"I'm crazy!"

 

Yasmin is wild. In fact, she’s crazy. We know this, because in the first minute of Ten’s BB replacement, Yasmin’s Getting Married, we are told roughly twenty odd times – by the hosts, by Yasmin’s friends, and by Yasmin, herself.

“There’s so many Yasmins”, she tells us, with pride. One is “wild”, and another is “crazy”. Plus, there’s the Yasmin who is “funny”. We're yet to see it.

The first thing that makes me doubt this is that Yasmin comes from Port Stephens (up the coast from Newcastle). Port Stephens is a small coastal paradise for middle-class acting like upper-class, and rich formerly middle-class retirees. There’s one pub there, and it has a lovely bistro. There, you will find many middle-upper class families competing through what grade their children have attained at swimming classes. It doesn’t take much to be wild and crazy in Port Stephens, let me assure you. 

One look at her friends and family, and it all falls into place. Yasmin is the kind of girl that always has two champagnes too many at the work Christmas party. She sings Hopelessly Devoted To You into an empty champagne bottle, and all her colleagues laugh, “Oh, Yasmin! You’re crazy!”

But this is where it all gets really sad. Yasmin, life of the party that she is, is left alone in her queen sized bed – hunched to one side, so that the vast emptiness of her queen sized bed adequately conveys the desperation that will hopefully translate into vicarious emotion, for the audience of Ten’s latest reality stinker.

Yasmin, you see, is – naturellement – an Independent Woman™. I bet you she karaokes that song, too, if you buy her enough Cruisers.  And so Independent™ is Yasmin, she’s letting three panel members desperate enough to take this gig, five painfully dull and self-centred friends and family, and an entire nation that doesn’t know her (and frankly, doesn’t care) decide her fate, and in a few short weeks, force her to marry someone she has played no part in the choice of. How modern. I hope I have a daughter like Yasmin, one day. She’s wild. Crazy, even.

First, the panel discuss what’s “wrong” with Yasmin. They explain away various observed kinks – why she hasn’t found Mr Right, why her house is so bare (because it’s been deliberately stripped for an Ikea cross-promotion, I’d suspect) – but nobody ever ponders what the fuck Yasmin is doing putting herself in the lion’s mouth of reality television.

And can I just say, right here, how mortified I have become, to watch culture embrace some bizarre romanticisation of the “family unit”, and the culture of marriage, after all these years. Didn’t we learn anything at all when the baby boomers all spun out, and divorced the people they only married because they were raised under the notion that the concept was paramount to the reality of an emotional connection? I mean, really. If we start valuing women on their ability to snag themselves a husband, we’ll just have another generation that emprison themselves in a ticking timebomb. Haven’t we moved beyond this kind of cultural sexism?

Hell, no. Let’s not forget the role of World War 2, preceeding the last time everyone got together and raised rugrats. There’s really nothing quite like war to bring out the evolutionary instinct. Howard’s had no problem getting everyone to hook up and pop out those babies. Apart from the fact that the act is now financially rewarded (as they continue to take social welfare away from the poor), we’re more than happy to break into two groups, now that the age of Terrorism™ is upon us, and gosh, we could all be wiped out, any day now. The men puff up their chests, and the women get down to breeding. We will survive. We are protected, and we will survive.

The culture of the family unit is a natural part of this, and of course it’s been commercialised all across our great, scamming television networks. Ten years ago, the single working woman dressed in black, was a very chic thing, indeed. Now, Yasmin has a panellist discussing what’s wrong with her. Foremost, she hasn’t decorated her house properly, she doesn’t have a husband, she hasn’t popped out any babies, and she – shock horror – cares about her work. Quick, Australia! We must fix her!

And so, a handful of turkeys are chosen to participate in a speed-dating situation, where each has forty seconds to introduce themselves to Yasmin. Not that her opinion actually means jack – the three remaining contenders for the real date are decided by the family and friends, as contestants also have to speed date them. And aren’t they equipped to make such a decision!

Take Yasmin’s boss, Fiona, for example. Despite already being married, she openly flirts with one contestant, and when it comes down to making a choice, she chooses two others, for no other reason, we may presume, than her jealousy. “I’d date Adam, if I wasn’t married,” she giggles like a schoolgirl. But Yasmin’s not going to get the chance. If she can’t have it, Yasmin sure as hell isn’t going to, either. Lucky Yasmin, to have such considerate elements going into making such an important decision for her.

Mind you, Fiona’s libidinal envy is propped up by the male panellists who think that the hottie in question, Adam, is a terrible choice. In fact, they’re convinced he’s a homosexual. And you know what we think of homosexuals on TV shows that come from the wonderful world of the family unit.

“He says he’s into teamwork,” sneers the Cleo bachelor of the year. “Well, I think there’s another term for that. Let’s just say, he looks like he hangs around locker rooms, to me.”

Charming. Not to mention ironic (projection, anyone?) if you consider that this Cleo Bachelor of the Year is also a Ten sports journalist. Sporty blokes the nation over, beware – the poofters strike at the very heart of blokedom, poisoning the symbol that is the male locker room. He'd know - that's where he spends every single day.

The other male panellist agrees, screwing his face up as if feeling nauseas; “Nah, he’s very… effeminate.”

Nevermind that Yasmin actually responded most positively to poor Adam – who’s actually just a well-spoken, slightly too suave Sydney-sider. Too bad, Yasmin – he’s probably a poofter.

Back in the speed dating session, we discover that Yasmin’s decision must also pass through the questionable guidance of her friend, Rick. Rick looks like a biker dressed from a Lowes catalogue, and by the end declares, “No one’s good enough for my little girl.” I beg your pardon? You’re her friend – if anything, you seem younger than she is. Rick actually has the hide to complain, “A couple of them thought I was her father”. Should that really be a surprise, when your denying absolutely everyone on the basis of keeping your image of your friend as the Repunzel figure of glorified sexlessness? Or are you just a little jealous of the applicants, perhaps? If the boss can’t have who she wants, Yasmin can’t. If Rick can’t have Yasmin, she can’t have anyone.

How about a sequel called “Yasmin’s getting better friends”?

There’s also the cultural chastising of Vincent, the French pastry chef, who is thrown in simply to provide a horrendously simplistic cliché for the butt of much amusement. Twenty bucks says he’s an actor.

But so much fun does everyone have, laughing at horrible Vincent, after deciding he is fake, and not interested in commitment, the panel decide to choose him as one of the three finalists anyway – just so we can enjoy the cruelty.

He is chosen alongside Derryn, probably my personal favourite, who admits he is burnt from a painful break up (where he was dumped – probably for being the kind of person who would go on a reality dating contest); and Peter, who brings three various alcoholic drinks to Yasmin, and declares her choice of which drink, or how many, will tell him all he needs to know about her. Like the wild, crazy girl that she is, she chooses all three. He’s impressed.

And then, it’s up to us. For 55 cents plus call costs, we can decide which one of these poor creatures gets a date with the other poor creature (because despite being much more boring than she thinks she is, she's still a harmless, nice enough girl), Yasmin.

I can hardly wait in my vast, empty queen sized bed, to find out.