Vanderpump Rules Season 10 Exposes the Tragedy of the Reality TV Generation
Photo by Bravo
When Andy Cohen, the host of Watch What Happens Live and mastermind behind the reigning iteration of reality television, was approached with the idea for Real Housewives of Orange County, he realized it could fill the vacuum left by the dissolution of the soap opera’s popularity. His theory would bear out, attracting a similar demographic of viewers drawn to the larger-than-life characters whose reactions and responses were always a few degrees exaggerated. Just like soap operas, the medium also attracted a certain kind of performer, whose skill set could be thoughtlessly derided but remains difficult to manufacture. It has come to define a generation of reality TV personalities—and viewers.
It all started with Lisa Vanderpump, the ideal housewife, who was emblematic of Beverly Hills’ ostentatious wealth and gaudy apparel and had a cunning ability to create drama and then covertly pin it to other less established housewives. The idea to create her own spinoff show was a true no-brainer for Bravo, which was determined to latch onto her widespread appeal. For someone seemingly driven by self-obsession, the decision to skew the spotlight to focus on the staff of her LA restaurants was unexpected, but it has proven to be the most astute business decision she could have made. If Real Housewives was reality TV’s response to the soap opera, Vanderpump Rules was positioned as reality TV’s sitcom.
Like a sitcom, Vanderpump Rules is fuelled by the ever-shifting dynamics of relatable figures, dappled with the dramatic milestones that make up these 20-somethings’ lives. While Real Housewives extends their subjects enough grace to follow their families, their marriages, and their parents, Vanderpump Rules was captured with a more voyeuristic lens. Just as the sitcom, with its canned laughter and limited settings, traps the audience in a parody of human behaviour, there is an inescapable closeness builtin to this series. As viewers we are rarely granted access into the lives that stretch beyond the scope of LA, instead we spend time with them in their grimy apartments and messy hotel rooms. And of course, we follow them as they angrily chain-smoke in the alleyway behind SUR—their Central Perk.
If Real Housewives drew viewers by peering in at the unbelievable scope of these women’s lives–their homes, their closets, their egos–then Vanderpump Rules nursed a different impulse. Everyone remembers working a restaurant-type job or having a less-than-perfect relationship; this was a reality show that encouraged you to project your memories onto the onscreen drama and covertly measure your own impulses against their imperfect responses. In recent years this appeal has been dulled by the shifting stakes of the show. The cast were solidified as TV stars (well, reality TV stars), their paychecks inflated, and they gradually trickled out of service work into seemingly steady relationships. They bought million-dollar homes in The Valley (all within a 15-minute walk from one another), and started to have children with kitschy, off-kilter names and independent Instagram accounts. If the engine of Vanderpump Rules was relatability, then it had seemingly exhausted itself.