The Biggest Loser returns tonight. I will watch it, I will enjoy it, and I will steadfastly refuse to care that I’m not supposed to do either of those things.
I understand the impulse behind naming certain things “guilty pleasures.” We all want to think our taste is beyond reproach, that we worship at the altar of the highbrow, and that at the very least we recognize that certain entertainments have little or no redeeming social value. To cite something as a guilty pleasure is to position oneself as someone who knows better and in the process claim a certain moral or intellectual high ground.
It’s nonsense, of course.
When it comes to entertainment, why should we feel guilty about the things that give us pleasure? The truth (for me, anyway) is that I don’t trust people who claim to only like the “right” things. Thanks to my association with a certain music festival, I’ve come into contact with folks who claim only to like Japanese musicians who create found-sound drone collages out of kitchen appliances and the subsonic echoes of beating insect wings or six-hour black-and-white films about a Romanian peasant eating a potato. It’s like a real-life episode of Portlandia, where the insufferably pretentious assert their superiority by claiming never to have heard of Lost, and it always smacks of an effort to hide their insecurity by trying too hard.
I do recognize, however, that the flipside is true. A steady diet of American Idol, Maroon 5, Nicholas Sparks, and Adam Sandler will do no one any favors, and those of us who have friends who snack incessantly on junk food should logically steer them in increasingly more substantial directions. But taking those things in moderation – and, by necessity, recognizing their flaws – is nothing to feel guilty about.
In the interest of putting my money where my mouth is, I’m going to quickly discuss three entertainments (TV, music, and book) that some people would call guilty pleasures, but for which I make absolutely no apologies. I like what I like, and that’s really all that should matter.
I know I’m not supposed to admit to any of the things that follow. I have a Ph.D., and therefore should spend my days surrounded by fine art, books of philosophy, and classical music. But I have nothing hanging on my walls, I haven’t read a philosophy book since my brief fascination with Foucalt in the late 90’s, and classical music bores me to tears.
Television – The Biggest Loser
The perennial weight loss competition works for me for a couple reasons. The main one is that, at its best, it’s truly inspiring. Unlike most reality shows that seem to wallow in humiliation, Biggest Loser actually tries to make a positive difference for people, introducing them to exercise and a healthy diet (in between those annoying product-placement spots for Subway and Tupperware, which assume the contestants have all been living on Mars) and encouraging viewers in need of weight loss to make a similar change. I mean, sure, there’s humiliation here, too, as we watch horribly obese people fall off treadmills, but on balance it does far more good than harm.
It also works because the show has chosen its trainers well. Bob Harper is the Zen, centered good cop to Jillian Michaels’ batshit, drill instructor bad cop. When the contestants are resistant to the training, Bob employs New Age, feel-good reassurance, resorting to anger only when gentle negotiation fails. Jillian, on the other hand, screams at them and beats them about the head and shoulders with her abs. I’m ambivalent about the most recent addition, Dolvett Quince. He’s sort of a combination of the other two, with a penchant both for sappy platitudes and yelling. He’s an an inoffensive character and many of the contestants seem to like him, but I’m not sure what he offers that the show didn’t already have.
There are, of course, drawbacks that I have a harder time defending. Most problematic for me is the way the show constantly falls into a hero/victim dichotomy. I sort of resent the clips of Bob telling the contestants that they’re “heroes.” I get that we live in a hyperbolic society where words are continuously dulled and diminished, but it seems especially cheap to refer to someone’s weight loss as a heroic act. I don’t even care if the contestants are doing it to be better parents. Losing weight to be good to your family doesn’t make you a hero. It makes you a responsible human.
On that same point, I grow tired of how the female competitors – usually mothers – are often portrayed as victims, as though gangs of rogue Hostess executives have held them down and force-fed them Twinkies. Numerous times throughout each season, Jillian or Bob or Dolvett will say something like this to one of the women: “You gave everything you had to take care of your family, and you didn’t have any time to take care of yourself.” Look: I’m sure she was busy. No doubt. I’m not diminishing the difficulty of raising a family. But when the show starts, many of the women are pushing 250 pounds or more. That doesn’t happen by accident, nor does it happen overnight. They might not have had time to take care of themselves, but they sure as hell had time to stuff their faces. I think this bothers me precisely because in most instances The Biggest Loser so often avoids treating the contestants like powerless victims. The show is usually about owning up to your demons and taking control of your life. Laying the blame for some contestants’ obesity at their families’ feet seems like a cop-out.
