Netflix’s tagline for its 2018 hit reality show, Queer Eye, is: ‘Greater than only a makeover.’ The show is all about self-care, which is interpreted for its global audience as DIY grooming, healthy eating, and checking in with yourself. When Audre Lorde, a black lesbian activist, first used the term self-care in A Burst of Light – written after her cancer diagnosis – she was talking about self-preservation as an act of “political warfare”, a prioritising of the self in a world that wishes you to die. On Queer Eye, self-care is described by Jonathan Van Ness as, “an inside job” – work you could have to do on yourself to be presentable to the workplace and the world, moderately than as vital recuperation from that world, and a recognition of its cruelties.  

In its depiction of each personal and superficial transformation, and the main target of the inner selves of the show’s subjects and their inspiring backstories, Queer Eye differs from other makeover reality TV. For instance, in Extreme Makeover, a series that ran on ABC from 2002 to 2007, subjects were continuously derided for his or her appearances and given cosmetic surgery. In spinoffs Extreme Makeover: Home Edition and later (in 2011) Extreme Makeover: Weight Loss Edition, the cosmetic surgery element was removed, but contestants were still fat-shamed, forced into recent clothes and make-up, and into the gym for gruelling day by day workouts. 

There’s no self-care on Extreme Makeover; for one, the show aired before Instagram feminists and wellness brands popularised the previously political term, and for one more, contestants on Extreme Makeover are generally denied an exploration of the self beyond their failures to be physically attractive. Likewise, Channel 5’s 2016 show, 100% Hotter, is rooted in public perception. Subjects of the show are critiqued by presenters Melissa Sophia, Daniel Palmer, and Karen Williams for being too sexual or too out of touch, and fitted with a more ‘flattering’ look. Afterwards, members of the general public are asked to choose whether the show’s participants are indeed now, 100 per cent hotter.

On Queer Eye, we get a bit more context. In season three episode 4, “When Robert Met Jamie”, the Fab Five tell Robert they won’t stand for his self-deprecating attitude towards his weight. Karamo takes him to a dance studio they usually go over his disgust together with his body. “No person else is saying this stuff about you,” Karamo tells Robert, and together they write positive adjectives on the mirrors; ‘father’, ‘good guy’, ‘handsome’. It is a confident assertion from Karamo that betrays an ignorance of the day by day shame and marginalisation experienced by fat people. Earlier within the episode, Tan takes Robert to a boutique and buys him dark, flattering clothes to “cover the areas he is anxious about.” A tip from Tan: vertical stripes are higher for hiding an even bigger stomach than horizontal ones.

“On Queer Eye, self-care is described by Jonathan Van Ness as ‘an inside job’ – work you could have to do on yourself to be presentable to the workplace and the world, moderately than as vital recuperation from that world, and a recognition of its cruelties”

Perhaps it might be an unfair expectation for the Fab Five to handle the structural issues underlying Robert’s insecurities within the space of 1 week, when fat activists have been working on this for years. But what we don’t need is more footage of Robert struggling on the gym, implicitly suggesting to the audience that the issue with fat people is that they’ve simply never considered exercise. Antoni shows Robert easy methods to make a chicken salad using no oil, butter or carbs, after throwing out all of the food within the fridge and searching grossed out by canned cheese. The episode is essentially Robert being told to go on a weight loss program within the nicest way possible. Because this ideology is shrouded in quips concerning the link between mental and physical health, and since, superficially, the Five are coping with Robert’s insecurities on a person basis, we would miss the similarities between this footage and that on Extreme Makeover: Weight Loss Edition.

Although the journeys are different, Queer Eye ultimately reaches the identical conclusion as other makeover shows. After an entire week of self-improvement, our heroes of the show are objectively higher than ever, and in addition they have a recent house, courtesy of Bobby. While the show’s subjects aren’t necessarily mocked for being obese or cheaply dressed, they’re still taken to gyms and independent boutiques. Women are given heels, make-up, and flowing tops. Men are given button-downs and tan shorts. Although conventional gender norms and standards of beauty are adhered to, the entire thing is repackaged as a type of self-care. The contestants should do this stuff because it is going to make them feel higher, and feeling higher will make them look higher, and searching higher will make them more successful.

On Queer Eye, self-care is isolated from the unconventional political roots originally intended by writers corresponding to Audre Lorde, and is repackaged for the mass-market as glorified me-time. Although the self-care suggestions offered up by the Five may be effective in the person lives of the ‘heroes’ they work with (a fast glance at a few of their Instagram accounts show them, for probably the most part, retaining the recommendation and becoming mini-influencers themselves) self-care on screen represents a privatisation of social care. Provided that, for British and American audiences, income inequality is at record highs, and current governments are doing their best to privatise existing social healthcare, the concept that self-care alone could radically improve the lives of Queer Eye’s viewers is little greater than fantasy. 

The cleansing and grooming rituals depicted on, and encouraged by Queer Eye would higher be described as simply ‘personal care’. Faraway from being a call to collective survival, care on Queer Eye is only individualistic. Although the private individuals on the show have temporary access to the skilled help, high-quality corporate-sponsored products and clothing offered by the Fab Five, most individuals don’t.

“Although conventional gender norms and standards of beauty are adhered to, the entire thing is repackaged as a type of self-care. The contestants should do this stuff because it is going to make them feel higher, and feeling higher will make them look higher, and searching higher will make them more successful”

Perhaps that is what’s so addictive concerning the show. It’s comforting to assume that in a world where you’re often unable to access these moments of care, a bunch of celebrities might aid you out. It’s comforting to assume that ‘self-care’ by itself might be transformative. In line with Queer Eye, a face mask may be greater than a face mask; it could actually count as time spent committed to the conservation of yourself. 

But in point of fact, for a 2019, austerity audience, Queer Eye does little but reinforce the concept that (within the nicest way possible) we’re on our own, and survival and happiness lies in a recent suit, a day on the gym, or a lip and cheek stain duo.