Why Are We Still Watching 'The Bachelor'?
The first Monday of January comes equipped with many promises—those of eating better, those of course-correcting however you believe you went wrong in the previous year, and the fantastical promise of televised love in the sustaining form of The Bachelor. This year, on January 1—a symbolic a date as any—Bachelor Nation tuned into watch 29 women vie for the likely-ephemeral love of Arie Luyendek Jr., a 36-year-old sentient potato (albeit, a race car-driving one) with alleged pillows for lips who is excited by “excitement.”
History dictates this will not work. In The Bachelor’s 21 previous seasons and nearly 16 years on the air, there has only been one “successful” couple (if “success” is defined as “married,” which is problematic in of itself—objectively speaking, breaking up with a piece of cardboard is a success to be celebrated). Discounting Jason Mesnick, who unceremoniously dumped Melissa Rycroft and is married to runner-up Molly Malaney, the only still-married Bachelor is Sean Lowe, who has come to endure the fate of dispensing hackneyed “advice” to every mumbling, horny, jawline of a new bachelor at the beginning of every season. What he does not say is that the odds are not in their favor; Lowe has even admitted he and his wife, Catherine Giudici are “not the typical Bachelor couple.”
The thinly-veiled premise of “falling in love” has been shattered so many times that I wonder: Why are we still watching it in 2018? And by we, I literally mean we, the collective Bachelor Nation; I am glued to my television and consider this a truly philosophical question. Really: Why? It’s not to fill my brain with fairy tale myths about how love works. It’s not to sneer at the women; I’m not interested in rejoicing in other women’s mistakes or cruelty towards each other, that feels mean. I have better things to turn my attention to, we all do, and yet my year cannot be started correctly without fixating upon multiple hot tub makeout sessions and cursing the gods that women are convincing themselves that these rigid boys, who I imagine only wore Abercrombie & Fitch in the 2000s, are the best the universe has to offer them.
It’s now impossible to watch the show without asking, “Did the
producer make her say that?”
The other facts surrounding the series makes it all the more mind-boggling. All Bachelor fans are familiar with its cheesecloth of a narrative: When you know, you know! Some travel porn, some kisses with heavy tongue, and a few Tough Conversations are enough to confirm if someone is “the one”—and if not “the one,” then the perfect partner for a press tour. I suppose this twisted fantasy is alluring for some given how far removed from actual reality it is, but at this point in the show’s teenaged lifespan, I refuse to believe that the female contestants buy into that. By now, it’s so very clear that many on the show are disinterested in looking for marriage, regardless of whatever platitudes about “settling down” they utter to the camera. And, in recent years, it’s been harder to avoid questioning the ingenuity of those statements. The dramatic process has been somewhat elucidated (if exaggerated for drama) by the brilliant UnREAL, a series about the puppet master producers behind the ironically named Everlasting, co-created by former Bachelor producer Sarah Gertrude Shapiro. Even more revealing? We have the internet, and enough contestants have gone the author route, penning tell-alls that enlighten us all the more.
It’s now impossible to watch the show without asking, “Did the producer make her say that?” Beyond that, the women who execute bad behavior seem to do so with a witting grin—they know this will make them the villain, or maybe give them fleeting celebrity. They, like we, know the narrative well enough to know what will secure them a rose. If anything, we’re watching a competition to see who will be become Instagram influencers and pose for #ads—a natural, lucrative path for these telegenic contestants.
Even stranger, it’s now a cyclical parody of itself. In Higgins’ seasons, twins Emily and Haley Ferguson’s listed occupations were “twins.” One woman in the premiere that year was labeled a chicken enthusiast. Many women are dental hygienists, much to the dismay of an actual dental hygienist who claimed the show “[marginalized]” women in that trade. This year, the series seems to have checked itself—everyone wants to be Taken Seriously Like An Adult for 36-Year-Old Real Estate Man Arie—or the producers just caught that it’s a little silly to minimize women to whatever occupation will be the most viral. Or that hat trick got old.
But despite all the warped, recurrent behaviors on this show that, honestly, are starting to feel like they belong in a Black Mirror episode, one of my favorite facts about The Bachelor is purely a statistic. Even if just by a margin, Bachelorettes have had greater success than Bachelors in selecting partners who can last beyond the press cycle. (Theory: Most men are terrible.) I wonder if part of the allure in 2018 is not seeing who will end up with Arie—the salt and pepper potato pillow is not the ultimate catch!—but who will be the real winner by not “winning,” only to be featured on The Bachelorette, only to call out inappropriate behavior of the men in their season, only to emerge the hero in this bullshit cycle. The best thing we got from Nick Viall’s season was Rachel Lindsay, a woman who made literal history by being the first black Bachelorette…14 years after Trista Sutter’s premiere season.
“Women ultimately emerge the heroes of a story that was originally
about a man looking for love.”
The bizarre, but now familiar, formula is so predictable that it’s somewhat comforting in a time rocked by instability and insecurity—but it’s also satisfying when it catches us off guard when the women it didn’t want to succeed subvert the narrative. When unlikely heroines like Corinne Olympios who blatantly give zero fucks become internet heroes. Or when the Ferguson sisters coming out the other end with their own damn TV show. These paths are predictable for reality TV stars—viral fame or another spinoff show or, you know, #ads—but women ultimately emerge the heroes of a story that was originally about a man looking for love. Maybe it’s about women looking to fuck up the predictable story of a dude…or women realizing that the narrative ABC is selling—that the ultimate happy ending is being chosen by a man—is completely fallacious.
Of course, there’s got to be a better way to let women be the stars of their own stories outside of a tired “true love” narrative that barely anybody believes, but ABC likely sees no reason: We’re watching. And when Twitter reliably fires up its #bachelor tweets on Monday nights, there’s a camaraderie of women banding together, which is appealing in of itself. In part, we keep watching because we’re all asking the same questions (why), and rejoicing together when the women ultimately succeed.