Make or Break is "bliss compared to the
smiley brain-dead presentation we get from the
WSL itself."
Ten years ago somebody posted a two-star Amazon review
for the book version of Encyclopedia of Surfing, noting that “it
is an encyclopedia!” and because of that they
“haven’t bothered reading it.”
And folks, this is why EOS has a 4.4 star Amazon rating instead
of the perfect 5 to which all encyclopedists aspire.
The point being: a thing should be judged—whatever the thing is,
book, movie, TV show, etc—based primarily on what that thing set
out to do. If you go online to buy an encyclopedia and three days
later take delivery on an encyclopedia, your lead criticism should
not be that it is an encyclopedia.
Keep this in mind because I am here to report that the new Apple
TV+ reality show Make
or Break, which debuted on Friday and is co-produced by
WSL, is a near-absolute triumph.
You may not like the show, and that’s fine. But don’t be the
two-star troll who comments without understanding the assignment.
Remember what Make or Break set out to do.
It is not a documentary. It is not even about riding waves,
exactly. Make or Break is a reality show set within the
grind and turmoil of the WCT, and as a viewer, to my eyes anyway,
that grind and turmoil is bliss compared to the
smiley brain-dead presentation we get from the
WSL itself, and hold that thought, we’ll circle back in a
moment.
So judge Make or Break on those terms. And if you still
don’t think the show has come out of the gate scoring a
low-to-mid-range 9, then you haven’t watched enough reality TV, and
shame on you for even taking part in this conversation—but also
congratulations on avoiding what is by and large a basement-level
zone of entertainment.
Reality TV has been off my radar for 30 years.
I watched Season One of MTV’s The Real World in
1992—back when teenaged Kelly Slater was eyeballing his first world
title while the rest of us scandal-hopped between the Menendez
Brothers and Joey Buttafuoco—but decided after two or three
episodes that reality TV was not for me, and apart from
sniff-testing our sport’s own dependably cringey offerings (see
here and
here
and especially
here), I haven’t watched since.
Not until I read
JP Currie’s BeachGrit article on Make or
Break, anyway, which includes an enthusiastic riff
on Drive to Survive, the Netflix smash hit set in the
gilded snakepit that is Formula One racing.
The same production team is behind both shows, and Drive to
Survive, Currie writes, has proven to be so incredibly
watchable—even among us geeks for whom the world “formula” conjures
algebraic Xs and Ys instead of car racing—that a
knockoff based on our very own World Championship Tour was
practically three-quarters of the way to an Emmy before it
debuted.
And thus much of my recent Covid convalescence was spent
watching Season One of Drive to Survive—which is every bit
as good as Currie says.
Even so, I did not share Currie’s belief that a WCT
spinoff was a near-sure thing. Two reasons. Formula One
racing, batshit crazy as it is on so many levels, is understandable
to anybody who has sat behind the wheel of a car and thought about
crashing, which means anybody who has sat behind the wheel of a
car. Riding waves, viewer-relatability-wise, is the very
opposite.
Second, the Rockefellerian levels of money involved
with Formula One (a championship-contending team will blow through
something close to a half-billion per year) means that the people
involved—owners, managers, drivers, everybody—must perform under
levels of pressure that people in our little sand-flecked
world cannot even comprehend.
Mullet-flaunting playboy billionaire Vijay Mallya, for example,
former Member of Parliament and owner of the Force India FI team,
up to his neck in debt and alleged financial crimes after
bankrupting his once-successful commercial airline, fled India just
ahead of the law during the filming of Drive to Survive.
Interested as I am with Kelly
Slater’s vaccine-related U-turn, nothing the 11-time champ
could ever do on terra firma will glue my ass to the couch like
watching a bejeweled business
titan implode onscreen.
Formula One and pro surfing, in other words and despite what JP
Currie thinks, is not an apples-to-apples proposition.
But I’ve just watched the first two episodes of Make or
Break, and guess what? It doesn’t matter.
Pro surfing cannot compete with Formula One for the reasons I’ve
described above, yes. But we have attributes of our own, things
that I often do not see because the subject is so near and dear,
and the Make or Break’s producers have zeroed in on those
people, places, and characteristics.
Zero chance the show will match Drive to Survive for
viewer share. But with Make or Break we nonetheless
have something that feels true to the sport (the tiny sliver
of the sport that is competitive surfing, anyway), while also
having the potential to be a modest hit in the general
marketplace.
We have Tyler Wright and Gabe Medina, both of whom, to my
admittedly biased eye, are more compelling personalities than any
of the Drive to Survive gasoline alley hotshots.
We have women in general. Survive is a high-bred
sausage party.
We have sharks, and while I appreciate the drama an apex
predator brings to the table, I was both grateful and impressed
that the producers chose not to overplay the shark fatality just
prior to finals day at the 2020 Honolua Bay Maui Pro. The death was
instead presented, correctly, as a trigger for the WSL’s quick and
bold decision to move the event to Pipeline, where the women
competed for the first time.
We have this quote from the lovably manic defending world champ
Ítalo Ferreira: “The more waves I catch, the more waves I
break.”
And pro surfing still, 35 years after the
WCT’s kitchen table beginnings, retains a DIY element,
which it turns out can be played to an advantage. There is a scene
in second episode of Make or Break where Gabe Medina admits
that he did not want to travel to Australia last year (“people
close to me, they made me go”), and because the trip is
last-minute, and because these are pro surfers and not Formula One
drivers, two-time world champ Medina picks up the phone and calls
three-time world champ Mick Fanning to ask if Mick will coach him
through the Aussie leg. Mick says no but kicks the job over his pal
Andy King.
And just like that Medina and King are a unit.
An agreement must have been signed at some point, but
otherwise, as far as I can tell, there were no managers, agents, or
corpos of any kind involved. Just a few phone calls and text
messages between Gabe, Mick, and Andy.
Did it work? Gabe got two wins and a runner-up in Australia,
moved into the ratings’ lead and never looked back.
(World-title-wise, that is. The personal and professional hurricane
Gabe walked into shortly thereafter will be, along with Kelly
Slater’s 2022 Pipe win, the main storyline of Make or
Break’s Season Two.)
Oddly, surfing itself—the editing and pacing, not the
wave-riding itself—is the weakest part of Make or Break.
It’s an easy fix (show full rides), and I’m guessing
the producers will figure it out as the show
progresses.
If they don’t, I’ll watch every episode anyway.
I cannot sign off without gently putting the boot to the WSL.
There is a real absurdity in the fact that the show within the show
(Make or Break) is 100-times better than the actual show
itself (WSL’s presentation of competitive surfing).
More than an absurdity, in fact, this may be a fatal deficit on
WSL’s part. But it just occurred to me that the WSL cratering
midyear in 2023 would guarantee a fantastic third season for
Make or Break.
(You like this? Matt Warshaw delivers a surf essay every Sunday,
PST. All of ’em a pleasure to read. Maybe time to subscribe to
Warshaw’s Encyclopedia of Surfing, yeah? Three bucks
a month.)