Choosing the moon-traipsing, flag-planting astronaut as a mascot was a very symbolic decision for MTV. It was the pioneer, claiming the undiscovered country of cable for itself.
Arguably the network’s best contribution to television and greater humanity has been “The Real World,” which has become the brave, lead-bouncing figure in the reality-television universe. Up until this season, that is. Now, it may be more appropriate to have a mildly retarded boy trudging through sewage as the network’s identifying icon.
“Real World,” your time is up.
The first half of the series’ existence was nothing short of brilliance. Back in the “Perfect Stranger-ian” dark ages of scripted dialogue and constructed sets, Bunim-Murray masterminds swept us off our collective feet and plopped us on the couch where we would devour “what happens when people stop being polite” for the next 11 years.
It was escapism without the escape. Addictive and entertaining, the initial six seasons were voyeurism at its best. However, somewhere around Hawaii, the show began to try to outdo itself, attempting to make this Real World better/sexier/crazier/mind-bogglingly shallower than the last.
Anyone who disagrees need only compare Chicago’s super-models of a cast to London’s drab, wool-coat-toting trolls, back to New York’s gig at Arista with Boston’s community-center work, and the current lush Vegas penthouse to the hole-in-the-wall New York loft of the very first season. Yet, it was still a damn good show.
But now, it seems, “The Real World” has dug its own grave.” The 24-7 sin scene of Vegas and the bevy of beauties don’t hold a tribal torch to today’s reality fare. Try as it might, the show simply cannot compete with its own history or the other shows it has spawned. And it has become amazingly awful in the meantime.
“Las Vegas” is single handedly the worst season in the show’s lengthy history. Unarguably. Undoubtedly. The. Worst. Producers tried to up the ante by placing the roommates atop the gluttonous gorge of Vegas, where the lights burn brighter than any one of the cast members’ IQs. But the loose sexcapades in and amongst the cast, the lush-like tendencies, even the arguments have all been seen before.
And they were better. Oh, how they were better. The lackluster, intra-roomie romance between southern bimbo Trishelle and the equally high-witted pretty boy Steven, is merely a shadow of Hawaii’s blowout couple, drama queen Amaya and cute guy Colin. Not only was the rest of the Hawaiian house deviously involved in the twosome’s tryst, it was missing that whole, creepily carefree pregnancy scare.
Irulan and Alton only wish they could fight like Seattle’s Irene and Stephan. (Sadly, the Nevada desert fails to provide a place for a floating stuffed puppy.) Brynn’s fork is Kevin from New York’s candlestick, but lamer, much lamer. Vegas’ Nice-Guy-But-No-Story-Line Frank is less adorable and more boring than Nice-Guy-But-No-Story-Line Jaime in New Orleans. Arissa is a poor man’s L.A. Tami.
The Vegas roomies’ lackadaisical attitude towards their “job” was done with more style and more flair when Miami, led by the ever-charismatic Dan, pissed their way through a business start-up loan. This cast sleeps more than London’s Jay and drinks more than Hawaii’s Ruthie — a homebody by this season’s standards.
Moreover, “The Real World” simply can’t compete with the hordes of other reality TV shows and their knack for filling just the right void. Before, “The Real World” offered the makings of fine reality programming all in one place. But now, John Q. Viewer is after certain kicks in a higher quality, not quantity.
You want to see discipline and hard work? Flip on “Tough Enough.” Screwy, unbelievable, yet highly addictive chance for romance? The “Bachelorette” and “Joe Millionaire” have your number. Sweaty deception in “Survivor.” Losers who are ridiculed as a science in the early stages of “American Idol,” and the triumph of the human spirit in the later half. Toned physiques parading around with no sign of any plot or substance in “Are You Hot?” Even “Sorority Life 2” and “Fraternity Life” seem more relatable than the current seven strangers picked to live in oblivion. These co-eds still may be rent-free, but at least they have finals.
Reality television has learned from its ancestor, taking only the best parts of “The Real World” — the gossip, the backstabbing and scantly-clad yougins — and tailoring it to please a particular TV-in-bad-taste bud. Ironically, the show that grew up in the demographic-specific, special-interest-rooted cable system has become too broad. We satisfy the jonesing of guilty pleasure in more explicit ways than ever before, and “The Real World” can no longer cut it.
Reel it in, Real World. Your only purpose now is creating a breeding ground for personalities that think they can make it in entertainment but who are doomed to fill slots on “Real World/Road Rules Challenges” and defunct soda ads. Next season is number 13, but as far as Vegas goes, the luck has already run out.
