I like Paula Abdul, I really do. I mean, who doesn’t? Between the irresistible hooks of her hits from the ‘80s, and her consistently positive attitude on “American Idol,” she’s hard not to like. Nevertheless, due to her increasingly bizarre on-air behavior, Abdul’s received more than her share of bad press recently. So it’s no surprise that her team greenlit a reality show about her life, in order to show the “truth” behind the whispers. The only problem is that Bravo’s resulting “Hey Paula” does little to serve that purpose.
Keep in mind that the primary appeal of the celebrity reality show is the chance for fans to gain insight into who the celebrity truly is behind the public façade. However with the premiere episode of “Hey Paula,” most of Abdul’s dialogue seems to have been written for her (“I’m just like everyone else, I have good days and bad days,”) even her jokes, (“The last time I had a hit record, Bill and Hillary were having sex.”) Instead of showing viewers her reality, the show has Abdul playing to the camera, such as in a segment where she walks the streets in a Valentino gown, looking for her purportedly “lost” limo as fans call out to her. Or when she summons her maid into the room for a hug and kiss and tells her that she loves her. Of course, with any “reality” show, a fair portion of what airs is at least somewhat scripted, but when the action is so obviously made-to-order, it gets tiresome.
During the rare moments when the show doesn’t appear to be overly fabricated, Abdul is painted as a hard-working, dramatic diva, who’s kind to her fans, and tough on her well-meaning but disorganized assistants. A fair amount of the first episode is spent detailing the drama around her assistants’ unacceptable packing job for a flight to Philadelphia. Abdul is flying there for a 1:00 a.m. appearance on QVC to hawk her jewelry collection, and she needs to sleep. In order to do so, she requires comfortable sweat pants and white tennis shoes. Unfortunately, the assistants have packed tight jeans and black tennis shoes, resulting in an exasperated Abdul asking, “Why these pants?” She then directs a frustrated “Can you freakin’ believe this?” to the camera. Once at QVC, Abdul is unsatisfied with the jewelry designs, as they don’t match the examples she was shown earlier. “This is exhausting,” she tells the camera. Yeah. Life is hard.
But okay, let’s give Paula a break. She’s a celebrity, and, like most, she has a team of sycophants praising her every move. So I can excuse some diva-like behavior, because she probably knows nothing else. However, what I can’t excuse is a boring reality show, which is what we have here. Besides the riveting packing drama, the most interesting moment of the premiere is when one of Abdul’s four Chihuahuas almost makes off with a diamond ring in its mouth. (I’m sure the jeweler who lent the piece really enjoyed that bit.) Almost comically, during the commercial breaks, Bravo plugged special unseen footage of “personal Paula moments.” These turned out to be literally yawn-inducing. Let’s watch Paula jokingly complain to the cameraman in the limo that he’s shaking the camera. Fascinating. Can I re-watch that on the Bravo web site?
Overall, “Hey Paula” is a show that had a tremendous amount of potential. A likeable public figure that fans are curious about is ideal reality show fodder. However, when the scenarios that are chosen for air are super-dull, and unguarded moments are few and far between, straight up I’ve got to tell you this doesn’t make the grade.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
The Surreal Life Fame Games – Who Needs Work?
“Saturday Night Live” once featured a brilliant cartoon entitled “The New Adventures of Mr. T.” The animated short followed the tough-guy pop icon as he forced himself on casting directors in order to obtain wildly inappropriate acting jobs. As he demanded roles in classical theatre and feminine hygiene commercials, Mr. T would bark with his trademark gruffness, “I need work!”
Apparently, the cast members of VH1’s “The Surreal Life Fame Games” share the same desperate sentiment. The show features participants from previous seasons of the network’s throw-ten-minor-celebrities-in-a-house-for-two-weeks-and-watch-the-hilarity-ensue series “The Surreal Life.” This time, though, the cast members are tasked with a job that goes beyond sitting in a fishbowl – they’re competing for cash.
One wonders if the celebs were aware of the type of humiliation they’d be subject to when they accepted this gig. The show’s goal is to “strip their A-List privileges and self-esteem.” Hmm. While I’d certainly laugh at Paris Hilton being taken down a few pegs, when the person being demoralized is Mini Me, well, it’s not so funny. In fact, it’s pretty depressing.
