Samiul Bashar Samin

Just as the thrum of spectators in a Roman amphitheatre must have once climbed a steady crescendo in anticipation of a beloved gladiator; as the noise in the groundlings pit of Shakespeare’s Globe must have risen in advance of the actors taking their places; or as the hordes who thronged New York’s docks begged sailors unloading the latest instalment of Charles Dickens’s novels for spoilers, so does a certain corner of Twitter come alive on Monday evenings.
From the charismatic, canny rednecks of Duck Dynasty to the impeccably clad, feuding doyennes of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, from the spoiled but sisterly Kardashians to the bullied line chefs of Hell’s Kitchen, from the creative and put-upon designers of Project Runway to the sad sacks of Hoarders, the appetite for humans going on national television to make fools of themselves has yet to be sated.
These shows do indeed traffic in suffering and humiliation. Certainly there is a veneer of plot – the pursuit of a husband, the creation of a garment, the opulent lifestyles of the rich and famous, survival on a desert island. And, no doubt, the accomplishments and loves of the characters bring us joy as spectators. And yet, the most cursory glance at any of these franchises will reveal that these weak plot-lines are a red herring, a ruse planted for no other purpose than to catalyse the humiliation of their principals.
Take The Bachelor. For two hours every week, a group of women compete in increasingly humiliating situations for the attentions of a man they have just met, whom they almost instantly begin to believe is their soul mate (at least, this is the conceit of the no doubt partially scripted show). Every episode has the women go on dates with this suitor, either individually or as a group. In addition to the humiliating set-up of one man dating 25 women, the dates themselves involve demeaning ordeals, such as a not-so-friendly game of soccer, the winners of which receive a paltry few moments alone with the eponymous bachelor.
The truth is, it’s not simply a lack of abhorrence that I feel towards the humiliations of reality stars. For it is not in spite of these humiliations that we watch – and enjoy – reality TV. It’s not despite the fact that these women are humiliated again and again that we come back every week to find out whom some milquetoast bachelor, indistinguishable from the previous one, will choose. It’s not despite the hoarders’ look of horror as the cameras invade their home, revealing piles and piles of rotting food and 37 broken blenders, that we keep watching. In fact, by shaming their characters, these shows are trafficking in a very old, very deep aesthetic pleasure.