I Like to Watch

April 6, 2008 | In prehistoric times -- you know, a few hours after God divided the land from the seas -- the world was our oyster. And by "our" I mean carbon-based life forms, of course. Who would rule these freshly minted wilds? Would giant amoebas tromp out of the seas on their pseudopods and slurp pineapples from the trees? Would snakes sprout wings and shoot off spores? Would monkeys learn to walk on two legs and make tacos and purchase long-term disability insurance?

Those were unpredictable times, indeed. No one knew if dinosaurs would reign supreme indefinitely, necessitating complicated accidental injury riders on caveman life-insurance policies. No one knew whether saber-tooth-cat meat would fall out of favor suddenly, bankrupting big-game hunter conglomerates and unraveling the complicated credit default swaps used to fund their exorbitantly expensive nomadic lifestyles. If paramecium colonies suddenly grew pseudo-hands and learned to type sophisticated political commentary, would the orangutan blogging community slowly disband?

The early days of reality TV were similarly uncertain. Every few weeks, reality producers (see also: unskilled workers who migrated south after the dot-com collapse) would dream up a new formula: "Let's put 15 aspiring massage therapists into a den of hungry lions and watch what happens!" "Let's offer a bunch of toddlers all the espresso they can drink, then set them loose on a ranch full of recovering alcoholics! We'll call it 'Scared Sober!'" "Let's strap a gigantic tuna casserole onto Tyra Banks' back, then throw her into a pool full of ravenous dolphins!"

These days, however, the surviving reality TV producers wear Italian loafers and they don't sneak whiskey into the conference room anymore. Their meetings sound a little bit more like this: "How about another a rock 'n' roll version of 'American Idol'?" "Have we considered a celebrity 'Amazing Race'?" "Let's do 'Top Chef' with some of those really angry, slutty chicks from 'Flavor of Love.'" "What if we did our own 'The Real Housewives of Miami.' but called it 'Miami's Millionaire Mommies'?"

Skin the copycat
It shouldn't come as a surprise that 50 versions of the same winning formula dominate the reality landscape. Five years ago, weren't there 15 versions of "Everybody Loves Raymond" in the sitcom world? How many hundreds of varieties of "Law & Order" have we witnessed over the past 18 years?

Even so, the repetitive nature of television never ceases to stun those of us who have our heads so far up the boob tube's ass, we can smell what Les Moonves ate for breakfast this morning. Today, the question isn't whether you're a fan of "Paradise Hotel" or "I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here," the question is which of the dance reality competitions you prefer, "Dancing With the Stars," "So You Think You Can Dance" or "Step It Up and Dance" (Bravo's latest addition to the genre)? Do you want your celebrities following The Donald around or seeking rehab from Dr. Drew? Do you tune in for the performances on "Nashville Star," "The Next Great American Band" or "American Idol"?

Of course, one of the biggest schisms in the reality competition genre exists between "Top Chef" (10 p.m. EDT Wednesdays on Bravo) with its highfalutin foodie cheftestants, and "Hell's Kitchen" (9 p.m. Mondays on Fox) with its sideshow freaks and enraged demon chef Gordon Ramsay. (If you haven't read it yet, don't miss Alex Koppelman's great piece on Ramsay's transformation from fine, thoughtful chef into cartoon asshole.)

If I'd never seen either show, the grittier and more down-to-earth line cooks and aspiring househusbands of "Hell's Kitchen" might get my vote. But this show's scrappy side is all but eclipsed by its flashy Fox-style ferocity. Take the opening voiceover to the first episode, delivered in a demonic tone usually reserved for championship wrestling matches: "Now we are reawakening the beast, and the dark lord reigns again!" Is this a cooking competition or a Tenacious D reunion tour?

Next we see Ramsay in an explosive selection of flash-forwards, a whole season's worth of abusive, spitty outbursts on display. In them, Ramsay is anxious to criticize everything from bad style choices to an inadequate shrimp risotto. Of course, the man might be less angry if his casting director didn't consistently recruit such a curious assortment of sad sacks and addled ne'er-do-wells, none of whom seem to know how to pronounce "risotto," let alone cook it. It's hard to believe that Ramsay is going to allow one of these confused cretins to become the executive chef of his new restaurant in L.A.

The depraved nature of this crowd is best summed up by the comments of contestant Jason, who suffers from the (alarmingly common) notion that an appearance on a reality TV show will transform him into a whole new man. "Winning 'Hell's Kitchen' would totally change my life," he tells the camera. "I'm no longer just Jason. It's Jason who won 'Hell's Kitchen' and has a pocketful of money and has to beat women off with a stick, for God's sake!"

Next page: Dimwitted, insecure cooks, a chaotic kitchen, wasted food