Return to Reality

I know it seems I've gone all fancy-pants watching classic films and quality TV shows, but no worries—I still watch plenty of crap. I've been reticent to write about it, however, because, frankly, much of it is losing its appeal. It's not the genre's fault. I'm sure there's plenty of ridiculousness left to be mined. I think it may be my choice of shows.

Bravo has been my main destination for a quick reality fix, but it's become rather stale. There are mainly five types of shows on Bravo: the Real Housewives franchise, spinoffs featuring cast members from Real Housewives, a group of friends with a shared culture/lifestyle (e.g., Princesses of Long Island), a group of young people who work in the same industry/location (e.g., Below Deck), and the competitions (e.g., the Top Chef franchise). Aside from the competition-based shows, most of the Bravo series are filled with frequent full-cast events (dinner parties, product launch parties, work parties, etc.) interspersed with smaller get-togethers in which cast members talk trash behind each other's backs (ensuring a fight at the full-cast events). Which sounds awesome if you're into this kind of thing (which I am), except the stories have gotten so formulaic that there's nothing new or unexpected anymore.

And here's the other problem with Bravo and the other networks that produce reality shows—we've all known for quite a while that these shows aren't exactly real, but now the networks have gotten brazen about scripting and setting up each interaction. As a result, the same celebrity news sites that publish stories about the shows' stars now also post articles about the storylines that were completely faked (for example, see Radar Online). And it isn't only the news sources getting in on the big reveals. Individuals with personal knowledge about reality stars' lives, particularly those with an axe to grind, have taken to personal blogs and Twitter to spin their own versions of certain events. It's become an industry of she said/she said/he said/she said... Ultimately, you end up assuming that none of it is true.

So, am I going to stop watching? Hell no. Despite knowing all that I do about these ridiculous shows, sometimes there's nothing I want more than to immerse myself in nothingness at the end of a long day. Sure, sleep would be smarter, but then how would I have learned these two very unimportant things: 

• Joe Francis isn't just a soft-core porn peddler and exploiter of young women; he's also an asshole to all people regardless of age, gender, sex, or celebrity status. His offensiveness is equal-opportunity, as seen on Couples Therapy (VH1).
• Despite their varied backgrounds and belief systems about art and commerce, all contestants on Project Runway (Lifetime) are willing to smile pleasantly as the show spends increasing amounts of time shilling their sponsors' products during the challenges. (Yes, I'd love to give away Yoplait Frozen Yogurt from a cart and then design clothing based on the tasters' descriptions. Mmm...creamy dress!) No fear of selling out here.

And it doesn't get more real than that! (Well, actually, I guess it does. I'm going to search for some new shows. I will report back soon.)

Derek – Boy on Film

I love a good cry. I don't cry at everything, but when the right kind of TV show, movie, or book gets to me, I let my cry-flag fly. While watching Derek, I enjoyed little cries, big cries, and two deep, soul-cleansing, sob-filled cries that I had to hold in until the end credits rolled so that the boyfriend (who was also quietly crying) and I wouldn't miss any dialogue. It was the best. 

Derek isn't only about tear-inducing sad moments, though. In fact, this seven-episode dramedy on Netflix is ridiculously hilarious. The show is the latest brainchild of Ricky Gervais, who both produces it and stars as the title character Derek Noakes. It takes place in a British nursing home, focusing on its workers and residents. Like Gervais's The Office, Derek has a workplace-as-family theme and uses the mockumentary approach. I'll admit it—the first time a character spoke in their "interview," I had the thought that Gervais was just repeating himself, and (insert snarky tone) in such an obvious manner. I didn't wonder for long, though, because I was soon sucked deep into Derek's world.

Derek is kind and sees the best in everyone, from the home's elderly residents to his coworkers and friends. It's not difficult to see why he adores Hannah, the home's manager (played brilliantly by Kerry Godliman), who always puts others ahead of herself. But he also adores his friends Dougie, the home's caretaker and a tremendous sourpuss, and Kev, who has no job, no home, and spends most of his time talking about his own penis. Kev provides some of the show's most ridiculous moments, from the lewd names for body parts he paints onto crabs at the shore to the screenplay he has written (and tries to perform with Derek) about the beginnings of 80s rock band Duran Duran. (Yes, I was sold the minute I saw the episode description mentioned Duran Duran.)