Those subjecting themselves to the producers’ unique brand of torture include Rob Van Winkle, a.k.a. Vanilla Ice, Poison guitarist CC Deville, and porn star Ron Jeremy. Actress Brigitte Nielsen and former wrestler Joanie “Chyna Doll” Laurer form an Amazonian alliance, as do, on the opposite end of the height spectrum, Emmanuel Lewis from “Webster” and Verne Troyer from “Austin Powers.” Robin Leach, still blathering on about champagne wishes and caviar dreams, is thrown in as host for good measure.
In the premiere episode, the entire cast is part of the “A-List,” living together in a posh Las Vegas mansion. Through a series of contests, the “B-Listers” are weeded out and exiled to a part of the house that resembles a cheap motel room. A velvet rope prevents them from entering the fashionable side of the mansion – they may only gain admittance by ringing a doorbell. A bit degrading, sure, but this is strictly made-for-tv action. What seems to create a genuine level of discomfort, both for the cast and the viewer, are the contests themselves.
The “Fan Photo Challenge” placed the celebrities in a crowd with embarrassing “hello, my name is…” signs set up next to them. A tally was then kept of the number of fan photo requests received. CC Deville described the humiliation, commenting, “No one has asked for my picture – it was awful.” He later noted, “I’m a big star in my head…in reality, not so big.” Chyna Doll, the lowest vote-getter, cried, saying, “I’m a bottom-feeder” – the show’s charming term for the bottom three finishers. (In case you’re curious who won this little exercise, it was Rob Van Winkle all the way. Word to your mother.)
Of course, all this talk about A-List and B-List is a little ridiculous given the people involved. Realistically, the cast members would be lucky to call themselves C-List – I mean, none of these folks are getting into Hyde. (Ok, maybe Ron Jeremy is.) They’ve all rightfully earned their share of fame through their work, but, at this point, they exist in a kind of celebrity purgatory, caught between “oh my God, it’s…” and “hey, didn’t you used to be…?” I don’t mean to insult them; however, this show does. While you certainly can’t fault them for continuing Mr. T’s eternal quest to find work, degradation and humiliation is not entertainment.
Unless, of course, they actually get Mr. T next season. I pity the fool who doesn’t want a photo with him.
Apparently, the cast members of VH1’s “The Surreal Life Fame Games” share the same desperate sentiment. The show features participants from previous seasons of the network’s throw-ten-minor-celebrities-in-a-house-for-two-weeks-and-watch-the-hilarity-ensue series “The Surreal Life.” This time, though, the cast members are tasked with a job that goes beyond sitting in a fishbowl – they’re competing for cash.
One wonders if the celebs were aware of the type of humiliation they’d be subject to when they accepted this gig. The show’s goal is to “strip their A-List privileges and self-esteem.” Hmm. While I’d certainly laugh at Paris Hilton being taken down a few pegs, when the person being demoralized is Mini Me, well, it’s not so funny. In fact, it’s pretty depressing.
Those subjecting themselves to the producers’ unique brand of torture include Rob Van Winkle, a.k.a. Vanilla Ice, Poison guitarist CC Deville, and porn star Ron Jeremy. Actress Brigitte Nielsen and former wrestler Joanie “Chyna Doll” Laurer form an Amazonian alliance, as do, on the opposite end of the height spectrum, Emmanuel Lewis from “Webster” and Verne Troyer from “Austin Powers.” Robin Leach, still blathering on about champagne wishes and caviar dreams, is thrown in as host for good measure.
In the premiere episode, the entire cast is part of the “A-List,” living together in a posh Las Vegas mansion. Through a series of contests, the “B-Listers” are weeded out and exiled to a part of the house that resembles a cheap motel room. A velvet rope prevents them from entering the fashionable side of the mansion – they may only gain admittance by ringing a doorbell. A bit degrading, sure, but this is strictly made-for-tv action. What seems to create a genuine level of discomfort, both for the cast and the viewer, are the contests themselves.
The “Fan Photo Challenge” placed the celebrities in a crowd with embarrassing “hello, my name is…” signs set up next to them. A tally was then kept of the number of fan photo requests received. CC Deville described the humiliation, commenting, “No one has asked for my picture – it was awful.” He later noted, “I’m a big star in my head…in reality, not so big.” Chyna Doll, the lowest vote-getter, cried, saying, “I’m a bottom-feeder” – the show’s charming term for the bottom three finishers. (In case you’re curious who won this little exercise, it was Rob Van Winkle all the way. Word to your mother.)
