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Reality Television

'The Biggest Loser' is back, and we have only one question: Why?

Kelly Lawler
USA TODAY

For the 12 years that "The Biggest Loser" aired on NBC, everyone was a loser. 

The disgusting display of hatred of fat people, their bodies and their lives helped cement the modern stigma against them, and often ruined the health of its contestants. But for some inexplicable reason, last week USA Network premiered a revival of the reality series to traumatize us all (Tuesdays, 9 EST/PST).  

There are plenty of good and bad TV shows these days, but it's rare to find reality TV that's actually harmful to the people involved and society as a whole. "Loser" is a frightening example of what can happen when our worst impulses are given airtime. 

PhiXavier Holms, James DiBattista, Kristi McCart, Domenico Bruggelis, Teri Aguiar, Katarina Bouton, Erica Lugo, Bob Harper, Steve Cook, Megan Hoffman, Robert Richardson II, Dolores Tomorrow, Micah Collum, Kim Emami-Davis on "The Biggest Loser."

If you have somehow blissfully purged this awful series from your memory, here are the finer points of the weight-loss competition: A group of overweight people competes to lose the highest percentage of their body weight. Most of the episodes are devoted to watching the contestants participate in grueling exercise challenges while the trainers berate them, or watching them stand – shirtless so as much of their bodies as possible are on display – on a prop scale (a disclaimer reminds the viewer that accurate weights are determined off camera). Each week, the person who shed the least weight on a percentage basis goes home, and the last person standing wins $100,000.

"We did want to make a better connection or bigger connection between weight loss and health," USA reality programming executive Heather Olander told the Television Critics Association last month. "The message in the show is, yes, being thin and fitting into skinny jeans – if that’s what you want, fabulous. But that’s not the end all, be all. It’s not about getting thin at all costs. It’s about getting healthy and setting these contestants on a healthy lifestyle path."

To Olander's credit, there are changes in the show. Gone are the "temptation" challenges, in which contestants eat junk food in exchange for game advantages. Nor do they vote each other off every week. There are on-camera "therapy" sessions with trainer-turned-host Bob Harper, and the losers are sent home with an after-care package that includes a gym membership and access to a nutritionist. 

"The Biggest Loser" is coming back. Bob Harper, far left, Erica Lugo, Steve Cook and Heather Olander were present to promote the revival.

But what hasn't changed is the show's fundamental message: Fat is bad, thin is good, and happiness and acceptance are achieved only by losing weight, at whatever cost. 

There's consistent, documented evidence that "Loser" was a dangerous show for contestants: some practiced unhealthy weight-loss strategies or tried to game the competition by adding pounds before competing. When they left the program, some struggled with eating disorders and weight gain. A National Institutes of Health study published in 2016 found the series had slowed the metabolisms of former contestants, making it harder to maintain their weight loss. 

Contestants Kristi Mccart, Katarina Bouton, Teri Aguiar, Jim Dibattista, Domenico Brugellis on "The Biggest Loser."

The show was not just damaging to the people who endured its brutal process. Watching the series didn't make thin people more empathetic to the lives of those with different bodies: Research found that "anti-fat attitudes increase after brief exposure to weight-loss reality television."

"Loser" promotes the false narrative that exercise is the most important part of weight loss, and that anyone can achieve it if they just try hard enough. Viewers see radical body transformations over just a few short weeks, and perhaps some of them assume the only reason other fat people stay fat is that they're lazy bums who refuse to try hard enough. 

In reality, our weight is determined by a variety of contributing factors, and it varies from person to person. Genetics, socioeconomic status, preexisting medical conditions, stress and mental health affect numbers on a scale. Some people may never be able to be thin.

And even if every individual defined as "medically obese" – some 40% of the American population, according to the CDC – wanted to lose weight, they don't have to. That's the goal of body positivity and fat acceptance movements. Overweight people shouldn't have to lose weight to be full members of society, sit on airplanes without abuse and see doctors without facing discrimination. The way someone else's body presents is no one's business but their own. 

Spouting buzzwords about "health" and "lifestyle" on the new "Loser" in no way covers up the crassness of the reality show in an age when reboots and revivals have become something of a default business model for Hollywood. The series is not returning so it can help people achieve healthy goals or spread positive messages: It's back to profit from the degradation of a subculture.

One can only hope the producers miscalculated America's desire for this kind of programming as our culture inches towards inclusivity and acceptance of all sizes. When "Loser" premiered in 2004, there was no "This Is Us" or "Shrill." "Body positivity" wasn't a household term. Lizzo, who had her own conflict with "Loser" alum Jillian Michaels, wasn't yet a superstar. Late-night hosts like James Corden weren't making impassioned speeches against fat shaming.

We've started to make change for the better. We don't need to fight over "Loser" all over again. 

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