Are we thin yet?
Just a few years ago, the morbidly obese were the unicorns of primetime, with a Mo'Nique here, a Kevin James there, rumbling through slender-trunked forests of Flockharts and Anistons.
Now, TV is determined to eradicate the nation's obesity epidemic, one reality show at a time. NBC started the trend with Biggest Loser, Shaq's shaping up tubby teens, VH-1 specializes in celebrities whose cholesterol counts have soared in direct correlation to their plummeting Q scores, and basic cable offers an all-you-can-eat, international buffet of fare like Honey, We're Killing the Kids, Taking it Off, I Ate 33,000 Calories and Inside the Brookhaven Obesity Clinic.
That's a lot of obesity for even professional television viewers to digest, but the chefs of reality are still cooking furiously. Arriving just in time for second dessert is ABC's Fat March.
In the 1970s, Americans went to encounter groups to catalyze personal growth and realize their full potential -- today, reality TV is where we seek transformation. After all, if you're not discovering new truths about yourself as you try to win a million dollars, then you're just eating bugs for money, and that just seems a little tacky.
Unfortunately, the emotional growth that occurs on Pirate Master, Rock of Love, and all the others isn't always easy to capture on camera. And let's face it, if reality TV producers wanted difficult, esoteric jobs, they wouldn't be reality TV producers.
The reason obesity TV is so appealing is that its transformations are intrinsically visual. Aim your cameras at a dozen fat people, take away their food, and in three months, you've got your money shot! Ultimately, the entire genre reduces to two key frames, say, a 10-episode series.
Fat March appears to take its unofficial inspiration from a man named Steve Vaught, who, when he hit 410 lbs. a few years ago, decided to walk across America in a last-ditch effort to see his feet again. Vaught chronicled his journey at a site called Thefatmanwalking.com; the media attention he received inspired many others to go on similar quests, and now this phenomenon has finally trickled up to TV.
Fat March trims the journey a bit -- the total distance they will cover is 570 miles. (They are about halfway toward their goal at this point.) In addition, there's a cash prize, of course. If all the marchers reached their goal, they would have each received $120,000. Each time a person leaves the show, however, each contestant loses a potential $10,000. (Already they are down to eight.)
This adds an element of cutthroat strategy. It's in the interest of all participants to keep as many people on the show as possible -- but even amongst the morbidly obese there are a range of proficiencies, and sometimes weak links end up dragging the whole team down. In the latest episode, for example, a marcher named Will, who happened to be the heaviest contestant, called it quits for the day only, seven miles into an 18-mile walk. His comrades were then faced with a decision: Vote him off and see their potential payday reduced by another $10,000, or keep him on at the cost of having to each walk an additional 11 miles themselves.
Needless to say, they voted him off. Even amongst fatties, apparently, only the fittest survive. Which, one hopes, will also hold true for Fat March. Beneath all the usual hugs, tears, and self-actualization blather, it's just another show about making fat people look sort of ridiculous and pathetic on their way to redemption. Haven't we had our fill of this yet?
A frequent contributor to Las Vegas Weekly, Greg Beato has also written for SPIN, Blender, Reason, Time.com, and many other publications. Email Greg at [email protected]