For all the campy fun and pure escapism that the Housewives embody, more than once I’ve had to grapple with the difficult truth that reality TV captures real life not only in its lighter moments, but in the darkest times as well. No amount of wealth, beauty, or fame can immunize you from misfortune, tragedy, or despair. I do not believe to this day that Russell Armstrong killed himself as a result of the show.
My experience in reality TV is that the truth always ends up coming out. It might take some time and patience and even skillful reading between the lines, but it will be there. Leeches, grifters, pretenders, and manipulators are always exposed or expose themselves. Flawed people and flawed relationships are laid bare, whether it’s a controlling husband, a conniving friend, or an insolent and ungrateful offspring. Viewers are invested in the truth, whether it’s sweet or sordid, and the Housewives never disappoint, just as they never fail to provide equally honest moments of deep loyalty, tender vulnerability, and unself-conscious self-parody. There will always be those who disagree, but I know that while the root of this show is entertainment, it’s also laced with social commentary, and whether we’re getting to know these pretty people or their pretty little dogs, their lives are undeniably real. And sometimes real life isn’t very pretty at all.
REUNIONS
The Clayton High School Class of ’86 has reunions every five years, and I go back to St. Louis for every one. Most of us are still in touch, so there’s never that shocking moment when the music dims, everyone gasps, and we all whip our heads around to see the formerly nerdy chess club president walk in looking super-hot with the quarterback of the football team. There are no drinks thrown, no damning evidence suddenly produced with an accompanying shriek, no old feuds suddenly boiling over at the bar. I would describe these gatherings as “sweet.” And that’s one of the reasons there won’t ever be a Real Housewives of St. Louis. I’ve seen that show and, trust me, it’s nice, but it wouldn’t make good TV.
The same cannot be said for the reunions I host on Bravo. Allow me to quote Whitney Houston from Being Bobby Brown: “Aww HAYALL NO!” At first, the concept behind reunion shows was to tie up loose ends and avoid the following season turning into a rehash. They were also a way to extend the seasons of shows that were getting good ratings. But what started as a little jaunt down Memory Lane has evolved into a smoldering high-speed pileup on the Autobahn, and I’m equal parts horrified, mesmerized, and—mainly—excited. After all, I’m not only a producer, host, and boss, I’m also a superfan.
The reunions on Bravo started with Project Runway and Top Chef, and even though we were dealing with relatively down-to-earth personalities like fledgling designers and young chefs, you may be shocked to learn that these initial get-togethers were dramatic, drunken—and sometimes very ugly. The first Top Chef reunion featured Tiffani Faison running to the side of the studio to throw up, contestant Ken Lee threatening original Top Chef host Katie Lee Joel, and chef Stephen Asprinio calling Candice Kumai trash. At the time, I honestly wondered: Was this the most repulsive or the greatest thing I’d ever seen on TV? The answer, possibly, was yes to both.
The first OC Housewives reunion occurred without me, and for that maybe I’m grateful: Today it looks as primitive as the first episode of The Simpsons. The women gathered in Vicki’s backyard and sat on her tall, wobbly outdoor furniture, reminiscing directly to the camera. The next season, I hosted, but we still didn’t get the setting right, moving the proceedings into an antiseptic, football-field-sized studio where we sat far apart from each other on director’s chairs that made my butt hurt. When the women entered the studio, Jeana asked if the big fancy studio meant the show was a big hit. It was.
The set for the first RHNYC reunion was perfect. We convened at the Russian Tea Room; the women were seated close to each other on couches, surrounded by old New York City glamour. We positioned the biggest adversaries on either side of me. That season, like others that would follow, it was Jill and Ramona. I squeezed into the middle, which I’ve learned is always the best seat in the house.
The Housewives see the reunions as a last chance to rewrite their own story, and at the heart of it, isn’t that what all reunions are really about? You go to your twentieth determined to leave an even better impression than the last time, to have people say, “That person looks great/has their shit together/has really changed…” It’s a manipulation of sorts, but a manipulation that goes both ways. While the Housewives are trying to manipulate each other and (especially) the viewers, I’m trying to manipulate them into spilling their guts on television.
The Housewives both love and dread the reunions, and I can’t say I blame them. They typically take at least eight hours to shoot, because we let all the women talk and talk (and talk) until they feel they’ve had their say. This is when they have to face the harshest jury—the viewers—who fire direct, often angry, questions and opinions. Even though the Housewives have signed up for the show and everything that entails—and though they keep coming back for more year after year— answering intensely personal questions and getting roasted for your behavior on national television would be a grueling experience for anyone. It’s probably not unlike throwing your hat in the ring for public office, knowing that there’s a chance Matt Lauer is going to show up with that pic of your butt you drunkenly tweeted.
Often a Housewife attempts to use
