For any viewer who’s found themselves transfixed by a reality show, Calum Marsh’s deep dive, True Lies: The Art of Reality Television, is an essential read. Drawing on his wealth of experience, the reporter shares inside scoops, interviews, and astute analysis of the reality TV phenomenon, mapping its evolution from the nascent game show era to the high-prize, high-stakes modern era.
In fascinating detail, Marsh traces the genre’s origins not to morbid curiosity, but to a desire to capture the highs and lows of human experience. He outlines how the quiz shows of the 1950s gave way to reality television as we know it today, from the syndication of Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune to celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay’s social media takeover to producer and news anchor Julie Chen’s realization that her work on Big Brother is just as valid as her boots-on-the-ground reporting.
An unexpected turning point in reality TV history is Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, which pioneered the tactic of continuing one contestant’s storyline into the next episode, effectively hooking in audiences for a longer grab. With producers incentivized to draw out the drama in hopes of a cliffhanger, audiences grew to know and root for the contestants. This undoubtedly snowballed into today’s culture, where reality TV stars are treated as public figures with little right to privacy.
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire also introduced a new loophole for producer manipulation: rather than fixing the results, as in the scandal-plagued shows of the 1950s, they discovered they could instead toy with the audience’s perception of the subjects themselves. As Marsh notes, “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire marked the emergence of a new style of television: a competition that was also a study of human nature.”
As the long-running interest in game shows merged with webcams and social media, the evolution of reality television as it stands today was not only natural but inevitable. This focus on the slow metamorphosis helps explain why audiences so readily accepted a concept that, at its core, is exploitative.
True Lies‘ greatest value lies in its glimpse behind the lens, breaking down the grueling tasks of casting, location scouting, and filming in less-than-ideal conditions. Even the most devoted viewer could be forgiven for forgetting that a person exists behind the camera, through whose eyes the entire experience is filtered. Marsh points out that these shows’ success hinges on a triangle of cast, crew, and viewers, with an emphasis on the crew’s editorial work.
At the same time, the crux of Marsh’s case is the compelling parallel he draws between reality television and literary creative nonfiction, likening producers’ work to that of journalists and editors. Their job, he contends, is simply to weave the content together in a way that tells the intended story most effectively. This frames the genre less as a voyeuristic guilty pleasure and more as an anthropological study of the ins and outs of human navigation.
Calum Marsh maintains that a morsel of truth always exists beneath the storytelling. Using Made in Chelsea as an example, he explains how cast members mold their personal lives around the television cameras: saving important conversations for filming and bringing their private relationships onto the screen. This makes the on-set experience feel as organic as possible. After all, as Marsh points out, the drama is real to those involved; it continues in their lives even after filming ends.
The argument is compelling. What it fails to account for, though, is the sheer amount of content and exposure tied to a life in front of cameras. Whereas literary nonfiction has a finite scope, reality television encompasses nearly every element of a participant’s life for months, even years at a time. Private details become fodder for scrutiny, as do intimate relationships. Can anybody really consent to this type of publicity without a full and complete understanding of the sacrifices involved?
This is all too pertinent in the example of Sophie Gradon, a Love Island contestant who stated shortly before her death by suicide, “We became public property overnight.” While Marsh immerses the reader in the reality experience, making the intricacies of each show feel like second nature, any discussion of reality television is incomplete without exploring the ethics involved.
True Lies does touch on these topics, briefly addressing the deaths of stars including Gradon and Caroline Flack as well as the call for greater diversity in casting. However, the lasting effects of participation shouldn’t be ignored, particularly relating to long-term cast members or the recipients of cringe-worthy edits.
Marsh’s book reads as a defense of the genre, and a convincing one at that. He seems to be on his way towards unpacking one of the most perplexing trends of the twenty-first century. Somewhere along the way, however, it becomes less of an argument for the merits of reality shows and more a compilation of insider tidbits.
True Lies does a fantastic job of unpacking how we got here. Yet it stops short of fully addressing concerns of privacy and exploitation in a genre that tends to morph participants into caricatures of themselves. What Marsh does get right, though, is that the evolution of these shows measures society’s collective growth. Where it goes from here, unfortunately, is anybody’s guess.