Spoiler warning: This review contains plot details from the debut episode of season 4.
Meet the Oprah Generation: reared by parents in thrall to Winfrey's brand of showy optimism; now young adults themselves. They believe high self-esteem is a cure-all, vision boards are credible, and every emotion is of general interest. 
"Bed! Bed! Bed! Bed! Bed!" we see Keira shout when she feels sleepy. To be clear, Keira is not three. Rather, she is a contestant on the new season of The Bachelor, Australia's most masterfully edited reality program.
Thirty years ago, TV producers recognised American-style chat shows wouldn't fly here. Aussies were just too reticent. Their children, in contrast, were born as fully formed Bachelor contestants. "I'm Here for the Right Reasons," they tell the camera, talking in perfect soundbites. "But I still have My Walls Up. I've been Hurt In Love Before."
Consider Noni, 25, who designs bikinis that "empower women" somehow. She strolls along the beach looking wistful, plugs her own business, then cooks a bacon sandwich in a tank top, like a Zoo magazine fantasy come to life. In other words, she was born to be on this show.
Then there's Eliza, who sings a song she composed especially for the bachelor - even though she had no idea of his identity until she met him 30 seconds ago.
"Holy smokes!" says Richie Strahan, the eponymous bachelor, after the ordeal. If you look closely, you can see the fishing wire and hooks producers inserted under his top lip, which they tug every time his smile falters.
Where they really excel, though, is in their portrayal of contestants clearly served up as comic relief. Such as Janey, who is allegedly 27 - yet undermines this claim with everything she says and does. Janey's "passions" include herself, glitter, mermaids, unicorns, sunny days and clouds. (No one has the heart to point out these last two might cancel each other out.)
Someone convinces Janey it's a good idea to be shown on national television skipping down the street in a pink tutu. Dear lord, the woman even does cartwheels.
In contrast, Keira is depicted as a Sexy Villain. We know this because whenever she opens her mouth, producers play some saxophone music from the drop-down menu marked "Scheming, Female, Alluring". Think of the soundtrack Catwoman might choose if she were performing a striptease.
These days, no one is shocked at the tricks reality producers use. Rather, the pleasure is in seeing how well they deploy those tricks.
But just as we convince ourselves it's all a laugh - that we're watching with detached irony - Strahan sucks us in with a heart-melting gesture, granting his white rose to single mum Alex. (The white rose has special powers, for those playing along at home. For those who aren't, I fully appreciate the ridiculousness of sentences such as: "The white rose has special powers.")
Of course, Strahan's Hallmark moment with Alex was aided and abetted by thousands of electric candles, plastic flowers and a dramatic orchestral overlay. We acknowledge this; perhaps we even tweet a smart-arse joke ... right after we swallow the lump in our throat. And that only makes us love this show even more.