A new low: explicit UK show Naked Attraction causes a stir in the US

The dating show, where people are judged on their naked bodies, has become a much-discussed hit after landing on streaming, with detractors in its wake

I vaguely remember the first time I heard about Naked Attraction, the British reality series in which singletons judge prospective partners in the nude, which premiered on Channel 4 in 2016. The show prompted a series of incredulous headlines about the premise, casting and general shock of full-frontal nudity on TV, to which I reacted with something along the lines of “how can this be real?” And then I promptly forgot about it, because a show about people matter-of-factly assessing a bunch of strangers by their genitals would simply never air on US television, given its particular blend of titillating, prudish, and regulated; the most archetypical American dating show remains The Bachelor, which has a distinct flavor of Instagram Christian modesty.

Such tameness, at least on network television or in the US version of Love Island, is at odds with the unsentimental frankness of Naked Attraction, which has unsurprisingly rattled American viewers upon its arrival to US streaming. Since the show’s six seasons landed on Max last month, it’s become an object of consternation, curiosity and clear obsession; it’s topped the service’s most-watched list for two weeks.

And not without controversy – predictably, the Parents Television Council, one of several US media watchdog groups, has deemed the show “pornographic … a new low” and demanded that it be removed from the service. Trollish conservative pundits have blasted at as immoral and decadent – “the natural outcome of a hedonistic society where the only thing that matters is the sex instinct,” according to Ben Shapiro, who I am loth to quote. The general reaction online has been somewhere between shock, fascination and confusion. Either way, it has people talking.

Bad faith criticism aside, the show is indeed a strange mix of uncanny bluntness and discomfiting superficiality, at least to my American eyes. Pickers are summarily introduced and then sent to possibly the most un-erotic set of all time: a harshly lit room with potential dating options delineated by the neon colors of a children’s carnival. The six prospective partners are evaluated first on their lower halves (genitals included, generally with commentary on grooming habits and, of course, size and shape; in one episode I viewed, the picker was delighted by a “willy dance”). Next, their torsos, then face, then voice – one unlucky contestant eliminated per round based on the picker’s preferences – until the remaining two prospective dates and a now nude picker stand in a triangle of potential chemistry for a final assessment; the final couple then go on a (clothed) first date.

Over its six seasons, the show introduced some variations on the formula – different sexual orientations, a couple searching for a third. But the basic premise remains constant: how would you date if you selected solely for physical attractiveness? Proponents argue that Naked Attraction offers a welcome dose of body neutrality in a television landscape saturated with image manipulation and aspiration, that it destigmatizes lumps and bumps and “ideals”. (Indeed, given the limitations for on-screen nudity for anything but an HBO show and the general dearth of Girls-type sex scenes, it is genuinely shocking to see so many smash cuts of unremarkable genitals and normal-looking bodies.) Detractors note that the set-up – a person closely examining and critiquing someone’s body on the basis of attractiveness – is inherently objectifying and harsh.

Such critics have been loud enough that executive producer Darrell Olson felt compelled to defend the show publicly; speaking to the Hollywood Reporter this week, Olson claimed the show proves “that every person is different, and not just facially. We’ve all got different genitals. We’ve all got different big toes. It’s amazing. So there’s no reason to feel bad about yourself, and it’s empowering to see we’re all different.” At the very least, Olson argues, the idiosyncrasies of people’s preferences can be surprising.

That’s sometimes true. I personally found the show fascinating but often excruciating to watch; if you’ve ever struggled with body confidence or worried about the fate of old nudes, the sight of someone vocally comparing a person’s naked body to others is slightly nauseating. (How did these people return to work after this?!) The assessments are often gleefully matter-of-fact, which feels foreign to the strain of midwestern politeness I was steeped in. No amount of episodes dispels the sense that this shouldn’t be allowed. It was a relief whenever eliminated contestants put their clothes back on and reappeared as normal people on the street.

Still, it’s winningly transgressive in doses – the whispered, tipsy confessions made to friends, the internal monologue of judgment, warped into the only metric. The full frontal nudity remains a frontier of reality programming that American television, for all its contrivances and trashiness and barrel-scraping, has yet to reach. (And that’s including the Discovery program Naked and Afraid, a nude survival show that required a team of people about 50 hours per episode to blur to decency.) As far as British television imports go, it’s one of the weirder ones and, given its popularity, it seems only a matter of time until there’s an American version – for better and, more likely, for worse.

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