By Olivia Crandall

Let’s get something out of the way — Terrace House is boring. The Japanese reality show, which just premiered its latest season to U.S. audiences on Netflix, is consistently pitched as a placid departure from the drink-throwing, women-screaming, high-energy riff raff that defines American reality TV. Instead, Terrace House focuses on three female and three male strangers living together, mostly in polite tranquility, all while more or less continuing their normal lives. They go to work (or whatever you want to call parkour practice), they hang out with non-cast pals, and most interestingly, they use their cell phones. In a reality TV landscape where phones are usually forbidden, their inclusion is a key part in onscreen narrative.

It also raises questions: Do phones make Terrace House the realest reality show? Are they the reason everyone is so nice? Would the harmony viewers adore quickly fall apart without unlimited data and an ample charge?

From the very first episode, the LTE coverage is strong. As the six housemates enter one by one, they use their phones to define themselves to others. Kenji, a musician, asks Kaori about her work as a fashion illustrator, and she has her entire Instagram to modestly show off. No one would expect the petite actress Haruka would be “really into cars,” but her camera roll is an extensive catalog of Corvette images, which makes quite the impression on the youngest housemate, Ruka, as he becomes obsessed with purchasing a Harley shorter thereafter.

Beyond practical purposes, the constant connectivity sets Terrace House apart in that it allows the cast to seemingly continue their normal lives. Shohei, an actor and writer, is frequently seen using his laptop at the dining table as he writes and edits articles. However, it’s not just about work — all of the housemates engage in the mundane digital habits consistent with non-televised life, from recording concert footage to leaving each other “on read” to regretting not taking a photo before an extra delicious okonomiyaki dinner.

Like most millennials, the housemates also use their phones as anti-anxiety agents. Unlike a show like The Bachelor, they are able to hide behind a screen anytime uneasiness strikes. They scroll and swipe to fill awkward gaps in coexistence, as well as to appear nonchalant. Haruka uses this phone-as-safeguard method repeatedly, asking Shohei, Kenji, and Ruka each on dates all while keeping her eyes glued to her screen. In this case, her phone is more than a security blanket, but the ultimate armor — for would a rejection truly count as such if she didn’t even care enough to look her crush in the eye during a vulnerable moment?

As the season progresses, viewers see that the housemates’ phones serve as more than just digital props. Their constant access to the internet not only keeps them abreast of what’s going on in the world, but it also informs their relationships with each other. In Episode 9, “Girlfight,” Haruka and personal trainer Risako get into a fight about their mutual crush, Kenji, that quickly escalates into what can only be described as a brawl by Terrace House standards. The situation ultimately ends with both housemates accusing each other of manipulating the way they are perceived to viewers, portraying versions of themselves that are less than real.

The fallout from this fight continues further in the same way arguments can often play out in real life. Several episodes later, Kenji tells Kaori that he was reading online message boards (shoutout r/terracehouse?) and that the internet has discovered Haruka and Risako no longer follow each other on Instagram. This news spreads quickly throughout the house and ends with Haruka confessing to Risako that she meant to mute her, but accidentally blocked her. Although according to Haruka, “It’s just social media, and I don’t care about the is-she-or-isn’t-she-following-me drama,” it is apparent that not only does she care, but everyone else does as well. The world of our screens isn’t separate, and this multi-episode conflict arc serving as the climax for the entire season is only further evidence that our digital selves are not merely avatars. Rather, the business we conduct online is part of who we are in real life, even if — and especially if — that “real life” is being filmed for the masses.

The screen-within-a-screen situation gets even more complex when it comes to Terrace House’s unique format. American viewers may at first find the panel of six commentators strange, but their role as philosophers, comics, and even audience stand-ins is not to be taken lightly. Each time the cameras cut back to the panel watching the show on set, we are met with jokes and theories, a physical representation of our inner thoughts. They too are watching the absurdity play out on screen, and even if the housemates’ reality may not be entirely real — be it “scripted,” produced, or at the very least, edited extensively — at least the panelists must be? Their knee-jerk reactions and strange tangents ground us and dish up a hearty dose of validation that “even if this were a joke, we’d all be in it together.”

Since each season of the show can last months (and often years), with the original six houseguests leaving and being replaced as time goes on, the technology permittance means that things get meta very quickly. In Episode 6, “The Grass is Greener on the Other Side,” we see the housemates gather in the playroom, phones in hand, to watch their own season premiere together. They groan and cringe, jokingly shout “make it stop,” and most importantly, get extensive feedback on themselves — through not only the manner in which they are edited, but also the reactions of their co-stars on screen as well as in that very moment on the couch. Since the premiere is streamed live, they also are able to see both the reactions of the entire internet and all of their other friends immediately from their second screens.

The way Terrace House wholeheartedly embraces a seamless technology experience for its cast is a cornerstone of what makes the show so beloved. Perhaps the housemates are overwhelmingly kind to each other because the mere presence of phones quells their anxiety and keeps real life at their fingertips, grounding them in their “real, offscreen” selves. The show’s notorious tranquility may be a byproduct of that comfortable stasis, but it certainly doesn’t hurt that the housemates receive near-constant feedback from the digital panopticon, harshly criticizing them for any behavior deemed “not nice” or even “not real.” As we collectively continue to blur the line between our physical and digital realities, the Terrace House format seems to be laying the groundwork for a new era in reality TV — one that may even cause us as viewers to reckon with the way we present ourselves across our collection of screens. Ultimately, phones splinter our sense of selves into a messy pile of data, somehow equal parts performance and truth. And whether we like it or not, that nonstop connectivity remains intrinsically tied to our reality, and may just be what makes us human. Now if only someone would tell Chris Harrison.