Bravo’s fame monsters are turning on Dr. Frankenstein

The sun has set on another BravoCon — a Las Vegas weekend of glamorous Bravolebrities and their onstage confessionals.

But it should have been called TragiCon.

Shannon Beador talking about her DUI arrest. Teresa Giudice shooting down the idea of reconciling with her brother. Kyle Richards crying over the breakdown of her marriage.

All typical, and yet this year’s glitzy fan experience was also staged under the pall of a “reality reckoning.”

It all started in August, when former “Real Housewives of New York City” cast member Bethenny Frankel called for reality stars to unionize in a fight against what she has positioned as Bravoa’s mistreatment and exploitation of talent — a theme that was hammered home in a recent Vanity Fair article.

The magazine spoke with insiders who allege racism and manipulation from producers to pursue feud-fueling storylines. There are also allegations of castmates being plied with booze as the gasoline that kept the monster truck going.

Former “New York” housewife Leah McSweeney told Vanity Fair she relapsed in her addiction right before her first season; when she tried to downplay it for the cameras, she claimed, a showrunner warned her, “This s–t is boring as hell” and “You better turn it up.”

So she did, getting so drunk that she stripped down to her thong and threw a lit tiki torch: “Hurricane Leah.” A source told Page Six that McSweeney plans to sue over her treatment.

“She wants a trial. She wants [Bravo execs] in front of a jury,” the source said.

And yet Andy Cohen, the genius behind Bravo’s reality empire, has brushed it off.

“I live in the joy that these shows bring people, and that’s the place that I’m at,” he blithely said at BravoCon when asked about the “reckoning.”

But how did Cohen not see this coming?

He is, after all, the Dr. Frankenstein of reality television — the father of an army of fame-hungry monsters who have now returned to torment their creator.

Cohen doped his monsters up on televised pugilism, rewarded them for bad behavior, and seemingly thought that he would always have his hand on the switch.

Why? Because his creations were so hungry for fame and validation.

Well fed, the Bravolebrities have grown infinitely stronger. They have their own popular podcasts, successful product lines and, yes, their own voices — and they’re not afraid to use them.

(Frankel, who sold her Skinny Girl food and alcohol brand for a reported $100 million, has 3.3 million instagram followers — a million more than Bravo.)

It’s far different from the 2006 advent of “Real Housewives,” which started in Orange County, California. Before social media blurred our unique regional quirks, it was a revelation: a voyeuristic peek into a fancy gated community of female status hunters in pursuit of materialism.

The successful formula quickly expanded to New York, where we met a gaggle of monied, striving Upper East Siders who were fourth-string benchwarmers in the Big Apple socialite scene. Then came the fabulous cast of Atlanta — self-appointed machers in Hollywood of the South — and, of course, New Jersey’s fiery Italian Americans.

With their specific aesthetics and colloquial offerings, the originals made up a fascinating sociological project complete with catchy tag lines.

It was a delicious guilty pleasure of defining pop-culture moments. Who will ever forget table-flipping Teresa Giudice screaming “Prostitution whore!” or NeNe Leakes ordering “Close your legs to married men”?

The one thing all these unique entities had in common? A thirst for fame.

As the universe grew to include “Vanderpump Rules,” “Southern Charm” and my personal favorite, “Below Deck,” we witnessed each cast member’s progression from civilian to Cohen’s ideal Bravo archetype: new hair, new cheeks, new boobs and, sometimes, a whole new face. And most definitely a new attitude.

The network became their business with their paychecks and status dictated by their willingness to behave boldly — and badly.

They suffered for their art: stints in federal prison, family feuds, divorces, vicious (and, often, drunken) cat fights.

Cast members who didn’t maximize their personal drama were systematically swept away by reason of sanity.

One anonymous housewife told Vanity Fair how, as a child, she had written in her diary that she hoped to achieve “public recognition” — maybe on “Jeopardy.”

Instead, Bravo quenched her thirst and made her crave more at the same time.

“Have I been put through the wringer? A hundred percent,” she said. “Still better than my worst day withering away at a life of quiet desperation.”

Those are the people Cohen has recruited. And he figured he could keep their egos on a leash? Ha!

None of these stars are victims, of course. Craven and willing participants, they’ve maximized their deal with Frankenstein — and now they want a refund.

Maybe reality television, like other industries, is simply growing out of its Wild West phase and facing regulation.

But the reckoning will continue.

Live by reality television, die by reality television — that goes for its almighty creator as well.