When MTV’s “The Real World” premiered in 1992, and throughout its twenty-one subsequent seasons, viewers were exposed to a wide array of personal politics, belief systems, and cultural dynamics. Cast members were locked in a living space and forced to confront their prejudices while offering exaggerated versions of themselves for cameras.
The dominant audience reaction: will someone please punch some of these people in the face?
The genius of “The Ultimate Fighter” is that someone can.
“TUF,” which debuted in the spring of 2005, might have been the single most influential paradigm shift in the sport’s history. (Basic cable television is a powerful drug.) The UFC found a venue for creating and promoting new talent, pushing existing stars as coaches, and allowing curious viewers a free sample of the violence. Season ten’s premiere (tonight, Spike, 10 p.m. ET, or later following UFC Fight Night overspill) will attempt to defy the series’ advancing age by pushing the participation of
Kimbo Slice, noted Miami street brawler and former CBS-network attraction. And if you could never predict that sentence, you now understand the bizarre randomness of television programming.
Free fights should be reason enough to watch for the next twelve weeks, but in case you need them, here are ten more:
There’s no context for
this scene, but
Quinton Jackson is probably using the door as a metaphor for his feelings toward opposing coach
Rashad Evans. It is obviously a flimsy, hollow-core piece of garbage hung in the hopes a fighter would assault it…but it doesn’t matter. Property destruction never fails to entertain.
A six-year NFL veteran, Mitrione is this season’s
Amir Sadollah: a perfect 0-0 record in professional competition. Steamrolled or an unlikely survivor, the man clearly has a pair.
Just getting it out of the way.
Most seasons of “TUF” have fractured production -- and viewer attention -- on two weight classes at a time. It’s not that complicated, but it does dilute some of the appeal and straightforward narrative of focusing on a single division.
“Next time…on the ‘Ultimate Fighter.’” Narrator Mike Rowe can make anything sound important. He’s the Orson Welles of bloodletting.
The most accomplished in the series’ mix of rookies and veterans, most figure that the season is Nelson’s to lose: his grappling was enough to stifle
Frank Mir during a submission tournament in 2002, and his striking earned him a split decision loss against
Ben Rothwell in 2007. He’s also fat and genial, and it’s nice to see the sport having less of an inferiority complex to allow for inferior physique admission. (Babe Ruth: great ball player, but a bit of a slob. No one much cared.)
Once a laughable mess, the UFC’s group of tailored suits is already looking better than it has in years: with 16 potential bodies, it’s a safe bet that a handful will stick around to create more depth.
The very smart, slightly alarming-looking journalist Josh Gross often advises that fights are best reviewed with the sound off: commentary tends to creep into your opinion uninvited. There is only ambient noise during “Fighter” fights: teammates shouting advice and the dull thud of bodies. It works.
Most “rivalries” in the sport are borne out of exaggerated emotions with the knowledge that bad blood flows right into piles of money. But so what? If
Quinton Jackson and
Rashad Evans are faking it, they both deserve Oscars.
Sims, a 6’10” unpolished wrestler weaned on
Mark Coleman’s Hammer House philosophy of smash first and think later, reminds some fans of
Ric Flair -- if Flair suffered a head injury, was afflicted with ADD, and could brag of an appearance on “Blind Date.” Locking him in a house with fifteen other athletes should happen every season.
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