Of course, all this talk about A-List and B-List is a little ridiculous given the people involved. Realistically, the cast members would be lucky to call themselves C-List – I mean, none of these folks are getting into Hyde. (Ok, maybe Ron Jeremy is.) They’ve all rightfully earned their share of fame through their work, but, at this point, they exist in a kind of celebrity purgatory, caught between “oh my God, it’s…” and “hey, didn’t you used to be…?” I don’t mean to insult them; however, this show does. While you certainly can’t fault them for continuing Mr. T’s eternal quest to find work, degradation and humiliation is not entertainment.
Unless, of course, they actually get Mr. T next season. I pity the fool who doesn’t want a photo with him.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Dirty Dancing, the Reality Show: Nobody Puts Cris Judd in a Corner
As part of a misguided attempt to fulfill the promise of their network’s name, WE: Women’s Entertainment is now offering viewers a little reality show gem called “Dirty Dancing.” Of course, if they really wanted to provide women’s entertainment, they would have done better to eschew all other programming and simply play the film “Dirty Dancing” on a constant loop. (Fall schedule, done.)
The show’s concept is rather questionable. A group of women, who presumably ended up here after not making the final casting cut for “The Bachelor,” are pitted against each other in order to win “The Dirty Dancing Championship.” Although none are professional dancers, the grand prize entails a vague-sounding promise of a dance contract, as well as a trip for two to the London premiere of “Dirty Dancing: The Musical.” Which sounds awesome, as I’d wager we’ll now finally get to see the fully choreographed interpretive dance that “She’s Like The Wind” has always demanded.
In the premiere episode, we are introduced to host Cris Judd, professional dancer and Jennifer Lopez ex-husband number two. Now, if you think I’m going to rip on the man best known for being the guy J-Lo abandoned for Ben Affleck, think again. I am a card-carrying Cris Judd fan, thanks to a little show called “I’m A Celebrity — Get Me Out of Here!” which aired on ABC in 2003. The show featured a group of D-list celebrities sent to live in the Australian rainforest for a few weeks, without the benefit of shelter or publicists. During his time on camera, Judd came off as one hell of a great guy – kind, strong, courageous, and handsome — the stuff Harlequin romance heroes are made of. Watching fellow cast member Melissa Rivers practically ovulate every time he approached her was one of the highlights of the show. At the end, Judd emerged victorious and proved to be the last celebrity standing, winning the hearts and votes of the show’s five viewers.
So, I’m thrilled that Judd is back on my television, even if it is under the auspices of this rather dopey show. One of his first duties is to assemble the contestants and introduce them to their six male “instructors,” who will ideally partner with them as naturally as Johnny did with Baby. Nothing unusual here — we meet Artem, the token hot Russian required by the FCC on every reality dance show — his style, we learn is the cha cha. Jonathan, a tango specialist who resembles a more hirsute Kevin Federline, informs us, “I look at these girls (as) more than just dancers, I look at them as human beings.”
Judd then asks the girls to warm up and demonstrate their mad skillz for the guys. Mayhem ensues, as the contestants crowd around the six male dancers, having been encouraged to cut in on the other women whenever possible. It’s a big, incoherent mess. In the middle of it, instructor Ryan tells the camera exactly what he was hoping to gain from the exercise, noting, “I was really looking for the girls who wanted to dance up on me.”
Next, it’s time for some cuts to be made. Judd does the job stoically, identifying the contestants who will continue on with a brief, “Melanie, please stay.” What, no giant clocks or roses to hand out? What kind of budget does this show have, anyway? That question was answered when I more closely noticed the setting for all the action — a sparsely forested camp of sorts. In certain shots, pedestrian and car traffic are visible in the background. The idea is that the contestants are supposed to be at “dirty dancing boot camp.” In any case, Kellerman’s, it ain’t.
After the eliminations, the lucky remaining girls are sent to check out their bunks. They of course provide the obligatory squeals of delight at the sight of their lodgings, which appear to border on the level of a two-star bed and breakfast. Then, they gather together to receive instruction from a Maybelline makeup artist, who, after talking for a while about the concept of metamorphosis, reassures the audience at home that “we’re not here to paint the butterfly.” Good to know.
The final scene of the episode takes us to a barn on the campgrounds. Judd, clad adorably in a buttery leather jacket, tells the contestants they’re going to “freestyle” for the guys, once again giving them the opportunity to thoroughly embarrass themselves. Now, I’ve got to give these women kudos for being willing to put it all out there without the aid of alcohol or dark of night. Accordingly, I’m not going to comment on their dancing skills. Let’s just say that although some of the women demonstrate ability, during this segment there was a fair amount of wincing coming from the general vicinity of my couch.
