‘Fabulous Lives vs Bollywood Wives’ and the dangers of mediocrity
The reality show streaming on OTT is not about the famous but the fame-adjacent, and, like somebody forced to do their own make-up without a mirror, is a disaster
There’s nothing wrong with a guilty pleasure. I watch many— many—television shows that I am somewhat ashamed of, yet I draw the line at the trashy reality show that is consumed for its own sordid trashiness. A guilty pleasure is a guilty pleasure, certainly, but there’s a world of difference between sneaking a slice of cheesecake and, well, succumbing to crack cocaine.
Reality television, particularly that strand of hyper-engineered, fame-churning dreck, has become a cultural addiction too potent and dangerous for casual indulgence. You know the type I’m talking about: shows that are about being famous—or infamous—for the sake of being famous.
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Consider Bigg Boss (JioCinema), the Indian franchise of Big Brother, which escalates every season with manufactured spats and rivalries, expertly stoked by host Salman Khan’s provocations. A judgemental Salman pushes contestants to reveal their worst selves, prodding them to unleash ugly arguments for the sake of “entertainment". Show runners have even amplified the focus on controversy by featuring contestants with “troubled" or provocative backstories, knowing that viewers love celebrities being brought down a peg. Bigg Boss is unadulterated exploitation, a zoo-cage trapping stars in a bizarre fame loop.
Then there’s The Fabulous Lives vs Bollywood Wives (Netflix) which typifies an aggressive mediocrity. It is about not the famous but the fame-adjacent, and, like somebody forced to do their own make-up without a mirror, the show is a disaster. I agree it sometimes embraces its own insubstantiality, but is that reason enough to give it a pass? The danger of such programming isn’t just that it’s fake; it’s that it presents this fakeness as an aspiration, a shallow goal that the influencer generation is all too eager to pursue.
The damage doesn’t end with the people on the show; it extends far beyond, shaping the dreams and ambitions of millions. Today’s youth grow up watching Bigg Boss and Fabulous Lives, taking notes not on hard work or creative talent but on how to “trend" through controversy or status. In an age of influencer culture, where social media makes it seem as though stardom is only a viral post away, shows like these lend weight to a deeply unstable value system. The viewer’s takeaway isn’t about empathy or understanding but rather a toxic understanding of success—one that equates fame with worth.
That is the first issue with such shows: they exist in a vacuum, populated by people who are groomed, styled and coached within an inch of their lives to do one thing—become famous. Not for a skill, a craft or even a particular quirk, but famous in the way that noise is loud. Think of it as the modern-day Tower of Babel, built one viral clip at a time. The more followers you have, the higher you ascend, though the entire construct is as hollow as a piñata after the candy’s been pilfered.
The worst offenders in this menagerie of mediocrity are those “stars" who become institutions without reason. Not actors, musicians or artists, these people are famous for merely existing in front of a camera. Their antics may feel uncomfortably unscripted, but everything is deliberately designed to go viral, tugging on the strings of a carefully cultivated social media audience. They’re like museum installations of vanity and aggression, constantly refreshed to stay “relevant". And thus, the cycle feeds itself: they only continue to be famous because people continue to watch them, and people watch them because they’re already famous. It’s a hall of mirrors where fame breeds fame, each reflection growing thinner and more stretched out.
This self-sustaining cycle of disposable fame is the fast-food of cultural output. It’s cheap, ubiquitous and leaves us unsatisfied, hungry for something of substance that this genre simply cannot provide. Imagine a diner stuffing themselves with stale popcorn, refusing to notice that the butter and salt are synthetic. That’s us, bingeing on shows about people who are one tantrum away from booking a self-help seminar. Watching them is like attending a theatre where the only plot twist is who flips a table, a cultural meal designed to hit you with a quick, sugary rush before dropping you back into mediocrity.
To those who still defend this genre, calling it a reflection of our culture or a harmless form of fun, I say look closer. Fame, once an outcome of achievement, has been commodified to the point of meaninglessness. It’s as if we’ve accepted that a celebrity’s mere presence on screen is enough to justify their existence in our lives. This fame-for-nothing phenomenon dilutes what it means to succeed or contribute, turning anyone with a camera and enough drama into a “brand."
These so-called “stars" of reality television, have become like Bitcoin: an abstract idea with a steep market value, yet backed by absolutely nothing. Bitcoin isn’t real money—it’s a concept, a volatile promise that enough people believe in to keep the wheels spinning. Reality TV stars are just the same. Like a currency built on air, they rise and fall based on trends, hashtags, and shock factor alone. Their fame holds no value beyond what’s projected on to it by those who keep watching. Let’s call them the crypto-celebrities.
Streaming tip of the week:
I was touched deeply by The Remarkable Life of Ibelin (Netflix), a true-crime style documentary about a young man who died well before his time, but—thanks to a passionate online gaming community—we get to see the rich and fulfilling world he built online. Warcraft never sounded so sweet.
Raja Sen is a screenwriter and critic. He has co-written Chup, a film about killing critics, and is now creating an absurd comedy series. He posts @rajasen.
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