All of this is to say that, even with its flaws, I have no problem supporting a show that encourages its viewers to be fit, to get healthy, to make smart choices. Where most reality shows glorify bad behavior, The Biggest Loser asks us to live up to our potential.
Music – Coldplay
Ever since 2005 and the band’s appearance as the “You know how I know you’re gay?” punchline from The 40-Year-Old Virgin, Coldplay has been seen as the relentlessly sappy group of effeminate Brits who give romance a bad name. Among certain music fans, their name is shorthand for cheap emotion and mass-market sentiment – the Hallmark Cards of guitar rock.
It’s not a totally undeserved reputation, but I love them anyway because, left out of that larger discussion is a really important point: they write some killer melodies. Their 2000 debut, Parachutes, is a dynamite collection of songs that’s been overshadowed by the ubiquity of hit single “Yellow,” and its follow-up, 2002’s A Rush of Blood to the Head, is one of my Top Ten albums of the first decade of the 21st Century. And yeah, some of that album has been overplayed, but seriously: listen to “Clocks” with new ears and dare to tell me it’s not an amazing song.
Those first two albums went a long way toward replacing The Smiths in my lovelorn late-20’s vocabulary, and I vividly remember singing songs like “Shiver” and “The Scientist” at top volume as a balm for another broken heart. And maybe this is why I’m drawn to Coldplay despite their detractors: at heart, I’m just as sappy and weedy as the band.
Anyway, 2005’s X & Y isn’t nearly as good as its two predecessors (although I still find “Fix You” to be almost annoyingly wonderful in its panoramic, widescreen bombast), but their last two albums, 2008’s Viva la Vida and 2011’s Mylo Xyloto, have taken the admirable tack of following stylistic tangents while still incorporating some of the most hummable melodies of recent times. It hasn’t made them more masculine, but in our testosterone-heavy culture, I’ll take a little sensitivity anyday.
Books – Stephen King
I’ve written about King so much in my other blogs that I’m a little tired of my own effusiveness. But for the benefit of new readers: Stephen King is almost solely responsible for the reader I am today. I think avid readers can trace moments like these, the times when we’ve read something that fundamentally alters not just our reading trajectory, but our lives.
I don’t know how I discovered it – or more importantly,why my parents let me read it – but Stephen King’s Cujo knocked me on my scrawny little 13-year-old rear. I mean, are you kidding me? A big-ass dog ripping people to shreds, and my first encounter with the word fuck in literature? Up to that point I was heavily into the fantasy novels of Terry Brooks and my reaction was this: “I’ve been reading about elves when I could have been reading this all along? Ho-lee shit.” Fortunately, this was in the late 80′s, before King had written eleventy-hundred books and started recycling plots. The Shining, Carrie, The Stand, Firestarter, ‘Salem’s Lot, Pet Sematary, The Dead Zone – all fell in short order. This locust-like rampage through King’s bibliography eventually got me to Danse Macabre, wherein he describes some of his favorite authors. And it was in that book that I first encountered Harlan Ellison, a sorta-kinda science fiction writer who continued my literary journey. Ellison led me to Kurt Vonnegut and Ray Bradbury, who eventually got me to Cormac McCarthy and James Ellroy and T.C. Boyle and most of the other writers who are my favorites to this day.
But King set me on this path, and I still feel a debt of gratitude for that. To this day I faithfully pick up his newest book whenever it’s published, but I don’t do this out of obligation or nostalgia. King’s very popularity leads people to lump him in with (in my opinion) less-talented writers like Sparks or Grisham, but, as with Coldplay, I think this knee-jerk reaction obviates people from actually experiencing the art. And King, for as long as he’s been doing this, still writes terrific stories with great passion. Not every book is a winner – I grew tired of the Dark Tower series around Book 5 and still haven’t been able to finish it, and I’m still reluctant to read From a Buick 8 because I think we can all agree that two haunted car books is two too many for anyone – but I think we’d all be lucky to maintain such consistently high quality for nearly forty years. So, y’know, struggle manfully with the new Thomas Pynchon if you like. King’s upcoming sequel to The Shining will give me more pleasure in the long run.
One final note about all of this: liking what you like and being proud of it, as I hope I’ve shown here, doesn’t mean you don’t acknowledge its faults. But it also doesn’t mean that just because it has faults that it’s not worthy of your attention. For me, it’s more important that we have passions than that we worry overmuch what other people think of them. And, to that end, you should feel free to make fun of me for liking any of the things I’ve written about here, just as I will make merciless fun of you for liking Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo, Keeping Up With the Kardashians, or Nickelback. It’s only fair.
The Joy Formidable – The Big Roar (2011)