Is reality TV due its day of reckoning?

This week, the former White House press secretary Sean Spicer returned to TV screens as a contestant on ABC’s reality show . Since resigning from the Trump administration two years ago, the political aide who peddled “alternative facts” had kept a low profile. But when he shimmied onto the dance floor on Monday night wearing a lime green ruffled shirt, he embodied reality TV’s current identity crisis. 

’ ratings, like those of , and several global editions of , have fallen sharply in recent years. Reality TV’s stock formats – the talent contest, the dating show, the cooking competition, 24/7 surveillance – have remained largely unchanged since its inception, and for , the stunt casting couldn’t combat the sense of stagnation (the show premiered with just under 8 million viewers, compared to 7.7 million last year). It also sparked criticism. Could Spicer’s inclusion politicise the show? Would it trivialise his failings while in The White House? And was he psychologically well enough to participate? 

The tide may be turning against reality TV, but there is no doubting its global impact. Over the past three decades, it has seeped into our everyday lives. We can now wear clothes from fast-fashion brands endorsed by contestants, use beauty products from Kylie Jenner’s cosmetics line, follow recipes from star Antoni Porowski’s cookbook and buy furniture from winners Sean and Catherine Lowe’s homeware collection. Some of the fashion industry’s highest-paid models (Kendall Jenner, Gigi and Bella Hadid) first found fame on reality TV and even the current US president (previously employed by Spicer), Donald Trump, is a former reality star who developed his domineering, deal-making persona on

It’s a far cry from the early successes of shows like and . Though voyeuristic in their intimacy, they provided escapism, giving us insights into how others live or handle difficult situations. In the late 2000s, this was complicated by the influx of social media. Twitter and Instagram created an immediate feedback loop that allowed you to follow reality stars in real time and comment on their behaviour. These messages could, in turn, influence their actions and have proven to affect their mental health. As we become more conscious of the dangers of social comparison and online abuse, reality shows face mounting pressure to take better care of their participants. 

In Australia, the conversation coalesced around the death of Charlotte Dawson, the host of and a judge on , who became a high-profile victim of cyberbullying and took her own life in 2014. Meanwhile, in the UK earlier this year, the reality TV reckoning came with the cancellation of following the death of a guest. Steve Dymond, who took his own life after failing a lie detector test, ignited a national conversation around the public humiliation of vulnerable people. This came months after the deaths of two former contestants, Sophie Gradon and Mike Thalassitis, leading media regulator Ofcom to propose new rules to safeguard the “wellbeing and dignity of participants”.

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has avoided cancellation, with broadcaster ITV pledging to increase the level of support offered to participants. One of its latest recipients is Molly-Mae Hague, who became a victim of online abuse while taking part in the fifth series of the British edition. “I felt like I was being targeted by the public,” she tells , of the challenge where contestants are shown negative tweets about them“I get that they’re trying to make a TV show and they do it to spark emotion, but it is hard to deal with.” 

Hague insists, however, that has amped up its pre- and post-show care. “You meet with a psychologist before you go in, and when you’re on the show people note down how much water you’re drinking, how much sleep you’re getting and if you’re struggling with anything.” After the show wrapped, she reports having social media training, financial training and a debrief about any negative publicity she received. “They’re extremely thorough,” she adds. “To the point where even today I had two missed calls from the therapy people and a message from the welfare lady just to check that I’m doing OK. It almost gets annoying at times, but it is very important.”  

Other shows have been less responsive to the pressure to evolve. Silky Nutmeg Ganache, who appeared on the 11th season of , said that when she asked for support she was told not to read the comments. “We need someone to help us, especially while the show is going on,” she says. “A week after we stopped filming, I had a call with the psychologist who assessed us before the show. He asked if I was suicidal and when I said no, he said, ‘You’re fine.’ And that was the end.” She admits that it hasn’t been easy to adjust to the real world again. “These shows change people’s lives overnight and we don’t always know how to cope with that,” she says. “When someone on social media tells you they’re going to kill you, what do you do? The thing about reality TV is that we love to put people on a pedestal, but we also love to tear them down.”

And viewers’ changing tastes are having an impact too, heralding a new wave of kinder, more celebratory reality TV. Netflix’s , and have all perfected the gentler formula, while Japanese cult hit is virtually drama-free. There are exceptions, of course: despite recent controversies, attracted a record six million viewers in the UK this year and is due to return for a South Africa-set winter edition in 2020. Jeremy Kyle is also poised to return to ITV and many broadcasters, still determined to up the ante, are proposing increasingly outlandish concepts (a show following Jacob Zuma’s family being one recent example). The seeds may have been sown for a more positive future for reality TV, but what happens next is up to viewers. The only way to vote? With your eyeballs.