Becca’s Choice: Why Should We Care?

 There’s probably a 50-letter German word for “the horrified glee one experiences when watching someone grovel at the feet of another person who just isn’t that into them.” In English, we call that “The Bachelorette,” which concluded its 14th season last Monday. There’s also “The Bachelor,” ABC’s longer-running and arguably more popular series, but I personally find it far more interesting to watch dudes try to impress a girl than to watch women clamor for the attention of a guy. Women are conniving and subtle in their maneuverings; men tend to fall flat on their faces, or they punch each other. The latter makes for better television.

This season, 28 man-children vied for bachelorette Becca Kufrin’s hand in marriage, the idea being that the constant presence of a camera crew is no impediment to true love, and that a willingness to sign up for possible humiliation before six million viewers shouldn’t be a red flag for Becca. The winnowing of contestants follows a strict formula: group dates,one-on-one dates, visits to each other’s hometowns, the “fantasy suite” (the second-to-last episode, in which Becca sleeps with the remaining dudes), and, finally, the proposal. At the end of each episode, Becca presents roses to the guys she likes, then sends someone home. To make everyone feel better, ABC ships them to destinations of varying degrees of coolness. This season’s low point: Richmond, Va., where Governor Ralph Northam moderated a cringe-inducing “debate” among the bachelors. (I happened to watch this episode with closed captioning and concluded that the combined vocabulary of all the bachelors totaled about 75 words.) 

“The Bachelorette” has the same effect on me as those wire head massagers from Brookstone: As soon as I start watching, I become totally incapacitated by a dumb, sleepy sense of well-being. It feels like eating too much cake, or mainlining the filling of a Dunkin’ Donuts apple fritter, or petting a kitten while stoned. Every contestant on “The Bachelorette” operates on the surface level, even when they think they’re playing sophisticated games: They’re dudes, after all, and most of them are from Florida and have made-up sounding jobs like “fitness consultant.” In one especially memorable episode this season, one of the contestants, a self-proclaimed “colognoisseur” named Jean-Blanc, presented Becca with a bottle of perfume and told her that he was falling in love with her. It was the second or third time they’d ever hung out, so naturally, Becca did not reciprocate, and she showed him the door. But in a self-immolating attempt to backtrack, Jean-Blanc lingered on the threshold and told Becca that he didn’t mean to freak her out, and he didn’t really feel that way about her; he just thought that’s what she wanted to hear. Then, he asked for the perfume back. 

 Gradually, Becca develops actual connections with some of the guys, and she ends up with one who cries in front of her sister and loves the way she pronounces the word “bag.” But you shouldn’t commit yourself to this show to find out who the bachelorette chooses; you should watch it for its subtler delicacies. For instance, everyone gains weight from all the traveling and boozing. Toward the end, someone always suffers a horrible acne flare-up, which then gets worse with each humid tropical destination. At one point this season, a grown man rolled off the top bunk of a bunk bed and broke his nose. There can be a deep, soothing joy in pettiness, and “The Bachelorette” asks nothing of you except to let go of the arrogant belief that you’re too good for this kind of entertainment.

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