There’s been a lot of talk about “Bachelor” contestant Emily Maynard (the blonde in the center, above): in 2004, her NASCAR driver fiance died in plane crash while she was pregnant with their daughter. Naturally, her first solo date with Brad Womack involved flying in a private jet, and last night’s group date required them to get into stock cars at the track in Las Vegas. It’s so cruelly manipulative that it almost makes the “Bachelor” producers seem like the string-pullers in a dystopian sci-fi world.
That’s the lens through which Linda Holmes of PBS chooses to view the show. In a post this morning, she wrote that “The Bachelor” “makes perfect sense if you think of it as worst-case-scenario science fiction.” Some of her examples:
The uniform is being adopted. Almost all human variation in appearance has already gone away. Not only do all the women have essentially the same body type, but they basically all have the same hair — all 30 of them have straight-ish hair falling at or below the shoulders. All the women with bobs were eaten by something.
One man remains to repopulate the planet. The only explanation for the fact that all 30 of these women, most of whom are in their mid-20s, are eager — nay, desperate — to lash themselves to the leathery hide of 38-year-old Brad Womack is that Brad is the last man alive. Were he not the last man alive, presumably one out of the 30 would be heard to say at some point, “Eh.” Perhaps, “This is not the man for me.” But no. They take seriously the responsibility for contributing to the continued survival of humankind, and that means Brad, Brad, Brad.
A rarely seen overlord pulls the strings from behind the scenes. Chris Harrison, the host, does not go on the dates. He does not mingle very much with the participants. He sweeps into the room, he delivers various verdicts and subtly manipulates the fundamentally decent Brad Womack into acts of evil that Brad clearly knows to be wrong, and then he vanishes.
Survival of the fittest pits one against another in a desperate effort to avoid disappearing from the world.Your typical science fiction tends to focus on Thunderdome-like battles to the death, where a desperate crowd cheers on the combatants as they fight with teeth and fists and possibly large chains. Here, the props are roses, spray tanner, and the towels that are eternally being wrapped around competitors emerging from the hot tub. But basically, it’s the same thing. Every week, the population dwindles. Every week, hope diminishes. Every week, another button nose sniffles away, never to be seen again ever.
I admit, looking at “The Bachelor” this way almost makes it watchable. The only other way it’s tolerable is if you watch it in a room full of women. The taunting is nonpareil. “Maybe next time wear a real cocktail dress instead of that cheap prom dress when your relationship is on the line!” OH SNAP! Girl you dih-n’t!
(bottom screencap via facesofrejectedbachelorettes)
