Last Sunday, two former contestants on “The Biggest Loser” revealed to The Post the torture, starvation and anguish that goes on behind the scenes of the popular reality show.Since publication, a number of former contestants on other shows reached out to the Post to tell stories of utter devastation: physical, mental, financial. Some have since changed their names; some have had to change careers.
“Reality stars are treated with less consideration than a non-speaking actor brought in off the street,” says one veteran, who asked to remain anonymous. “You walk in and they own you. The contracts they make you sign absolve the networks of any responsibility whatsoever — but what they don’t tell you is that they intend to inflict physical and emotional harm on you.”
“Top Chef: Just Desserts”
This competitive reality show — along with its sister program “Top Chef” — is considered among the genre’s classiest. It’s taken seriously by the food industry and has the ability to launch major careers.
New Yorker Seth Caro thought he was prepared — he knew people who’d done the show, and they’d warned him it could be manipulative. “But they also said, ‘If you ride the wave correctly, you will benefit.’”
As with many reality shows, semifinalists are locked up in hotel rooms, and their cellphones, laptops, wallets and IDs are confiscated. Caro says he met with three psychotherapists throughout the audition process. “It doesn’t feel like prison,” Caro says. “It still feels like opportunity.”
Once selected, Caro and the rest of the cast were flown to LA and boarded a double-decker bus. They rode on top while camera crews filmed, and while driving through an overpass, a standing crewmember’s camera flew into a female contestant’s face. “It blew the top of her forehead open,” Caro says.
They all drove to the nearest hospital, and the contestants were left to sit on top of the bus, in the sun, for four hours while the injured woman was treated. “She had 26 stitches, from her forehead to her nose,” Caro says. “She was in shock, afraid of disfigurement, but they wouldn’t let her call her family. She was given an ultimatum: She could either compete on the show or leave, but she would have to sign a non-disclosure agreement and never sue — and she had to decide now.” She stayed.
“The first few days in, I’m thinking, ‘Is this fun, or is this a cruel experiment?’ ” Contestants, he says, average two hours of sleep a night, are fed at the whims of production, and can’t talk to each other during breaks in filming— and those breaks can last six hours.
Caro says he tried to leave several times, but was pressured by the show’s psychotherapists and producers to stay. His castmates, he says, “fell in love with their tormenters. It’s like Stockholm syndrome. Everyone’s saying, ‘Don’t rock the boat; it’s a great opportunity.’”
Finally, Caro broke down during a challenge: he asked for his phone and his wallet back so he could leave. “I was physically prevented from doing so,” he says. “This producer had three cameras shoved two feet from my face. I literally slumped down in the corner and started crying.”
Caro was put in a separate room, where he suffered a panic attack. EMTs were called, and it was all filmed. Caro demanded to leave. “They said, ‘Will you film one final challenge?’ I said no. ‘Will you go on camera and say your goodbyes?’ ‘No.’ Will you do a final on-camera interview?’ ‘No — I want to go home and never be on camera again.’ ”
After production put him in a van, Caro says he spotted a cameraman hiding in the trees. He jumped out of the van and was tackled by show security. “They took me back to the hotel — I was never arrested — and then they took me to a mental hospital, where I was put on a 5150 [involuntary psych hold] for three days. I was in my chef’s jacket and socks. I didn’t have my phone. No one from the network or the show came to see me.”
Caro called his father from a pay phone, who flew in from New York to collect his son. Today, Caro says, his life is ruined: He can’t get a job in the culinary industry. He’s in the process of changing his name so that potential employers, friends and significant others won’t be able to Google him. His season, like so many others, lives forever on the Internet.
“They are playing with people’s lives,” he says. “I’ve been destroyed by the experience.”
This competitive reality show — along with its sister program “Top Chef” — is considered among the genre’s classiest. It’s taken seriously by the food industry and has the ability to launch major careers.
New Yorker Seth Caro thought he was prepared — he knew people who’d done the show, and they’d warned him it could be manipulative. “But they also said, ‘If you ride the wave correctly, you will benefit.’”
As with many reality shows, semifinalists are locked up in hotel rooms, and their cellphones, laptops, wallets and IDs are confiscated. Caro says he met with three psychotherapists throughout the audition process. “It doesn’t feel like prison,” Caro says. “It still feels like opportunity.”
Once selected, Caro and the rest of the cast were flown to LA and boarded a double-decker bus. They rode on top while camera crews filmed, and while driving through an overpass, a standing crewmember’s camera flew into a female contestant’s face. “It blew the top of her forehead open,” Caro says.
They all drove to the nearest hospital, and the contestants were left to sit on top of the bus, in the sun, for four hours while the injured woman was treated. “She had 26 stitches, from her forehead to her nose,” Caro says. “She was in shock, afraid of disfigurement, but they wouldn’t let her call her family. She was given an ultimatum: She could either compete on the show or leave, but she would have to sign a non-disclosure agreement and never sue — and she had to decide now.” She stayed.
“The first few days in, I’m thinking, ‘Is this fun, or is this a cruel experiment?’ ” Contestants, he says, average two hours of sleep a night, are fed at the whims of production, and can’t talk to each other during breaks in filming— and those breaks can last six hours.
Caro says he tried to leave several times, but was pressured by the show’s psychotherapists and producers to stay. His castmates, he says, “fell in love with their tormenters. It’s like Stockholm syndrome. Everyone’s saying, ‘Don’t rock the boat; it’s a great opportunity.’”
Finally, Caro broke down during a challenge: he asked for his phone and his wallet back so he could leave. “I was physically prevented from doing so,” he says. “This producer had three cameras shoved two feet from my face. I literally slumped down in the corner and started crying.”
Caro was put in a separate room, where he suffered a panic attack. EMTs were called, and it was all filmed. Caro demanded to leave. “They said, ‘Will you film one final challenge?’ I said no. ‘Will you go on camera and say your goodbyes?’ ‘No.’ Will you do a final on-camera interview?’ ‘No — I want to go home and never be on camera again.’ ”
After production put him in a van, Caro says he spotted a cameraman hiding in the trees. He jumped out of the van and was tackled by show security. “They took me back to the hotel — I was never arrested — and then they took me to a mental hospital, where I was put on a 5150 [involuntary psych hold] for three days. I was in my chef’s jacket and socks. I didn’t have my phone. No one from the network or the show came to see me.”
Caro called his father from a pay phone, who flew in from New York to collect his son. Today, Caro says, his life is ruined: He can’t get a job in the culinary industry. He’s in the process of changing his name so that potential employers, friends and significant others won’t be able to Google him. His season, like so many others, lives forever on the Internet.
“They are playing with people’s lives,” he says. “I’ve been destroyed by the experience.”
