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The devil's workshop
"Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my credit in this World much wrong:
Have drowned my glory in a shallow Cup,
And sold my Reputation for a Song."
- William Wordsworth
The television ratings juggernaut American Idol came back on the air this week, opening the gold-plated doors of stardom to the kind of aspiring young men and women you mercilessly terrorized in high school. This will be Season No. 7, with the same question on everyone's mind: who will be the next Jordin Sparks?
The season always starts out with the obligatory "audition" episodes, in which cheerfully deluded individuals are paraded before the judges like some kind of deliberately paced carnival freak show,[1] interspersed with Ford commercials.
For many of these contestants, a mere appearance on American Idol will be the crowning achievement of their lifetime: going from being teased by seniors in gym class to being teased by a middle-aged, nominally famous music executive who buys his T-shirts at Baby Gap.
I admit, these particular episodes represent an enthralling form of schadenfreude and are inevitably the show's highest rated, which leads me to believe that some sort of wedgie-based reality program cannot be far on the horizon. I assiduously avoid these audition shows, not just because I am loathe to participate, however removed, in the mass-media humiliation of the mentally ill, but because I might start to think that I could do better.
Or, heaven forbid, some sense of sympathy or curiosity might compel me to watch the actual performance and results episodes. Whereas the audition episodes are merely cruel, the actual competition is offensively dull. It defies my understanding that so many people tune in every week to watch:
- "classic" tunes, performed by amateurs and session musicians,
- Nuggets of Wisdom from washed-up or washed-out pop stars, exchanged for fawning praise from clueless contenders, and
- The cynical and manipulative production values that have been in the reality-television playbook since the first season of Survivor.
The only possible rationale -- outside the rubric of science-fiction -- for the show's enormous success, is that people are so desperate for (1) control over something other than their own excessively ordinary lives and (2) a sense of merit-based but sympathetically weighted Justice that they will trade a few precious hours a week for the illusion that their toll-free votes mean something.
Conventional wisdom suggests that with the ongoing writers' strike having sidelined most scripted programming indefinitely, Idol will attract even more eyeballs and eardrums and its already mammoth ratings will shoot through the roof. Makes sense.
But I'm predicting something else. I think that viewers, tasting newfound freedom from the bonds of their familiar scheduled programming, will find their entertainment in other ways that allow them to dictate their own schedule: literature, theatre, Netflix, Blockbuster. I think that Idol fatigue will finally set in, as the pools of American talent and cover-worthy classic songs become increasingly shallow. And I think that voters' attention will turn to the more meaningful and compelling competition taking place on the nation's political stage.
At this writing, the race for the presidency is now as fascinating and wide-open as it has ever been, with real rock stars, real stakes and 'round-the-clock coverage. The importance and formative power of that contest underscore the idiocy of American Idol's very name.
Since the show is still in its audition phase, it is of course too early to handicap the competition. But after a cursory study of previous finalists, and for the sake of those who may still seek qualification, I offer the following recipe for Idol success:
2 parts callow youth
2 parts hair product
2 parts spray tan
1 part cleavage (women only)
1 part eyeliner (men only)
3 parts creepy, subtextually petrified smile
4 parts vocal skill
8 parts "style"
1 part Celine Dion fetishism
1 part adolescent defiance of conventional social mores
2 parts misplaced revenge against hostile peer group
5 parts latent, lingering parental fulfillment issues
1 part obtrusively fake-sounding name, like "Max Mellotone" or "Princess Von Burbank."
0 parts shame
Have done my credit in this World much wrong:
Have drowned my glory in a shallow Cup,
And sold my Reputation for a Song."
- William Wordsworth
The television ratings juggernaut American Idol came back on the air this week, opening the gold-plated doors of stardom to the kind of aspiring young men and women you mercilessly terrorized in high school. This will be Season No. 7, with the same question on everyone's mind: who will be the next Jordin Sparks?
The season always starts out with the obligatory "audition" episodes, in which cheerfully deluded individuals are paraded before the judges like some kind of deliberately paced carnival freak show,[1] interspersed with Ford commercials.
For many of these contestants, a mere appearance on American Idol will be the crowning achievement of their lifetime: going from being teased by seniors in gym class to being teased by a middle-aged, nominally famous music executive who buys his T-shirts at Baby Gap.
I admit, these particular episodes represent an enthralling form of schadenfreude and are inevitably the show's highest rated, which leads me to believe that some sort of wedgie-based reality program cannot be far on the horizon. I assiduously avoid these audition shows, not just because I am loathe to participate, however removed, in the mass-media humiliation of the mentally ill, but because I might start to think that I could do better.
Or, heaven forbid, some sense of sympathy or curiosity might compel me to watch the actual performance and results episodes. Whereas the audition episodes are merely cruel, the actual competition is offensively dull. It defies my understanding that so many people tune in every week to watch:
- "classic" tunes, performed by amateurs and session musicians,
- Nuggets of Wisdom from washed-up or washed-out pop stars, exchanged for fawning praise from clueless contenders, and
- The cynical and manipulative production values that have been in the reality-television playbook since the first season of Survivor.
The only possible rationale -- outside the rubric of science-fiction -- for the show's enormous success, is that people are so desperate for (1) control over something other than their own excessively ordinary lives and (2) a sense of merit-based but sympathetically weighted Justice that they will trade a few precious hours a week for the illusion that their toll-free votes mean something.
Conventional wisdom suggests that with the ongoing writers' strike having sidelined most scripted programming indefinitely, Idol will attract even more eyeballs and eardrums and its already mammoth ratings will shoot through the roof. Makes sense.
But I'm predicting something else. I think that viewers, tasting newfound freedom from the bonds of their familiar scheduled programming, will find their entertainment in other ways that allow them to dictate their own schedule: literature, theatre, Netflix, Blockbuster. I think that Idol fatigue will finally set in, as the pools of American talent and cover-worthy classic songs become increasingly shallow. And I think that voters' attention will turn to the more meaningful and compelling competition taking place on the nation's political stage.
At this writing, the race for the presidency is now as fascinating and wide-open as it has ever been, with real rock stars, real stakes and 'round-the-clock coverage. The importance and formative power of that contest underscore the idiocy of American Idol's very name.
Since the show is still in its audition phase, it is of course too early to handicap the competition. But after a cursory study of previous finalists, and for the sake of those who may still seek qualification, I offer the following recipe for Idol success:
2 parts callow youth
2 parts hair product
2 parts spray tan
1 part cleavage (women only)
1 part eyeliner (men only)
3 parts creepy, subtextually petrified smile
4 parts vocal skill
8 parts "style"
1 part Celine Dion fetishism
1 part adolescent defiance of conventional social mores
2 parts misplaced revenge against hostile peer group
5 parts latent, lingering parental fulfillment issues
1 part obtrusively fake-sounding name, like "Max Mellotone" or "Princess Von Burbank."
0 parts shame
[1]
I admit that I was a pretty big Paula Abdul fan as a youngster, back in the day when there was only mild doubt about whether a dancer-performer of Paula's ilk was singing her own songs, and some genuine shock that she might not be.
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