Some critics have made a big deal about whether Derek, who is slow and has odd mannerisms, has an identifiable mental handicap, and thus, if Gervais is making fun of him. (Gervais has made it clear in interviews that Derek is not autistic, nor does he represent any particular condition.) Personally, I think those that are stuck on this issue are missing the point. What struck me about Derek is how the home's workers, and by extension, the show, treats everyone as three-dimensional human beings. It's just as easy to over-simplify and dismiss elderly characters—there are plenty of tropes, ranging from the forgetful or cute old man to the sex-crazed or wise old woman. What the show does quite brilliantly is portray all of these characters as full-fledged people, with a past that has shaped their present. We learn that Derek has a difficult past that isn't fully laid out for us, but can be seen as a darkness behind his eyes. (Gervais has featured the character in stand-up routines in the past, but much of the history developed there has not yet been presented in the TV show.) And I love the use of old photographs to give us a small glimpse into the elderly residents' rich life histories. 

Derek, like the nursing home itself, creates a place for those often marginalized and unwanted by mainstream society. Perhaps more people should be asking why characters like Derek and the home's residents are so rare. Derek's uniqueness (whether from a specific condition or not) and the issues faced by the home's elderly (separation from family, illness, and, most realistically, death) should be welcome on screen. For those who stick with the series, it's clear that Gervais is not laughing at the characters. He is giving us a chance to briefly join them as they laugh, cry, and celebrate life.

Breaking Bad or Making Happy?

I love well-written films and TV shows. As I watch, I may admire the talents of the performers or director or cinematographer, but I swoon over the story and the dialogue. I'm also a viewer with particular tastes, as most of us are, and I don't want to watch things that don't interest me. Unfortunately, this puts me in an odd position as a fan of smart writing because several of the most acclaimed TV shows right now—for example Breaking Bad and Mad Men—do not fall into my wheelhouse.

The reality is that I like to feel happy. It's not that I deny that tragedies happen in real life—in fact, it may be because of how I respond to tragic real-life events that I value happiness so much. I can't help but be overly affected by terrible stories about the abuse, neglect, and harm that people cause. It's in my nature, perhaps because I'm a writer, to try to visualize and understand what I see. So when I learn about terrible things, my brain takes in all of that information and goes over it again and again to try to make sense of it, or to find a way to refocus it in a light that leaves room for eventual happiness. And in real life, there sometimes isn't any.

So when I'm faced with a fictional film or TV show that explores the darker side of our nature, immersing the viewer in a world that may be fascinating but is also ugly and uncomfortable, I don't want to engage. This is especially the case with TV shows, which bring you into their world week after week. I have watched difficult documentaries and dark films, and even appreciated the experience afterwards, but I can't keep coming back every week to tragically flawed characters in situations that bring them closer and closer to their worst selves. Because the challenge of writing a dark character isn't to see them try to get back to good, but to see how far they will go toward the bad. I remember watching The Sopranos years ago. I resisted for a while, but my ex-husband was a huge fan, as was my boss and half of my department at work. While I admired the talent that was evident in the writing (and all aspects of the production), I felt awful after each episode. My mood turned dark and my emotions felt raw. While some may welcome such a visceral reaction because it reinforces the amazing power of the show, I just wanted to take a shower and find a way to cleanse my brain.

And now I have heard endless praise about Vince Gilligan's Breaking Bad. I have no doubt that the writing is as exceptional as they say—aside from what I've read by critics, I also know huge fans whose opinion I trust. But after watching the pilot episode, I knew immediately the darkness was too great for me. I didn't go back.

I've also seen one or two episodes of Mad Men. I'll confess—it started to pull me in. I even set my DVR to record the series. But each time I had a chance to watch something without the kids, I chose anything but that. It wasn't because I didn't appreciate what it offered—including that I could finally join my friends and the greater TV community who can't stop talking about it—but because I never wanted to get that depressed. And from what I continue to read about the storylines and events, it was inevitable that I would feel that way.

I want my shows in the fictional world to be joyful. I don't mean cheesy sitcoms in which huge problems are completely resolved within 24 minutes (though I sometimes still like those shows, too). I want shows that intrigue me, entertain me, and challenge me—sometimes even bringing me to sadness. But I want them to ultimately take me to a place where I feel happy about life. This sometimes makes me feel like a poor student of the writing craft because I am limiting my exposure to what I might learn from, but I can no more deny my interests than those who write highbrow editorials about the demise of our culture as evidenced by Jersey Shore. I figure at least I recognize that it's a matter of my personal taste that I won't watch certain shows rather than being someone who dismisses a show as "bad" simply because it does not fit their narrow definition of "good." We can't all watch everything anyway, so I'll stick with what I like. If there's anything I've learned from most TV shows and films (both the happy and the dark ones), is that life is short. So I may as well enjoy it while I can.