Sunday, October 12, 2008
Quick, A+E

Atlanta’s desperate ‘Housewives’

The debut episode of “The Real Housewives of Atlanta” taught me some things about the city I call home

By Kevin Forest Moreau

While many Americans spent last Tuesday night getting better acquainted with presidential candidates John McCain and Barack Obama, I spent an hour getting to know five women I’ve never met. The debut episode of “The Real Housewives of Atlanta” taught me some things about the city I call home. Apparently, everyone lives in gated communities, and everyone is obsessed with wealth (“In Atlanta, you’re it with money”) and attention. It was entertaining, in an “I can’t believe I’m still watching this” kind of way. But I also learned a thing or two about myself that, perhaps, I wish weren’t true.

As you might expect from the franchise’s past iterations, which followed the self-centered lives of women in Orange County, Calif., and New York City, “The Real Housewives of Atlanta” takes generous liberties with its title. None of the five principals meets any reasonable criteria for being a housewife (although we do watch DeShawn Snow, wife of the Cleveland Cavaliers’ Eric Snow, set about assembling a staff that includes an estate manager, a housekeeper, a governess and a nanny, which I guess is close enough).

Another cast member, Sheree Whitfield, is divorced from NFL athlete Bob Whitfield; Kim Zolciak is unmarried, but in a relationship with a wealthy man she refers to only as “Big Papa,” who declines to be identified or to appear on camera (not that I can blame him).

The “Atlanta” tag is a misnomer, as well: Snow lives in Alpharetta; Zolciak lives in Duluth, as do two others (Lisa Wu Hartwell and NeNe Leakes); and Whitfield resides in what Bravo’s Web site describes as “the exclusive Sandy Springs area of Atlanta.”

But those are minor quibbles, since “The Real Housewives of Atlanta” isn’t concerned with delivering an accurate portrayal of life in the ATL. What would be the point of that? No, this show wants to push our buttons—to pump us up with manufactured drama and shock us with conspicuous consumption (one housewife spends thousands of dollars on a purse; another writes a $68,000 check for an SUV, and flashes a handful of $100 bills while clothes shopping).

And like any good soap opera, “The Real Housewives of Atlanta” wants us to revel in its bitchy feuds and gape in horror at the arrogance, cluelessness and narcissism of its characters. And we do.

But as we watch Whitfield channel Meryl Streep from “The Devil Wears Prada” as she plans a massive birthday party for herself, we’re not so much transfixed by her imperiousness as we are saddened by the striking insecurity of a woman who insists that her soiree simply must run smoothly, and that it must be “the talk of the town.” (I certainly never heard of it, although Police Chief Richard Pennington apparently stopped by.)

Likewise, it’s easy to hoot at the sordid theater of Zolciak changing into an unflattering and ill-fitting party outfit in a gas station parking lot, but it’s not as easy to avoid feeling dirty for doing so. And it’s difficult not to feel a measure of pity for a grown mother of two willing to flaunt her questionable assets and impulses in the name of achieving some small drop of “fame” … and a measure of shame that we sit there soaking it all in.

Based on the first episode, only two of the housewives—Hartwell, a focused business owner and designer (and wife of former Atlanta Falcon Ed Hartwell), and Leakes, the charming and boisterous wife of a real estate investor—come across as likeable. (There are plenty of episodes remaining, though, for that impression to change.)

The cable channel Bravo, home to the “Real Housewives” series, once devoted its schedule to film, drama and what we like to call “the performing arts.” If that sounds like a far cry from the non-stop barrage of fashion competitions, makeovers and second-act showcases for the likes of Kathy Griffin that makes up that network’s schedule today, well, it is.

But Bravo is only catering to our changing artistic tastes. And yes, the cringe-inducing semi-celebrity self-abasement of shows like “The Surreal Life” and “Being Bobby Brown” is an art form, practiced by skilled editors of reality shows (and Web sites like TMZ) who painstakingly manipulate raw material—the naked neuroses of willing wannabes and social climbers, the calculated tantrums and rehab visits of attention-starved C-listers—into sickeningly compelling sculptures of pathos, poignancy and public meltdowns. 

It’s worth noting that Webster’s New World Dictionary defines “bravo” as both an interjection meaning “well done” and as “a hired killer or assassin”—either or both of which might be applied to the network’s influence on public taste and how it has made itself a leading provider in the booming industry of public humiliation disguised as entertainment. SP

Kevin Forest Moreau is Editor in Chief of The Sunday Paper.