What's with the "celebreality" phenomenon? Do we really need to suffer along with group of D list celebrities trying to lose a few extra pounds (or a few dozen extra pounds) or watch a hodge-podge of has-beens skinny dipping, drinking, yelling at each other, sleeping together, and working to complete totally bogus "assignments" in their psychedelically appointed surreal "home"? Or, for that matter, who needs
a series of poorly edited home videos to prove that Britney Spears is as skanky as we suspected and that her man-ho husband is as vacuous and as in dire need of a bath as he appears in the tabloids? Even Venus and Serena have decided to jump on the bandwagon (rev up those TiVos now, folks).
For real!Granted, in amongst
Gastineau Girls,
Surreal Life, the
Anna Nicole Show, and
Celebrity Fit Club, you can stumble on a few passingly interesting and entertaining shows.
The Osbournes first season, for instance, was not the high watermark of cable television, but it was fun.
The Simple Life, finding Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie living on a rural Arkansas farm, and its subsequent seasons of road tripping and interning were mildly amusing. (And who doesn't realize that Nicole is the true driver of that Winnebago? She's funny. Paris is wooden. Nicole is brazen and, sometimes, even witty. Paris is pouty and comes off genuinely stupid. Apparently, Paris doesn't get this, though. She seems to think she's the star of the show and it can go on without Nicole, who
"knows what she did" to Paris to warrant being dumped from the show -- reportedly
Nicole showed Paris's famed sex tape to friends at a party.
The latest reports now indicate that Paris and Nicole may have patched things up enough to ride the Simple Life express one more time. "Whew," says Wasteland Fan, with tongue firmly in cheek.)
Despite these and a couple of other examples of not wholly wretch-inducing celebreality,
one recent entrant has to be reason enough to ban all variants of the genre from this point forward.
Being Bobby Brown introduces us to the day-to-day lives of Bobby, Whitney, Bobbi Kristina, and a gaggle of other hangers on, children from "previous relationships," and Bobby's flatulent father "Pops." Really, who hasn't found herself lounging on the couch on a hot summer evening and thinking, "God, I wonder what it's like to be Bobby Brown?"
You haven't?
Really?
Come to think of it, neither have I, nor has anyone I know. In fact, I had been perfectly content to wipe my mind clean of
Mr. Tenderoni, sparing a short blurb or two on an entertainment website reporting that he's taking another trip to the pokey. I don't know who convinced Bobby Brown that documenting his day-to-day life was a net positive undertaking for society, but there's a special ring in hell for them. Ah, but it's
his prerogative, no doubt.
To make matters worse, we have to suffer through watching Whitney Houston alternately swearing at, bitch slapping, and fawning over Bobby, frequently as poor Bobbi Kristina looks on. Before this, a fan of her (early) music could separate appreciation of it from the reports of Whitney's erratic behavior and trips to rehab. Now it's all just one big mess and the magic of denial just won't cut through the images that Bravo TV has so unnecessarily seared on my brain.
To quote
Aunt Sassy, "Note to self: I don't need to see that!"
(By the way,
despite what some critics say, I love the whole send up of the celebreality phenomenon that is HBO's
The Comeback.)
