By Brian Feinzimer
By Charles Lam
By Joel Beers
By LP Hastings
By Dave Barton
By LP Hastings
By Joel Beers
“This is my chance to make it all happen,” Lauren Conrad says in her first voice-over in the first episode of The Hills, a glossy MTV reality show focusing on then-19-year-old Conrad and most notable for its skewed relationship to the real. Onscreen, Conrad packs a pink suitcase into the back of her BMW convertible, preparing to move from her hometown of Laguna Beach to her new home in Hollywood—which she describes as “the one city where they say dreams come true.” Cut to a credit sequence that, like the show to follow, is both seductive and unintentionally risible in its embarrassment of California cliché—all sparkling coastline, wind-whipped golden hair and hilariously fetishistic shots of the Hollywood sign dissolving into sprays of blinding divine light.
That this sequence plays to a song called “Unwritten” is either a phenomenal joke or a stupid mistake, considering the evidence, circulated in celeb rags and blogs, that the drama on The Hills is manipulated by producers, if not explicitly scripted. Not that such allegations matter to those under its spell. Compared by The New York Times to the work of Italian neorealist Michelangelo Antonioni and praised by Bret Easton Ellis as “a modern masterpiece,” “more beautiful” than any film, The Hills intrigues by maintaining hazy ambiguities between naturalism and calculation, emphasizing visual pleasure over narrative continuity in a manner that seems alternately artful and dangerously deceptive.
Written or unwritten, The Hills is impossible to write off. Over the past five years, this show has re-defined the very new-Hollywood paradigm of reality TV, while at the same time recharging one of Hollywood’s oldest and scariest structuring myths.
The Hills is easy to watch and incredibly hard to read: Its aesthetics seem engineered for maximum anesthetic effect. Rhythmic montages of sun-kissed skyscrapers, helicopter shots flattening the city into a paisley of swimming-pool aqua and Spanish-tile pink, day rendered as permanent magic hour and night as a matrix of white and pink jewels on black velvet, “conversations” consisting of a few scene-setting sentences followed by a Ping-Pong match of suggestive cutaway close-ups of smirks, batted lashes or rolling eyes—the cumulative effect is hypnotic.
What narrative there is focuses on a number of barely legal pretties: reality-TV star-turned-intern/student-turned-multifaceted walking brand Conrad; reality-TV star-turned-aspiring actress-turned reality-TV star Kristin Cavallari; Audrina Patridge, an aspiring actress-turned-Lauren’s as-cast-by-MTV friend; and small-town girl-turned plastic-surgery disaster Heidi Montag and her on-the-make husband, Spencer Pratt. As this gang parties by night and works low-level industry jobs by day, The Hills tells a loose, 21st-century version of the old myth of Hollywood as a magnet for ambitious migrants struggling to claw their way into the spotlight under the constant threat of being eaten alive.
Considering this premise, it’s maybe not surprising The Hills has become increasingly contrived over the course of its run, all but abandoning the notion of being “unwritten” in later seasons. It’s unclear whether the writing came from above (i.e., the producers telling the cast what to say and do), below (i.e., tabloid attention and blog snark compelling the stars to change their appearances and personalities themselves) or some combination of the two, but the comparative authenticity of the first season is now startling. Though Patridge has always come off as the invented personality she is, Conrad and Montag at first appear to be normal 19-year-old girls who, sans stylists, dress in sweats at home and make the occasional regrettable fashion choice at the Club. The West Hollywood apartment they share is nice, but not beyond the realm of expectation for two college girls being subsidized by parents. The production is not nearly as slick as it would become—mics rustle, and the cameras can’t always anticipate the movements of the “stars,” who hardly seem aware of their presence. In particular, Montag’s screwball goofiness and lack of poise read as blissful ignorance: This is not a girl who is presenting herself with a sense of savvy about the way she’ll be seen.
Neither the ignorance nor the bliss could last. As the first season aired, the Hills cast became stars, famous for “being themselves” at a moment when fame itself was in the process of re-definition. The need of then-new blogs such as TMZ and Perez Hilton to fuel the fire of page views by feeding readers a constant stream of content made the exploits of a Heidi Montag more exploitable than the lives of “real” celebrities. As media-studies professor Michael Newman put it on his blog Zigzigger in 2008, “Because the characters are real people, it is possible for their characterization to continue through multiple media and more or less perpetually.” The ultimate sign that the game had changed: As teenagers, Cavallari starred with Conrad on Hills precursor Laguna Beach: The Real Orange County, which the former left to pursue an acting career; when Conrad bowed out of The Hills last year, Cavallari replaced her, intimating that this was just another role. “If it was a reality show,” she told Nylon magazine, “they would focus on me being an actress.”