Earlier in July, I spotted two-time Bachelorette finalist Nick Viall skulking around the VIP section at Pitchfork Music Festival. I stomped up to him, plucked a pen from behind my ear, and began jotting down detailed notes about his demeanor and body language as I peppered him with questions about the reality show franchise’s inner workings.
And that wasn’t the only instance of the producers fucking with the formula to entertainment’s detriment. The rose ceremony, which typically takes place at the end of episodes, was moved somewhere near the middle. Without this logical closing, the episodes would meander until Chris Harrison shouted “Next time on The Bachelorette . . . ,” at which point we’d remember we were supposed to be watching a TV show and not checking work e-mail or scrolling through Facebook. And was the travel budget cut dramatically? Or were one or more finalists placed on some kind of terrorist no-fly list? These assholes barely went anywhere. If Ireland’s tourism traffic drops off for the next several months, it’s because we’re all sick of looking at the place. But the most egregious offense by far was eliminating hometown visits. Rather than sending Kaitlyn to meet the finalists’ families in their homes, the show arranged for everyone to engage in stilted chitchat at some sterile resort in Utah that looked vaguely like a retirement community. Families tend to act more bizarre in the comfort of their own environments. Why erase that possibility?
