknames). Alana and the Thompson family were featured in a January 2012 episode of the infamous TLC program “Toddlers & Tiaras,” which according to the show’s creators, features the competitive world of pageantry and families on their quests for “sparkly crowns, big titles and lots of cash.” The particular episode featuring the Thompsons resulted in some of the reality show’s highest ratings, received millions of YouTube hits and became a morning show hot topic. No one, it seemed, could get enough of June’s “redneckitude” or Alana’s Go-Go Juice-inspired stage antics.

Each episode takes place in the family home in McIntrye, Georgia (population 718). Storylines loosely revolve around whatever pageant Alana is currently preparing for, but the show focuses more on the family’s day-to-day activities and June’s commentary, which many argue requires a “redneckipedia” to understand. Intertwined in each episode is the family’s debate over whether they are, indeed, “rednecks.” In one episode Jessica points out as proof of their non-redneck status, “We all have our teeth, don’t we?” Yet, in other storylines, the family embraces their “redneck” status, delighting in projects like building a “redneck slip ’n slide” with a tarp and some dish soap.

While the family sees itself in varying shades of “redneck,” the show’s visual elements attempt to construct them as nothing but. For example, “HCHBB” uses an ample amount of subtitling, and although there are moments where this does come in handy (Alana often talks quickly), these moments are few enough to render the subtitles as mere mockery. Additionally, most exterior shots reference the location of the family home right next to the railroad tracks, and Anna’s pregnancy is highlighted through regular discussion and close-ups of the pregnant teen’s belly. These images help in framing the family as economically impoverished and somewhat uneducated, two hallmarks of the redneck stereotype.

While these stylistic choices do most of the heavy lifting in terms of framing the family as a spectacle, narrative events manufactured specifically for the show also work toward the same end.

For example, in the second episode, “Gonna Be a Glitz Pig,” June invites an etiquette coach from Atlanta to their home to help Alana with her next pageant, while teaching Lauryn some manners in the process. In what feels like the most contrived scene of the six episodes so far, goofy stock background music plays as the Thompson girls learn not to draw too much attention when putting napkins on their laps. While some viewers might agree that the Thompsons could benefit from some refinement, the important lesson taken from this scene is Lauryn’s retort to the etiquette coach: “I don’t care what people think of me. I am who I am, and if you don’t like me, you don’t like me.”

This honest comment from Lauryn demonstrates why “HCHBB” isn’t a signal for the coming apocalypse like so many critics thought it was. The show constructs them as unapologetically hillbilly, and seeks to exploit that for comedic value, never missing a chance to turn their culture into a punchline. But the Thompsons are, fundamentally, a normal family. The girls don’t always get along with one another. June’s got to make dollars last longer. Jessica struggles with her weight because she’s surrounded by pressure to be thin. This isn’t too different from many families we know, including our own. This normalcy is what makes the show interesting and keeps it from devolving into a sheer spectacle of misery and cultural dislocation found in past programs like Paris Hilton’s FOX show, “The Simple Life,” or VH1’s “New York Goes To Work.”

Let’s not kid ourselves. “HCHBB” will not be held up as a paragon of television two decades from now. Many might argue that it won’t even exist in two years. However, in the present, “HCHBB” does what all good television shows should do: provide a cast of characters that are both interesting and relatable. While they aren’t perfect people, “HCHBB” provides insight to a world most of us don’t know and into a family that bears resemblance to many around us.

So while some viewers might still think “HCHBB” is the lowest television program ever created, they would be wrong. That title goes to  ABC’s “Are You Hot?”, a reality show starring Rachel Hunter, Randolph Duke and “international heartthrob” Lorenzo Lamas, who regularly used a laser pointer to pick on participant’s minute bodily flaws. If we as a nation could survive that, “HCHBB” should be the least of anyone’s concerns.

Plus, if “HCHBB” really is a sign of civilization’s end, we’d rather take a page out of the Thompson family playbook and spend our last moments riding around in a 20-person four-wheeler gang than spend them worrying about our table manners.

VULGAR, FEMALE-DRIVEN COMEDY CHALLENGES STEREOTYPES OF ‘LADYLIKE’ BEHAVIOR

By: Melissa Zimdars

Illustration by Lev Cantoral

Disclaimer: This example of popular culture criticism was originally published at Little Village. This lacks a strong thesis statement and outside sources, but demonstrates the kind of tone you can adopt in your writing.

Boner and boob jokes are now mainstays across numerous guy-centered, raunchy television comedies: Workaholics, Two and a Half Men, Blue Mountain State,Manswers, The Kroll Show, Suits,Franklin & Bash, The League and so on. While this kind of humor primarily permeates masculinized texts, we are starting to see more female-centered raunch comedy in both film and television, includingBad Teacher (women swear, too!),Bridesmaids (women shit their pants, too!) and the character of Dee on It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia (women smoke crack and have cannibalistic tendencies, too!).

