![]() And still, it is compulsively watchable-if mindless, ridiculous reality is your poison of choice. ![]() Netflix’s half-baked concept, in contrast, just comes off as embarrassed of itself. They are what they are, and they present an understanding that trashy reality can’t necessarily have a deeper meaning or moral quest. At least ultra-successful reality franchises like The Bachelor and Love Island own that. Too Hot To Handle is at odds with the nature of its genre-the show’s stated goal is to discourage meaningless hookups while, ironically, its entire draw is the opportunity to watch hot people hookup. If Netflix really desired to address those things, a thinly veiled Love Island-remake was not the way to achieve that. Reality television is a genre scored with a host of major issues, from a lack representation and diversity to the glamorization of problem behaviors. We’re here to watch hot people in bathing suits tie each other up, that's it, and there’s no shame in that. It’s moments like these where the viewer wonders who exactly Netflix thinks it’s fooling by evoking different cultures in its sexy activities. Both of these traditions are oversimplified and sexualized by the series, which includes confessional footage of participants unable to remember the names of the workshops. This workshop is called Yoni Puja, a sacred tantric ritual in which the female organs are worshipped. We are told that despite being risque, "it really does teach people how to trust, which is the foundation for any long lasting relationship.” In another activity, the women slip out of their bikini bottoms to hold a mirror up to their vaginas in order to learn to see them and learn to respect them. In one event, the participants are given ropes to learn Shibari, the ancient Japanese art of bondage. Nearly every self-improvement workshop in the show-meant to de-sexualize and dig deep with its participants-drips with sex. Does anyone need that? The contestants themselves certainly don't-several of which are eliminated over the course of the season for openly proclaiming the stupidity of the retreat in their confessional sessions.īondage, not a tease to contestants whatsoever. ![]() It’s Love Island with an AI as a moral compass. The sex is front and center and the preachy message is far more flimsy. In Too Hot to Handle, any semblance of sincerity falls off. But with two still-married couples to boast, at least the stakes of the pod-dating experiment were real. In February, Love Is Blind at least tried to practice what it preached by shoving constant, irritating reminders that love is truly blind down viewers’ throats, despite its uniformly attractive cast undermining that very principle. In Esquire’s review of January’s The Circle, Gabrielle Bruney wrote “Most shows quietly reflect America’s desire to see thin straights rubbing up against each other by casting said trim heterosexuals and putting them in situations that lead to them doing just that.” Bruney goes on to explain that while The Circle didn’t quite break from that tradition, it was able to hold a mirror up to itself by offering a sincere, albeit cheesy, critique of this reality trope. Sound familiar?Ī 3-1 ratio of person-to-seat-capacity does not seem promising for our contestants’ journey through abstinence. The stated aim of the retreat is to give the guests “essential tools to become authentically connected with each other and themselves, steering them away from meaningless hookups and towards long lasting relationships.” The show posits that the way to achieve this is to nix the physical altogether. So instead of being their usual self-proclaimed sex-crazed selves, contestants participate in workshops that help them build character and confidence, following the orders of a cone-shaped omniscient AI named Lana, who reprimands them when they break the rules-which happens a lot. (They filmed this last summer, before anyone could have imagined some of the specific trials and tribulations of our current pandemic-induced quarantine). Every violation of the rules depletes the communal pot further (a kiss costs $3,000, sex costs $10,000), forcing the guests to work together to support each other in their collective celibacy. The premise is this: Fifteen hot contestants must abstain from all physical and sexual contact with one another in order to keep their $100,000 cash prize fund intact.
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