Do We Really Need a Reality Show Like Too Hot to Handle Right Now?
The premise of Netflix's new dating series Too Hot to Handle is simple, or what passes for simple in the uncanny valley of reality TV programming: Ten attractive young people who have trouble forming serious relationships are selected to live in a luxury resort, blithely unaware that they'll be banned from having any sexual contact with one another. When the bombshell news is revealed, there's another shock to come: If they successfully abstain, they'll get up to $100,000 as a reward, and if (more like when) they fail, prize money will be deducted from the pot. It's all in the name of self-improvement, or that's what the show says, anyway.
The cast of Too Hot to Handle will look familiar to anyone who's watched a reality show before, from bleached-blonde Floridian sorority girl Haley to mega-built, allegedly mega-endowed Sharron and knit-hat-clad Matthew, who quickly earns the nickname "Jesus" for his flowing locks and chill aura.
The group mixes and matches in various combinations. Hookups becoming forbidden fruit in this oasis of self-described sexual people is actually pretty funny to begin with—just a bit of old-fashioned delayed gratification that manifests almost as slapstick amongst this group. It also quickly becomes clear that the money adds a new dimension of social censure and judgment to the already fraught business of sex and attraction. But the show's encouragement of chastity, and its smug insistence on getting to know someone—just not in that way—does get, well, frustrating. After all, many of us are living in isolation right now, marooned away from the possibility of connection, touch, and sex. Why would we want to watch a show that finds a bunch of hot people in the same predicament? Pre-quarantine, I doubt this any of would have rankled me, but right now I can't even enjoy the schadenfreude; it all just feels a little too on the nose. (Not to mention: The word "horny" is deployed simply too many times for comfort.)
Keeping diligent track of all this abstention is a Google Home–like device named Lana, which analyzes the contestants' behavior, rewarding their progress and punishing any transgressions. But she's not the narrator of the show: That dubious honor belongs to comedian Desiree Burch. The winner of the 2015 Funny Women awards, Burch ably delivers zingers from the unforgiving vantage point of a sound studio far, far away from the gorgeous beachside house where the group is living. The zingers themselves are often unkind in the way a viewer of a reality show might be on the couch, but an actual host rarely is. In the first episode, before the show's big reveal, Burch makes fun of Haley for not knowing geography and generally pokes fun at all the girls for primping despite the fact that—unbeknownst to them—they won't have a shot at getting lucky. It's fascinating to watch a reality TV show that explicitly makes fun of its own contestants rather than leaving that for the viewer at home; it's a meta touch that feels like watching a commentary track as opposed to the usual overly romanticized or sterile hosting.
It's not like mean-spirited jibes and withering rejection don't exist elsewhere in the reality-TV universe; in fact, it's par for the course. There are some genuinely absorbing caddish moments on Too Hot to Handle, including an early storyline were two contestants try to punish the others for perceived slights by purposely getting cash deducted from the prize. Yet, and call me a wimp if you will, in these trying times, I just want to see people being kind to and about one another! I don't want an omniscient narrator making fun of people on-screen, no matter how cruel or daffy their hijinks.
The creators of Too Hot to Handle couldn't have predicted that the show would debut into a world where human connection is scarce and kindness suddenly feels like the ultimate currency. No doubt it, like the recent enjoyable but equally nonsensical Netflix reality romp Love Is Blind, will be devoured by people self-isolating and craving something delightfully substanceless to sink into. But for now, I'll choose to get my reality TV fix from Terrace House, where the drama is slight, everyone is unfailingly polite, and whatever happens on screen, I know I can discuss it with my mom.
Originally Appeared on Vogue
