Sometimes as a writer, you have to ask yourself how closely you want to hew to the way real people talk. How far do you want to go? How much value is there in momentarily (hopefully) confusing a reader for the sake of verisimilitude? The way we speak in real life is sometimes not all that riveting or clear when you put it down on paper.
This is what I’m thinking about lately because I’ve finally sailed toward the siren song that is the Real Housewives franchise. I’m eight seasons into Real Housewives of New York and three seasons into Beverly Hills.
This was, admittedly, a long time coming. One of my go-to excuses for watching reality TV was that I don’t watch “lifestyle” or “docusoap” reality television, I only watch competition-reality television. Because watching poor or working-class people being pitted against one another in a cutthroat game to collect a cash prize that’ll be slashed in half by taxes is so much more palatable.
But now, I have to drop the pretense. I am a trash goblin. I consume trash.
For those of you who do not know, Real Housewives refers to a franchise of television series which feature anywhere from five to eight wealthy women in a given city who are contractually obligated to hang out with each other. I think they are also contractually obligated to leave each other out of social events from time to time when there’s a need for drama.
They attend luncheons, throw charity events, flock to unsuspecting tourist destinations, offer musings about life, motherhood, and sisterhood, and fling catty remarks about everything from their friends’ bold fashion choices to their misbegotten life choices. Everything is fair game. And if it isn’t, there will be an entire half of an episode dedicated to an argument about why [insert topic] isn’t fair game.
The women of Real Housewives feel like different versions of a 2000s Nancy Meyers protagonist. These are well-off women who consistently refer to themselves as “having it all.” They summer in the Hamptons and winter in St. Barths. Their wealth is apparent but its origins are often elusive. They launch businesses or brands, but it doesn’t seem at all like they’ll be in dire straits if they fail. The ones who are married work to keep their marriages viable in the face of career pressures and child-rearing. The ones who aren’t married are looking to change that.
At first glance, the Housewives-verse doesn’t seem much different than other affluence porn of the last two decades of reality television. The spectacle of watching the rich and semi-famous is not new. Even older is the tradition of watching women claw at one another for power, position, and relevance. The Carringtons of Dynasty would fit right in. Reality television didn’t create these spectacles. It just made them cheaper to produce—and has the added advantage of letting its audience communicate with the characters and get involved with the drama via social media.
The comparison to Dynasty isn’t inappropriate. The Real Housewives episodes are structured like soap operas. Characters are often separated into small, punchy scenes to talk about the drama at hand, to move the plot forward, and to eventually set the stage for a conflict featuring the key players.
The dramas, of course, are mostly banal. One housewife claims a housewife made a bizarre, uncharacteristically nasty comment off-camera. The accused housewife denies this. This fueled nearly half a season of drama between Beverly Hills housewives Camille Grammer (Kelsey’s ex) and Kyle Richards. This conflict creates a ripple effect, disturbing the peace between Kyle’s sister, Kim, and fellow housewife Taylor Armstrong. Through a series of miscommunications and Kim and Taylor’s tangential argument actually lasts longer than the argument which caused it.
Every few episodes though, things take a turn. Disagreements about a comment someone may or may not have said become vicious fights about these women’s moral failings and personal secrets. They are constantly balancing between caring for one another and performing for the camera—which is why when someone broaches a subject that’s considered off-limits, the fights are suddenly filled with unspoken significance.
Real Housewives features some surprisingly complex relationships. They are often nonlinear. Relationships may crumble before us or they may fall apart off-camera. Friendships may coalesce over several episodes or they may spring up without warning between seasons and are cemented by the time of the next season premiere. One housewife says she never wants to speak to her friend again. Four episodes later, they’ve made up.
Although hordes of gay men disagree, Real Housewives doesn’t scream camp to me the way something like Dynasty does. Its “nonscripted” format makes it feel more like a study in mismatched communication styles than true camp. Longtime New York cast member Ramona Singer’s big eyes, frequent malapropisms, and indefatigable insistence on saying the wrong thing at the wrong time would feel forced coming out of a fictional character’s mouth. When it’s Ramona, these traits are as infuriating and terrifying as being in the room with her.
Come to think of it, I can’t think of anything more terrifying than being in a room with Ramona Singer.
Some things may be staged, but what isn’t staged feels immediate, feels like people thrown together for contractual obligations with competing intentions and competing versions of reality. Even dramas that one housewife may be manufacturing for the cameras are made manifest due to the reactions they get from their castmates. It’s a self-feeding fire. Moments like Aviva Drescher (ugh) throwing her prosthetic leg across a restaurant table are made all the more real by how orchestrated they are by the women themselves. Aviva is CLEARLY trying to produce a moment here. What makes it great is the authentic reactions from her castmates. Some are appalled, some flee the table, some are completely nonplussed.
Like any good reality show, producer-orchestrated events are given meaning by the cast. It’s immersive improv—here’s a scenario, infuse it with reality. It’s messy and unpolished and brimming over with life.
If anything, the miscommunications and cognitive dissonance make the show feel all the more real. You couldn’t write this. You could approximate it, but you couldn’t recreate it. Any writer who tried to write this way couldn’t keep a job. It’s too complicated, too disjointed, too nonsensical.
If this were a movie, it would be hitting us over the head with a message. “Look at how they can’t communicate! That’s what this movie is about!” On Real Housewives, it’s just innate to the way these people are. Soon, a casual comment has exploded into a point of contention with real-world consequences. Carole Radziwill did NOT have a ghostwriter. Adrienne Maloof did NOT use a surrogate. Sonja Morgan’s toaster oven brand is 100% REAL.
On Housewives, nonsense becomes conflict—and the ladies know it, but are sometimes powerless to stop it.
What I’m Watching: Well, I think it’s obvious by now, darling.
What I’m Reading: I watch Real Housewives now, for God’s sake. I don’t read.
What I’m Listening To: This very maddening, high-pitched noise in the alley behind my apartment that, when I first heard it, I was certain it was some kind of psychological/sonic warfare. It’s happened three times over the past two weeks, always at night. I’m gonna be pissed if it’s Putin. I need my rest.
If you’re so inclined, buy me a cup of coffee at Kofi for a one-time donation of $3.
Or support my essays and fiction for as little as $1/month at Patreon!
The Red Sweater will be updated once per… let’s just say it’ll be updated once, periodically, until the end of time. It will cover developments in my life, work, and all the stupid little things I care about. More of my writing can be found.