Big D & the Women

Our latest reality shows are nothing but sorry stereotypes.
Big D & the Women
Desperate Dallasites: A diva (Pamela Martin-Duarte) and her daughter (Hannah Gelbart-Martin) at home in Plano.

A couple things I’ve learned about Dallas women from watching reality television: They are really, really dumb. Use the word “aloof” in their presence and you will be greeted with stunned confusion. These women aren’t up on their current events either. Ask them to name three present-day Dallas Cowboys, and the best answer you’ll get is “Um, Jessica’s Simpson’s boyfriend?” Dallas women care only about shopping at Gucci, getting their hair and makeup done at Salon Pompeo, dining at Abacus, and partying at Hotel ZaZa. They are also savagely cruel, yet somehow they never stop smiling. They deliver insults—“If you’re not careful, you’re going to look chunky”; “Do you see that belly? Does that not bother you?”—with the sort of chirpy enthusiasm that the rest of us reserve for cooing over a newborn.

I know what you’re thinking. When did reality TV become so profound and insightful? But seriously, to judge from Dallas Divas & Daughters, which completed its first season on the Style Network in November, and Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team, which finished its fourth season on CMT the same month, Hollywood producers seem to have declared war on the female population of the eighth-largest city in the country. Three decades after the television series Dallas first promulgated the image of the high-maintenance, high-heeled ballbuster and ten years after Robert Altman even more cynically portrayed Dallas women as a gaggle of shrill, boozy nitwits horny for their handsome gynecologist in Dr. T & the Women (2000), the ladies of Big D still can’t catch a break. What makes these latest attacks so dispiriting is that they epitomize the ugliest aspects of reality television, a category of programming that rewards participants who play up to their worst stereotypes with prizes and tabloid celebrity (see Queer Eye, The Biggest Loser, and John & Kate Plus 8). Watching Dallas Divas & Daughters and Making the Team, it’s impossible to distinguish the hatred the producers feel for their subjects and the hatred the subjects feel for themselves.

Dallas Divas & Daughters premiered in early October, and even the most casual observer of TV trends could tell that the Style Network was trying to cash in on Bravo’s popular Real Housewives franchise. Easier said than done. At its best (particularly the Atlanta and New Jersey seasons), the Real Housewives achieves the daffy, soap-operatic grandeur of a Pedro Almodóvar movie from the eighties; the personalities on these shows are so big that they could never possibly fit into the box of a mere stereotype. But Dallas Divas & Daughters, which focuses on five sets of mothers and daughters who are self-proclaimed members of “Dallas society,” seems uncommonly puny. The first episode centers on one mother who feels slighted that another turned up nearly two hours late for a polo match. The sadism of the show’s producers is astounding (the on-camera “confessional” interviews take place in light so garish it would render Halle Berry a troll), but the participants are even more sadistic. Just take a look at the episode in which two of the daughters interview potential suitors for one of the divorced moms by asking the men arbitrary trivia questions and then snickering at their wrong answers. Perhaps Dallas Divas & Daughters is trying to make some powerful sociological statement about how even in the middle of a recession, a large portion of the moneyed public is grossly out of touch and still exulting in the mean-girls trend of the mid-nineties. But there’s nothing at stake here, emotionally or dramatically. You don’t love to hate these women. You’re so bored you just go reaching for the remote control. (There’s no word yet on whether the series will be renewed for a second season; reruns are expected to continue through January.)

In which case it should probably be emphasized that Making the Team, which first premiered in September 2006 and has returned each fall for eight-episode runs, isn’t nearly that toxic. The show follows dozens of young women from tryouts to training camp as they aim to secure a spot on the famed squad. At the center are cheerleading director Kelli Finglass and choreographer Judy Trammell, who mercilessly criticize the hopefuls’ physical appearance and periodically bark bizarre-sounding orders (“Sexy walking! Walk sexy! Don’t march!”). Newcomers to the show will quickly see why it keeps getting renewed. The editing is brisk, and the who-will-be-cut-from-the-squad-next drama is appealingly familiar. Even the

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