There’s a scene in 1964’s Goldfinger, the Sean Connery James Bond movie. Bond’s been captured and is strapped down on a gurney-like table. A laser is switched on. The deathbeam lands between Bond’s squirming feet—and it’s slowly climbing. In a few moments, James is going to be sawed in two, starting with the Royal jewels.
Bond struggles. No dice. He’s cooked.
“You expect me to talk?” Bond asks.
“No, Mr. Bond,” Auric Goldfinger says, “I expect you to die.”
(I realize I’m referencing a film that was a decade old when I was born, but roll with me, okay?)
Of course Bond manages to escape, take out the baddie, and bed the girl. He’s James Bond, after all. I may not have realized it as a kid, watching on a local channel on a Saturday afternoon, but I was learning a fundamental concept of storytelling: your characters’ actions drive the plot. Years later, this would become clear to me, as I began writing stories intending for this or that to happen, only to have characters drive the narrative off in directions I hadn’t planned.
Don Winslow once told me if you’re not surprised by your story, no one else will be. I think he’s right.
Fast forward some.
My wife and I watch the occasional reality TV show; unscripted content, in industry parlance. We often struggle to find a movie or show we both want to watch (turns out she can only endure Heat so many times). Reality TV is bubble gum entertainment, background noise that allows your brain to unwind after a long day. But don’t let that unscripted label fool you, we’ve come a long way since the raw moments of MTV’s The Real World. Today’s cast members are media savvy. Any of Bravo’s many Real Housewives—and by my count there are at least four hundred—are well aware they have to generate storylines that lead to screen time and land them another season’s contract. Drama is the goal and situations are setup by cast and producers to create the most conflict.
Doubt me? Check out that seminal “reality” series, The Hills. The show’s final scene features Kristen Cavallari and Brody Jenner saying a tearful goodbye on an LA street. The credits roll, the camera pulls back, and our fantasy is shattered. Cavallari and Jenner are on a Hollywood backlot. The background’s a matte painting. Cavallari and Jenner hug and laugh. The whole thing’s a sham, a scripted scene. With that brilliant, unexpected ending, the producers let us in on the joke: this whole show was planned.
And we all got punk’d.
Now we know better. There’s Instagram. Airtime means followers for cast members, and followers means $$$.
Fast forward some more. We arrive at #Scandoval.
Vanderpump Rules started out a decade ago. It followed the drunken misadventures of aspiring actors and musicians who were waiting tables in an uber-cool L.A. restaurant. They owned iPhones with shattered screens, drove shitty cars, and traded sexual partners like Pokemon cards. It was ridiculous and fun. The show was a breakout hit and its main characters—who once wanted to act or sing—settled into their roles as our nation’s most unsettling celebrity: reality show star.
We’re concerned with two of Rules’ leads: Ariana Madix and Tom Sandoval. Years ago, Sandoval cheated on his then-girlfriend with Madix, and the two fell in (TV) love. Minor stardom followed. Social media accounts swelled. They co-authored a cocktail book. Tom became a restauranteur; Ariana was opening a sandwich shop. They bought a house but—crucially—did not marry.
Last year, news broke that Tom cheated. Again. This time on Ariana, this time with a mutual friend. This development reenergized a dying show. Cameras captured the fallout, Tom’s stuttering explanations, Ariana’s angry tears. Tom became the country’s most hated man. His new restaurant got crushed by one-star Yelp reviews. Hordes of reality show fans rallied to Ariana’s flag. She was crowned queen (of something?) and hailed by the masses.
The moment transcended a third-rate reality series. Offers flooded in. The New York Times did a long form feature on Ariana. She landed a spot on ABC’s Dancing With the Stars. Brands flooded her with lucrative advertising deals. She’s on Broadway, playing Roxie Hart in Chicago. Everyone wanted to be associated with The Woman Wronged.
I watched all this first with amusement, then confusion. Finally, horror. What did Ariana’s exploding fame say about popular culture? We’ve established that reality shows have arcs and tell stories. And, as Ian Fleming taught me (he wrote the Bond books), character choices drive the plot. What were Ariana’s? She had stayed for years in a relationship with a man who was, by many accounts, a complete ass. Rumors swirled that they were still together only so they could remain on the series. Ariana hadn’t struggled to pull herself out of an awful situation. Quite the opposite; she remained in one until Sandoval did what men like him usually do.
Her action was inaction. And she got rich off it.
My wife follows r/VanderpumpRules, a Reddit forum where fans discuss the show. After the eleventh season’s premiere in January, I asked her what the sub’s vibe was. Months after #Scandoval broke, Ariana’s fandom was still Swiftie-like in its adoration of her. Bend the knee and bow, unbeliever.
This has me baffled. Are we at a point where victimhood has so much currency, viewers and readers no longer need characters to drive the plot? Has merely experiencing wrongs supplanted the need to overcome them? Would today’s viewers want Bond to stay on that table until Goldfinger’s laser sawed him in half?
I know what you’re saying. “Relax, Jason. It’s a stupid reality show and doesn’t reflect the broader culture.”
And you’re probably right.
Thing is, we no longer have a monoculture. Excluding events like Barbenheimer, we rarely enjoy and discuss the same movies and shows (and don’t even bring up novels). Entertainment has become so fractured that we can all find our silo and live inside it. And for a decent-sized chunk of people, a character who does nothing merits rabid fandom.
What does that mean for more traditional forms of fiction? Will certain readers/viewers be shocked when the main character faces challenge after challenge and does their best to overcome them? Or is it enough for the hero(ine) to endure, and by enduring, conquer? (Paraphrasing Ernest Shackleton, here.)
What would James say to that?
No, Mr. Bond. I expect you to die.
That’s cool. Where’s my endorsement deal?