From empowerment fantasy to uncomfortable hindsight
When America’s Next Top Model (ANTM) first aired in the early 2000s, it was packaged as a revolution. Helmed by supermodel Tyra Banks, the series promised to disrupt an industry infamous for its narrow beauty standards. It arrived glossy and self-assured, positioning itself as a gateway and a corrective to fashion’s exclusivity.
“I wanted to show that beauty is not one thing, and I wanted to fight against the fashion industry,” Banks said at the start.
She speaks of casting women who are “not all white, not all skinny” and of meeting the public where they are.
At the time, many of us bought into it. We were teenagers or young adults, glued to appointment television, repeating catchphrases the next day in school corridors and offices. The show felt bold and necessary. It offered the fantasy that ordinary girls could be transformed into high fashion contenders, that vulnerability could be reshaped into power.
Two decades later, Netflix’s Reality Check: Inside of America’s Next Top Model invites audiences to revisit the franchise with experienced eyes. The documentary interviewed former contestants, producer Ken Mok, Banks and judges including Jay Manuel, J Alexander and Nigel Barker.
What unfolds is less a redemption arc and more a reckoning. And for many viewers, it is an emotional one that forces a confrontation between what we were watching and what have been happening behind the scenes.
ANTM then
In 2000s, reality TV was a relatively new cultural force. Social media was in its infancy. Conversations about racism, consent, mental health and body image did not dominate timelines the way they do today. Shows were consumed weekly but rarely interrogated and seldom revisited with the scrutiny that streaming now allows.
Critiques were framed as tough love. Extreme makeovers were marketed as necessary growth. Emotional breakdowns were edited into compelling television. Tears became cliffhangers. Conflict became currency.
Back then, many viewers interpreted the infamous confrontations as “motivational” rather than seeing it for what it was. Moreso, we accepted the narrative handed to us: the “angry Black woman”, the “insecure girl”, the “cheater” – rarely questioning those scripts or labels were assigned. We debated favourites but did not interrogate the machinery shaping them.
Media literacy, in hindsight, was limited. We did not yet have the vocabulary to call out certain moments, asking whether it was humiliation dressed up as mentorship. It would not have crossed many of our minds whether tears were being harvested for ratings at that time. The manipulation, if present, was absorbed as entertainment.
ANTM now
Post Covid and into 2026, watching the documentary with years of cultural shift behind us, the same scenes feel jarring and at times, heartbreaking.
Former contestants – such as Ebony Haith and Giselle Samson speak about the labels imposed on them and Shandi Sullivan recounts how an alleged sexual assault was framed on air as a “cheating scandal” – have thankfully gotten viewers questioning what Banks’s show was all about at all. The re-contextualisation is sobering.
In the documentary, Sullivan said no one stepped in despite clear signs of intoxication, to which Banks responded production was “not my territory”, a line that lands differently when one remembers she was an executive producer. The separation of roles feels less convincing when viewed through a contemporary understanding of accountability.
However, journalist Zakiyah Gibbons suggested producers were always in Banks’s ear, keeping her informed. The image of a concerned mentor begins to blur into that of a host who knew when to stoke the fire for maximum impact.
“Of course she’s going to have producers in her ear. She’s going to be kept aware of what’s goings-on in the house, and she comes in and stokes the fire under the guise of a concerned big sis or mentor,” Gibbons said.
Which then begs the questions: Who benefits from this edit and who is sacrificed for ratings? These are not questions many of us asked in 2005 but they are central in 2026.
Beauty standards under a sharper lens
The show’s infamous makeovers once read as iconic television. Today, they often resemble coercion wrapped in glamour. In Cycle 6, Joanie Sprague and Dani Evans were coerced into dental procedures despite Evans drawing a boundary saying she did not want her gap closed, which Banks deemed “not marketable”. Evans later shared she felt pressured to comply to remain in the competition.
Years later, in the docu-series, Banks said she apologised but defended the decision as reflective of industry standards at the time.
Herein lies the unmistakable irony – a show that positioned itself as challenging narrow beauty ideals replicated them.
In a later cycle, Chelsea Hersh was told to widen her gap for a “designer look”. Individuality became conditional, shaped by trends that were deemed profitable at the time.
Similarly, contestants described being underfed and overworked.
While the current fashion industry still privileges thinness, yet 26 years on, there is broader acceptance of healthy and diverse body types. A size six is no longer casually labelled plus size. Being bigger than a size two does not automatically equate to being unhealthy. Conversations around nutrition, mental health and sustainability have entered the mainstream in ways they had not when ANTM first aired.
That shift is not accidental, it is a product of collective critique amplified by social media and audiences who are more informed and less willing to accept harm as entertainment.
Representation without protection
One of the most uncomfortable realisations the documentary surfaces is that diverse leadership does not automatically guarantee ethical treatment. A Black supermodel, a Black runway coach, a queer creative director and an Asian-American producer fronted a show that contestants described as racially insensitive and emotionally harmful.
Keenyah Hill recounted experiencing sexual harassment during a shoot, and when she professionally requested that the shoot be halted due to how uncomfortable it made her feel, she was met with visible disapproval from the production team.
There is something painful about hearing women say they came to the show seeking validation, opportunity and escape from difficult family backgrounds, only to feel exploited instead. The promise of transformation becomes entangled with the cost of exposure.
Ultimately, the documentary does not just revisit a reality show, it reveals how far audiences have evolved. What once felt empowering now demands accountability, reminding us that representation without protection is not progress. Through a sharper lens of media literacy, ANTM becomes less a fairy tale of transformation and more a cautionary tale about power, profit and the real lives caught in between.
However, it is undeniable that while ANTM built its empire at the expense of its contestants, often amplifying drama and vulnerability for entertainment value, it was also pivotal in reshaping mainstream beauty narratives at a time when fashion remained rigid and exclusionary.
By placing women of different backgrounds, body types and personalities in front of a global audience, it inadvertently laid cultural groundwork for the rise of Instagram models who now command visibility and influence on their own terms, across a spectrum of shapes and sizes once sidelined by traditional agencies. But, is this really how we want to be represented?