In defence of the fabrications of reality TV

My new favourite tennis player, just ahead of Novak Djokovic, is Nick Kyrgios. Up until recently I’d barely heard of him and what little I knew – his massive, sweary, on-court tantrums – did not inspire much enthusiasm. But then I watched Break Point and realised that here was exactly the kind of man I’d like to be myself: someone so talented at what he does that he puts in no preparation and little practice; who prefers chilling with his mates and his family to the grinding tedium of work; who loathes rules and formality and won’t be told what to do; and who, despite all these self-generated handicaps, is still capable of pulling off the occasional stunt that proves his critics spectacularly wrong.

As he did in the 2022 Australian Open. I’m not going to tell you here what happened. If you’re a tennis fan, you’ll know. But if, like me, you are at most a fairweather follower of the sport, then you should watch the first episode of Break Point because it will take your breath away. I never would have believed tennis personalities could be this exciting or grand slam competitions so enthralling, you’ll say to yourself. And in most cases – Kyrgios really is a supremely rare exception – I fear you’d be right. The genius is all in the edit.

Perhaps this will make more sense if I explain that Break Point is made by the same team that brought you F1: Drive to Survive and uses much the same formula. That is, it spends the first half introducing you to the various key personalities, be they racing team managers and drivers, or players, coaches and girlfriends, in agreeable locations, and the second half showing these characters, whom you now know almost like they’re friends, either triumphing or spectacularly failing at some pivotal moment in their sporting calendar.

Let me explain how the formula works.