This spring, a reel on decoding seasons-upon-seasons of Vanderpump Rules went viral. It features a comedian-bro, armed with a whiteboard and marker, leading a clinic on the iconic Bravo show. The video is undeniably funny, with its star red-stringing all the cast members together with reveal after reveal, while his two friends watch, enraptured. One of them, coincidentally, is West Wilson, the breakout star of another Bravo show about messy 20-30-somethings, Summer House. 

Within days of his Vanderpump sketch video going live, West would score a profile in the New York Times –  a privilege usually reserved only for cultural leaders – as Summer House’s new must-watch cast-member. He’s not alone. Vanderpump’s Tom Sandoval also had a full spread in NYT, while his scorned ex-girlfriend Ariana Madix had her own feature in the Los Angeles Times. Now, it seems a pipeline to parlaying reality fame has emerged.  Ariana was tapped to host Love Island USA. Summer House-alum Hannah Berner has the most popular comedy special on Netflix right now, while her book with former co-star Paige Desorbo is the number one self-help book on Amazon. 

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Reality television has always been relegated to a different weight class. It was lowbrow trash. A guilty pleasure that could never compete with prestige, smart people TV like, Game Of Thrones or Succession. I had always dabbled in reality shows in the shadows, but the cataclysmic breakup and unbelievable press coverage of Tom Sandoval and Ariana Madix – two people I’d never before heard of – seated me, truly, for the first time. A Bravo virgin, to season one, episode one of Vanderpump Rules. Then every season after that. Then Summer House, and so on. And for the first time, I told everyone. 

From Big Brother to The Bachelor to Keeping Up With the Kardashians, reality shows have always been created with a majority female viewership in mind — and for good reason. Unlike straight men, we don’t generally disappear into the universes of televised sports — an entertainment category that has always felt exclusionary. And famously, anything geared toward women, does not carry the same cultural weight as that which is made for men. For so long I was convinced a taste for unscripted TV reflected poorly on me. Why? Because, whether I realized it or not, anything that felt inherently feminine, and therefore frivolous, could not seem to hold socio-intellectual value. 

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Now, Boyfriends around the world are locked on Love Island USA, which has now become essential dinner table discussion. It feels bigger than a strike-induced drought in scripted television, or the fact that streaming allows for Ariana Madix to be in the same viewing schedule as Jeremy Allen White (though those are certainly factors). There has been a cultural shift in favor of reckless, shameless frivolity. It’s Charli XCX’s unrefined, hyper-pop topping the charts.  It’s TikTokker Addison Rae’s recent elevation to icon status. It’s Kim Kardashian denouncing diamonds only to boldly reclaim them.

Pop culture is anthropology. We learn about our own connections by getting a behind-the-curtain glimpse at the (mostly) unmediated inner-workings of others — and then gossiping about them, guilt-free. And as a result, we feel included, connected, part of something outside ourselves. We might not be taking shots with them, fighting with them, cheating on them, but we’re having fun…and it’s fun to see fun finally be taken seriously.


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