F. Scott Fitzgerald is a big, fat liar. There are second acts in American lives, and in no medium has such a famous fib ever been more egregious than in the premiere of MTV’s Jersey Shore. The first act is your menial life prior to 10:00pm on December 3, 2009; the second act is your incredible, profound, rewarding life after it.
For years now, our culture has become increasingly familiar with made-for-reality-television drama and the manner in which producers have chosen to deliver it. Typical reality shows dedicate the first fifteen to thirty seconds upon return from a commercial break to a recap of the events that transpired prior to the commercial break; the same shows also dedicate the fifteen to thirty seconds prior to commercial break to a teaser of what will transpire after the commercial break ends. And thus, any viewer paying attention (even when using the most liberal definition of the word “attention”) will see the episode’s climatic moment — the temper tantrum, the punch, the girl who just lost Flavor Flav’s heart spitting on one of the contestants still vying for his love — multiple times before and after it actually occurs in situ.
Upon first viewing of Jersey Shore, such an exercise seems impossible. First, which of the tremendous, ‘did that really just happen?’ moments constitutes the episode’s climax? Pauly D lands a haymaker on the nose of a club-goer, five or six women remove clothing in the hot tub, JWOWW nearly exposes her breasts, proclaims her affinity for pierced penises, and in a drunken stupor, with Pauly D’s white tank top, leaves the club to eat prepackaged ham. And even if the episode did have a definable climax, a fifteen to thirty second recap or teaser could never accurately depict the fantastic sequences that frame Snooki’s “friend” vomiting on the roof deck. The reality of the situation: every single second of Jersey Shore is miraculously superior to the second that preceded it.