I am William Hung.
I’ve got young kids and no TiVo, so I don’t watch much television. There are some shows I watch if the kids go to bed on time — a couple sitcoms, a couple dramas… andacouplerealityshows.
Heresy, I know, for a writer to watch reality television. I expect I’ll be publicly stoned for admitting it — and trust me, I’ve self-flagellated.
What’s the attraction, then?
The first reality show that ever hooked me was Joe Millionaire. I’m embarrassed to disclose, I didn’t miss a minute of Evan Marriott’s escapades.
Then there’s American Idol. I could probably watch an entire season of auditions in a single sitting. (And it’s not because I enjoy the music. That much I know.)
And to, um… round out my list, The Biggest Loser.
Jeezus, Grandpa! What am I watching these things for?!
Well, despite all efforts to the contrary, I’ve got bubblegum tendencies. Deep down, there’s a kindergartener in here dreaming of happily ever after.
And artists – whether they paint with color, music or words – tend to wrestle with self-doubt. Just when I think I’ve got a handle on this screenwriting thing, some screechy-voiced bimbo mouths off to Simon Cowell about how sorry he’ll be when she wins a Grammy.
And, as a human living on this planet for a while, there are aspects of myself I’ve learned to hate.
See, the reality shows I’m attracted to are the ones starring me. It’s all about Universal Theme, really.
Maybe the success of reality T.V. isn’t voyeuristic… but solipsistic.