Reality TV. Troy DeVolld

Hollywood cliché, while Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney epitomized the Tinseltown enthusiasm of “Let’s put on a show,” Reality TV is perceived to be advocating the more mundane, “Let’s let a show put on itself.”

      The reality of Reality Television, however, is that there is a tremendous degree of creativity at work, especially in the storytelling, which, through no coincidence, is where the most concerted efforts have been made to disguise and conceal the creative process. No one doubts the contribution of the storyteller in print journalism who cobbles together written-down snippets of other people’s expressions (be they answers to direct questions, original utterances, or merely observed behavior) and then weaves them with their own words into a narrative story. Yet that’s exactly what goes on in Reality TV, where story producers and editors cobble together moving images of other people’s expressions and then interweave them with vocal narration (that someone wrote) into a visual story. The significant difference, however, is that the print journalist gets the most obvious and profound credit available in a pure “byline,” while the Reality TV storyteller gets a nondescript and non-descriptive credit hidden somewhere in tiny letters at the bottom half of the television screen at triple speed while the viewer is reaching for the remote control.

      Call the job what you will: “Writer,” “Creative Consultant,” “Story Producer,” or a dozen other titles; there is still a narrative craft being performed in Reality TV that transports the story from the real world onto your television screen. It’s been a fight to gain “recognition” for Reality storytellers (the term “recognition” has dual meaning here, both as a synonym for “credit” — both on- and off-screen — as well as the ability to include someone in the class of workers who are entitled to union benefits under American labor law), and that is itself part of the mystification of Reality Television. If a storyteller’s work is rendered invisible, they can’t be recognized, and no one gets the credits or benefits. While there have been a few successes in the drive to get Reality storytellers covered under Writers Guild contracts (Bravo’s Intervention, National Geographic Channel’s The Dog Whisperer, and some writers on ABC’s Dancing With the Stars) thanks to concerted anti-union corporate behavior (like firing the entire writing staff of America’s Next Top Model when they went on strike for a WGA contract); too many qualified people for too few jobs (most with little leverage to make demands on their own, much less able to hold out for their colleagues); and the momentum of Hollywood (epitomized by the loyalty attributed to the boy at the circus who sweeps up the elephant dung, “What? And give up show business?”) have kept these writers and storytellers from getting their due. I hope I haven’t completely dissuaded you from wanting to work in Reality TV, because despite screenwriter William Goldman’s assertion (and my final Hollywood cliché) that “No one knows anything,” you hold in your hand the work of someone who not only knows something, he knows all there is to know about the creation and production processes in Reality TV. Troy DeVolld has worked on some of the highest-rated and most respected Reality TV productions of the past two decades (plus, as even he would candidly admit, some productions that were, well, “not-so-much”), and has generously yet discreetly “spilled his guts” for your enlightenment, edification, and enjoyment. And best of all, he left the dull bits out.

      Introduction

      Welcome to my book on writing and producing Reality Television. Please don’t look directly into the camera or acknowledge that I’m actually standing right here, as it’s vital to the illusion of “reality” and the appearance of total spontaneity. Thanks.

      Friends, relatives, and cynical media students love to ask me if Reality shows are “real.” Even on the most convoluted of series with the most cartoonishly contrived setups, I can tell them with a straight face that, at a bare minimum, the reactions are real — something scripted dramas and comedies will never be able to give the viewer. We, the home audience, will forgive the outlandishness of almost any premise in the name of witnessing real emotion on screen, so long as the content we’re watching isn’t riddled with obvious gaps in logic.

      The mysteries of Reality Television are shrouded by the intentional obscuring of the genre’s process from the public. As an unfortunate side effect, few who are interested in a career in Reality have ever gotten the straight dope on where to start or what happens once you’re inside the machine.

      Why won’t anyone just ‘fess up and tell you how the shows are executed, or how to get a job writing and/or producing them? It’s almost as if the folks pulling the strings feel that the discovery of what goes into making Reality shows would, like knowing the contents of the meat pies in Sweeney Todd, rob viewers of their taste for them.

      “Nonsense,” I say.

      While some clumsier examples in the Reality skein (of which there are many) might as well hand the viewer their blueprints, most of us in Reality TV still try our best to keep the answer to the “Is-it-or-isn’t-it real?” question close to the vest, hoping audiences will choose to focus on the “Is-it-or-isn’t-it entertaining?” aspect of our work.

      Over the course of this book, you’ll learn about the Reality TV creative process — from preproduction through postproduction — and how to tell better, more engaging stories. I’ll show you everything, from how to break into the business to putting together and pitching your ownReality programs.

      Brace yourself, though. I’m a pretty opinionated guy, so you’ll also get a healthy dose of my take on everything from the Writer’s Guild of America’s efforts to organize Reality Television to my personal belief that Reality TV has decimated viewers’ appetites for whimsical, fantastical scripted programming. I’ll also defend the genre against critics who complain that it’s nothing more than an irredeemably corruptive guilty pleasure.

      Now, on to what you won’t be getting from this book.

      If you’re hoping to get yourself cast on a Reality show, this isn’t what you’re looking for. Reach for a copy of Joe Borgenicht and John Saade’s Reality TV Handbook. It’s not that wanting to appear on a Reality program is a bad thing, it’s just not something I’ll be offering advice on here.¹

      What you also won’t be getting is a lot of sensational dirt on the shows I’ve worked on. I take my non-disclosure agreements seriously (as do my past employers’ attorneys), and besides… a gentleman never tells. If you want to know who’s fooling around when the cameras are off or which Reality castmates can’t stand their costars, you’re better off buying a subscription to the National Enquirer or watching TMZ than reading this book.

      Whether you’re genuinely interested in a career in Reality Television or just looking for a peek behind the curtain, I do hope you’ll enjoy the read.

      Note

      1. Saade, once a producer in Reality, has moved on to a career at the network level and is one of my favorite execs in the business. Seriously — if you’re yearning to be on a show, buy the book.

      Prologue:

      From Aspiring Screenwriter to Reality Producer; Huh?

      Every author has a “how I got here” story, so lest you presume I’m one of those folks who woke up one morning and decided to write a catchy book about something he was barely acquainted with (a very real disease in the film/TV book universe), here’s mine.

      I got my first writing job in 1990, scripting a series of commercials for a company that was cashing in on animated icon Woody Woodpecker’s 50th anniversary by selling commemorative watches featuring the plucky bird’s likeness. At the time, I was studying art at Flagler College in St. Augustine, Florida (about as far from Hollywood as you can get), and planning a career as a writer and illustrator of sequential art, less loftily referred to as “comic books.” By the end of the commercial project, however, I’d discovered the relatively immediate gratification of writing for the tube. Write, shoot, see your finished product a week or two later.

      That first taste of writing, even for silly little 30-second ad spots, really hooked me. I dropped out of art school to concentrate on becoming a film and television