So the reality in reality TV exists on a sliding scale. There are some shows, like the ones where you can subscribe to the cameras in the house like in the UK, where a lot of what you see is what you get. And there are some that are absolutely scripted nonsense. I did transcription work for the industry for a very long time, and I got to see a lot of it.
The best tool the directors have at their disposal is the “confessional,” that close-up, straight-to-camera exposition the stars give to provide context for the events that happen. If you don’t know any better, you’d think something happens in the house and then everyone runs off to the confessional couch to share their intimate thoughts and feelings about the events of the day.
Instead, what often happens is they film all the live events, and then they send everyone home for a couple of months while they comb through the footage and figure out what stories they want to tell out of it. And then they bring everyone back, and there’s food and drinks and wardrobe to match the footage they have. They walk the talent through a refresher of the events, and sometimes instruct them on the changes they’re making to said events for the show.
Now, I’m not saying they just make shit up. (Sometimes.) But they may want to bring a conflict between two cast members that was very minor into the forefront, because one or both are particularly telegenic assholes. Or, they might need to play down an event or reframe it if it turns out to be problematic in some way. Or they may just want to drop a particular storyline, but use some of the footage in a different context. So they’ll go over each episode of the show, remind the cast what happened in the house on that day, and provide guidance as to what exposition they need to spin it into the story they want.
If you watch carefully, you can see where the seams are. Much in the same way that a careful viewing of Madame Web shows a breathtaking amount of plot exposition being delivered through ADR where you can’t see the speakers’ lips moving—they tried very, very hard to make that movie watchable and utterly failed—you might find the meat and potatoes of a particularly significant reality TV storyline formed up primarily in the confessionals and just used to punctuate live events.
So, one show I worked on was a dating show from Fox called More to Love. The conceit was “The Bachelor but for heavyset folks.” It was so trash. I hated it, because the women were lovely and mostly sweet and nice, and then the fucking director would ask them shit in the confessionals like “since you’re so heavy, do you think this might be your last chance to find love,” trying to get them to cry on camera. I desperately wanted to hit that motherfucker with a chair. Or better yet, one of those old Ma Bell Bakelite rotary-dial phones, the ones that make an amazing musical clang when you clout someone with them.
(Don’t ask me how I know that sound.)
Anyway, the highlight for me was when I was working one of the date segments, and the big mook excused himself to go use the gents’. And as he got up from the table, the sound guy forgot to kill his fucking mic pack. And then I was left trying to figure out how to code “high-decibel urination” in the transcript.
I thank God he just needed a piss.
[22:04:54] [GRUNTING NOISES]
[22:05:17] [MORE GRUNTING]
[22:05:54] [JESUS CHRIST YOU EAT TOO MUCH CHEESE]
(The other highlight was when they discovered on a Thursday that they didn’t have a piece of confessional footage they needed for the show airing nationwide the following Monday. So they brought the girl in, shot it, I downloaded it Friday night, transcribed it and returned it overnight, and they got it cut into the episode in time to make air. It was the most I ever made per-minute as a transcriber, with all the rush fees.)
Another time, I did a reality show that was one of the VH1 specials starring D-list celebrities. And when I say D-listers, I mean D-listers for VH1. The subject of this particular tape was a fellow whose entire claim to fame was he’d nailed Snooki once upon a time.
That’s it.
That’s not a joke.
So anyway, this muppet showed up for his confessional shoot in high spirits, plunked himself down on the couch, and began delivering. And as the shoot went on, he got even more jolly. Then he started slurring his words. Then he got incomprehensible. Then he went non-verbal.
They called a halt to the tape and sent an intern out for help. She came back in from the open bar holding an empty bottle of Jack that had been full before the dude got there. He housed an entire bottle of whiskey in one go, and the resulting tape was a clinical example of alcohol poisoning. They cut the recording and called the medics.
Now, on the other end of the spectrum was a television network whose name implied truthfulness, and was anything but. This show was a pickers-swamp hunters hybrid show, where the protagonists would go out into the swamps of the southern US and find treasures. The pilot episode featured the team discovering a long-lost Civil War-era riverboat miles from anywhere in the Mississippi swamps. In reality, it was about fifty yards from an interstate, and they had to shoot around traffic noise.
At one point, the two leads were sitting at a table with the director going over the script. One of them paused, did a double-take, and looked up, confused. He pointed at his cohost and asked in utter disbelief, “We’re supposed to be brothers?”