Last month saw the Netflix release of Singapore Social. The show follows a cast of semi-famous 20- and 30-somethings in Singapore, including pop singer Tabitha Nauser, burlesque performer Sukki Singapora and fashion influencer Mae Tan, as they attend parties and imbibe fancy drinks at swanky bars.

Together with the other three co-leads – actor-host Paul Foster, blockchain entrepreneur Nicole Ong and YouTuber Vinny Sharp – they flit around their Crazy Rich Asians-esque social spheres.

Local viewers hated it.

Social media was flooded with scathing comments: the cast is vapid, it does not depict Singapore realistically and the leads do not speak Singlish (a blend of Singaporean slang and English).

Of course, anyone who is even vaguely familiar with The Hills, The Kardashians or Real Housewives – part of a subgenre of reality TV that allows viewers to navel gaze at the lifestyles of the privileged – will know that vapidity and conceit is a given. People tune in to gawk at the videogenic casts’ #richpeopleproblems, designer wardrobes and bitchy comments about each other.

[Spoiler alert: Some plot developments are revealed from this point.]



It is curious why they would expect this show to reflect the average person’s life in Singapore – there are plenty of documentaries for that already.

That said, the show does offer the audience insights into a more local lifestyle.

The cast do hyperlocal things like visit fortune-tellers, go prawning (fishing for prawns in man-made ponds) and even partake in that great leveller of social class in Singapore – feasting on street fare in a humid hawker centre.

Let’s set the record straight on one other thing, too – not everybody speaks Singlish. In a country with some of the most well-educated and widely travelled people in the world, it is also certainly not unusual to hear a mishmash of different accents in a single place. This the show depicts remarkably well.

Like many viewers, I tuned in out of curiosity. Perhaps it was because I have met most of the cast members – at least peripherally – in my line of work as a journalist, but I soldiered on despite the admittedly cringeworthy first 15 minutes.
Surprisingly, I realised the show is not that bad.

Behind the superficial gloss and slick production values, the eight-part series astutely shines a light on societal and family pressures in Singapore, and Asia by extension.

Any millennial who has dealt with relatives disapproving of their life choices will identify with the awkward Lunar New Year reunion dinner scene at Ong’s home. Ong’s mother essentially labels her the black sheep of the family. “She never [does] things the normal way,” her mother says. The hurt in Ong’s reaction is unmistakable – unscripted and highly relatable. I speak from experience when I say I recognise that look.

Then, in what I presume is a misguided attempt to defuse the tension, her male cousin jumps in to mansplain the situation. “What a time to be chasing a professional career as a woman in Singapore. Any other given point in time you’d be having so much more ceilings … and prejudice,” he says. No cousin, women are not going to shut up just because things are “better” than they used to be.

Ingrained prejudices are also revealed, particularly when the cast members get into discussions with their parents about their choice of romantic partners. When Tan asks her mother what will happen if she gets an ang moh or white boyfriend, the latter balks and half-jokingly tells Tan not to ask her for money should that happen. (It is a common stereotype in Asia that white men are less hard-working.)

Tan, who is the creative manager for multi-label fashion boutique Surrender in Singapore, has this feisty rejoinder: “I can earn my own money.”

Even Foster, who is seen as having a close relationship with his mother, can’t escape parental censure. After he moves in with his girlfriend, his mother hints that, at the age of 35, his partner could be too old to give birth. He makes a joke in reply but I wish he had instead said he chose his partner for reasons other than her childbearing abilities.

What I found to be most revealing is how unforgiving people can be. Singapora – who seems to have drawn the short end of the stick with her portrayal as a gossip monger – can’t catch a break for her idea of melding burlesque with hip-hop.

After Singapora’s big performance, four of her so-called friends get together to diss her efforts. Four creatives pulling a Mean Girls act on another artist is nothing short of cruel, and serves mostly to reveal their own insecurities. It does not take a lot to notice this scene is being played out in real life, too, with many haters gleefully pronouncing their disdain for the show and trash-talking the cast.

I cannot help but wonder, is the Singapore audience reacting so strongly because they see parts of their preconceived notions and world views reflected in this “unrealistic” show?

Viewers claim not to identify with the cast, but there is a good chance some of these issues have struck a raw nerve that people are uncomfortable addressing out in the open. Maybe that’s why so many of them are hate-watching this series.