I watched America’s
Next Top Model for the first time this week. I will never get that hour of
my life back. It was one of the most superficial things I’ve ever seen. The
overall structure was very internet-y: the cuts between shots gave it an
epileptic pace, and the countdown format was like something you would see on
Cracked.com (they were counting down the “top ten flirty moments” of their
twentieth cycle). The overall theme was not fashion, but cattiness and
superfluous drama. It’s appeal is not so much industry like
TheSartorialist.com, but rather gossip like TMZ. The stereotyped characters –
the flamboyant yet incisive gay, the manic pixie dream boy, the slightly
mannish trans woman – also made the show thoughtless noise that stimulates the
senses but deadens the mind. I would have had a more fulfilling evening looking
at pictures in a magazine.
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