The Siren Song of Reality TV
A few months ago, a client who had been invited to participate in a reality show asked me to look at the agreement. The idea was that she and other participants would be followed around by the cameras to spotlight their professional and home lives. This show was not pitched as a “gotcha” kind of show—it wasn’t going to involve finding love or bungee jumping or living with strangers. Despite that, the agreement presented by the production company was outrageous. It required her to be at the producers’ beck and call for nearly 50 days in a row, 24 hours a day. It swore her to an ill-defined exclusivity period, which could go on for months and during which there were limits on what she could do, say, and post online. She would have to participate in promotional activities, but pay for her own makeup, wardrobe, and transportation. She would have to put up with microphones all over her home, including hidden microphones that the producers need not tell her about. On top of all of that, she would not be paid a cent for her time.
Nevertheless, my client wanted to see if we could work something out. The exposure could be valuable to her business—if anyone watched the show. So, we gamely went about marking up the agreement, starting out with a heavy redline and figuring we might need to meet in the middle on some points. We also hoped that, given the type of show, maybe they did not really need some of the more draconian terms. Would it really be necessary to hide microphones if they weren’t going for gotcha moments?
In retrospect, it shouldn’t have been surprising that the majority of our changes were rejected. Most reality show participants probably sign these agreements without reading them, let alone hiring a lawyer, and the production company has all of the leverage. Still, it was helpful to hear from the production company lawyers, who seemed both understanding and apologetic that they could not make many changes. They said that nearly every line we had flagged had come about following some show-endangering snafu or another. Now, those provisions weren’t just nice to have, but company requirements.
When it was clear the production company would not budge any further on the agreement, the producers reached out to my client to reassure her. They told her that they had no plans to use hidden microphones or surprise her with a middle of the night taping. They stressed that it was a family-friendly production. They seemed sincere and my client felt sure they were, but she also understood that their assurances did not carry the weight of the written agreement.
This was the most important moment in the engagement for me. I had not been hired to close the deal at all costs; I was responsible for ensuring my client felt empowered to weigh the risks and benefits and use her own judgment – not the producers’, mine, or anyone else’s – to decide the best course. It is hard to say no to a deal when we feel we have no other choice. Sometimes there really is no other choice: there is only one vendor who will do the job, it is short notice, or there are people counting on us. But sometimes it just feels like there is no other choice. In either case, it is not easy to see signing and walking away as equally acceptable choices. I wanted to make sure she saw they were.
In this situation, I could have understood either choice. The reality show could have been great for my client and great for business. It also could have made my client’s already busy life even busier and more complicated for a long time. It could have been fun for her family or an enormous stressor. The terms of the agreement might never have been brought up again or might have hung over her like an axe. Ultimately, it came down to deciding whether the benefits outweighed the risks—for her. I felt confident she had made the right choice for herself, and that I had provided the right kind of support, when she realized both that she wanted to and had the power to say no.
No deal, but good outcome.