The Sarah Silverman Program is one of the best examples of raunchy female-driven comedy on television; in one episode Silverman accidently poops during a farting match and has a one-night-stand with God. But since its conclusion in 2010, there’s been a comedic void that is just now being filled by Comedy Central’s Broad City, which premiered in January and features Upright Citizens Brigade alums Abbi Jacobson and Ilana Glazer.

The lack of female-driven raunch comedy is likely due to a lingering, broader hesitancy over associating vulgarity with certain ideas of womanhood. For some reason it’s “okay” if women are objectified as part of masculinized raunch comedy, but there is often discomfort when women embrace vulgarity on their own terms. For example, Variety critic Brian Lowery panned Silverman’s HBO special, We Are Miracles, arguing that she “limited herself by appearing determined to prove she can be as dirty and disastrous as the boys.” Hilariously “dirty” topics ranged from smelly vaginas and female facial hair to gang bang humor mixed with cleverly crude non-segues: “Speaking of a bunch of men cumming on lady’s face, my Mom’s been sick.” Lowery’s critique reinforces long-standing essentialized sex roles that position women as being and having to be more pure, proper and virtuous than their male counterparts, making Silverman’s humor seem like a constructed attempt, while male raunch comedy is naturalized. The fact that few people would condemn male comedians for being ‘too dirty’ demonstrates how anachronistic gender distinctions persist.

Broad City may not discuss (as Silverman does) the virtue of adopting only terminally ill babies to avoid ever caring for 10-year-olds, but the show’s references to defecating in shoes, peeing out a condom or hiding marijuana in one’s genitals is similarly scatological. If you’re unfamiliar with Broad City, the show is about Abbi and Ilana, two BFFs navigating minimum wage jobs, dealing with obnoxious roommates masturbating in common areas and crushing on cute neighbors. Sex is, of course, a major theme of the show. Ilana even carries a second burner phone for her dick pics and other “sex media” because she’s still on a family plan and can’t risk dicks floating around in the cloud and making a surprise appearance on one of her parent’s phones. The show not only revels both in having unshaven pubic hair and the joys of women receiving oral sex from their casual sexual partners, but it also frequently references sexual desire between female friends. Ilana proposes “parallel play,” becomes jealous when she finds out Abbi made out with another friend and fantasizes about experiencing cunnalignus at the same time (with their partners butt-to-butt forming a kind of “Arc de Triomphe”).

This non-apologetic embrace and celebration of female sexuality—and all of the awkwardness and often unsexiness that goes along with it—are incredibly rare on television. Sex and The Citywent there sometimes in its recognition of the powerful bonds of female friendship and open discussions of sex, but the show’s major dramatic moments always revolved around their relationships with the men in their lives.

Broad City stands out because it resists other conventional tropes of femininity or traditionally televised notions of what it means to be a woman. Abbi and Ilana exhibit an unruliness, or an excess, that refuses to be quiet, clean or “small.” Instead of shrinking into themselves, they take up space through sight gags, such as Abbi literally rolling away to avoid answering an awkward question about how many children she has in a waiting room of a children’s dentist (answer: zero), or Ilana dancing topless in Central Park during a cell phone recovery mission (only to be outdone by another woman hula-hooping topless for several hours).

In the episode “Working Girls,” Illana violates personal space by falling asleep on fellow subway passengers. On “Stolen Phone,” Abbi embodies the idea that women should be both seen and heard. In this episode, she stands on a bar stool and commands her fellow patrons to find her phone so she won’t miss a call from a dude she wants to sleep with.

Both girls are both regularly shown sitting on toilets, sleeping on toilets, defecating in toilets, plunging toilets and rubbing their faces with “fancy” toilet paper. Simply put, they fully embrace being two “dirty” and “morally loose” broads, further evidenced by Ilana saying to Abbi in “The Last Supper,” “So what you’re a nasty bitch. Who cares? … Let’s go get high.”

Speaking of two nasty bitches getting high, it should be noted that this kind of raunchtastic humor is also present on CBS’s 2 Broke Girls, but that show is ultimately a comedic trainwreck. It has similar, albeit innuendo-laden, “unladylike” dick jokes, but without any of the social or political bite troubling traditional ideas of gender performance and comedy. But perhaps the fact that vagina, porn and tampon talk appear on America’s most geriatric broadcast network—in addition to Broad City—is a sign that there’s more unruly, transgressive and hilarious female comedy to come. I sure hope so.