Reality’s Believe It or Not

Not everyone feels so lucky about having participated in these shows. Michael Hebranko has been the subject of two TLC programs, the first of which immortalized him as the "Half-Ton Man." That's the one that shows him in tears, being hauled out of his New York home with a forklift and deposited on a sling designed to carry marine mammals. The obesity shows provide some of the most affecting—OK, inspirational—narratives because their subjects have the capacity to transform themselves. But they also can be the most cruel, like when we see giant, half-clothed people get hoisted in and out of bed while the narrator says: "He's 780 pounds of man mountain that just keeps on eating." There are endless variations on the theme, including TLC's "Big Medicine," a sort of plus-size "Marcus Welby," about a father and son team of gastric-bypass surgeons that manages to be both clinically sympathetic and, in episodes such as "The Most Extreme Skin Removal," grotesquely curious. "Those shows are appalling," says Frances White of the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance. "What a shame TLC can't do a show about fat people where they are as lovingly portrayed as the family on 'Little People, Big World.' Instead, fat people are robbed of their dignity."

Hebranko, whose weight has fluctuated from 198 to 1,000 pounds over the last 20 years, wouldn't argue with that. "People watch because they like a freak show," he says. But he's willing to play the part, he says, because of the supportive letters he gets, and because he knows how badly others like him need the help. Two of the people filmed at the Brookhaven obesity clinic in New York City, where Hebranko received treatment, have died since the shows were broadcast. "What makes it worthwhile for me," he says, "is that people who need help can reach out instead of staying in their house and just dying."

You hear a lot of mixed emotions from the stars of these shows—none of whom, by the way, is paid to appear. Abby and Brittany Hensel allowed the world to watch them take their driving test, even while the conjoined twins—they have two heads but one set of arms and legs—decided who would control the gas (Abby) or the blinker (Brittany). "Abby and Brittany Turn 16" is handled with great care, the girls are given plenty of time to talk about their anatomy in nonsensational ways. They explain that they made the film "so people wouldn't have to always stare and take pictures. Cause we don't like it when they take pictures … so they just know who we are and stuff." But as the film progresses, you see that any time the twins leave their Minnesota town, people blatantly photograph them, leaving the girls feeling "violated," according to their mother, Patty. She gets teary in the documentary when she explains how she doesn't want her girls to grow up like circus performers, and she hasn't let the girls speak to the media since the movie debuted two years ago. Watch the movie now—it's still in heavy rotation on the Discovery Health network—and you can see why they'd shun the spotlight. It's hard to shake the creepy, voyeuristic feeling you get when you watch the girls make pottery or brush each other's hair. The narrator explains that they are, "in nearly every sense, perfectly normal teenagers." But we know we're watching precisely because they're not.

© 2008