After the freestyling bit (thankfully, no one got served), the six instructors each pick three contestants to train on an individual basis. One of the three will ultimately become “Baby” to her respective teacher’s “Johnny” in the final round of competition. I’m not exactly sure what form the final dance contest will take; however, I fully expect the phrase “spaghetti arms” to be tossed around freely during the rehearsal footage montages.
While I realize that “Dirty Dancing,” the reality show, unlike “Dirty Dancing,” the movie, is not going to provide me with the time of my life, I’ll probably keep watching. Mostly because I’m hoping that Cris Judd is going to throw on some Johnny Castle pants and enter the fray.
The show’s concept is rather questionable. A group of women, who presumably ended up here after not making the final casting cut for “The Bachelor,” are pitted against each other in order to win “The Dirty Dancing Championship.” Although none are professional dancers, the grand prize entails a vague-sounding promise of a dance contract, as well as a trip for two to the London premiere of “Dirty Dancing: The Musical.” Which sounds awesome, as I’d wager we’ll now finally get to see the fully choreographed interpretive dance that “She’s Like The Wind” has always demanded.
In the premiere episode, we are introduced to host Cris Judd, professional dancer and Jennifer Lopez ex-husband number two. Now, if you think I’m going to rip on the man best known for being the guy J-Lo abandoned for Ben Affleck, think again. I am a card-carrying Cris Judd fan, thanks to a little show called “I’m A Celebrity — Get Me Out of Here!” which aired on ABC in 2003. The show featured a group of D-list celebrities sent to live in the Australian rainforest for a few weeks, without the benefit of shelter or publicists. During his time on camera, Judd came off as one hell of a great guy – kind, strong, courageous, and handsome — the stuff Harlequin romance heroes are made of. Watching fellow cast member Melissa Rivers practically ovulate every time he approached her was one of the highlights of the show. At the end, Judd emerged victorious and proved to be the last celebrity standing, winning the hearts and votes of the show’s five viewers.
So, I’m thrilled that Judd is back on my television, even if it is under the auspices of this rather dopey show. One of his first duties is to assemble the contestants and introduce them to their six male “instructors,” who will ideally partner with them as naturally as Johnny did with Baby. Nothing unusual here — we meet Artem, the token hot Russian required by the FCC on every reality dance show — his style, we learn is the cha cha. Jonathan, a tango specialist who resembles a more hirsute Kevin Federline, informs us, “I look at these girls (as) more than just dancers, I look at them as human beings.”
Judd then asks the girls to warm up and demonstrate their mad skillz for the guys. Mayhem ensues, as the contestants crowd around the six male dancers, having been encouraged to cut in on the other women whenever possible. It’s a big, incoherent mess. In the middle of it, instructor Ryan tells the camera exactly what he was hoping to gain from the exercise, noting, “I was really looking for the girls who wanted to dance up on me.”
Next, it’s time for some cuts to be made. Judd does the job stoically, identifying the contestants who will continue on with a brief, “Melanie, please stay.” What, no giant clocks or roses to hand out? What kind of budget does this show have, anyway? That question was answered when I more closely noticed the setting for all the action — a sparsely forested camp of sorts. In certain shots, pedestrian and car traffic are visible in the background. The idea is that the contestants are supposed to be at “dirty dancing boot camp.” In any case, Kellerman’s, it ain’t.
After the eliminations, the lucky remaining girls are sent to check out their bunks. They of course provide the obligatory squeals of delight at the sight of their lodgings, which appear to border on the level of a two-star bed and breakfast. Then, they gather together to receive instruction from a Maybelline makeup artist, who, after talking for a while about the concept of metamorphosis, reassures the audience at home that “we’re not here to paint the butterfly.” Good to know.
The final scene of the episode takes us to a barn on the campgrounds. Judd, clad adorably in a buttery leather jacket, tells the contestants they’re going to “freestyle” for the guys, once again giving them the opportunity to thoroughly embarrass themselves. Now, I’ve got to give these women kudos for being willing to put it all out there without the aid of alcohol or dark of night. Accordingly, I’m not going to comment on their dancing skills. Let’s just say that although some of the women demonstrate ability, during this segment there was a fair amount of wincing coming from the general vicinity of my couch.
After the freestyling bit (thankfully, no one got served), the six instructors each pick three contestants to train on an individual basis. One of the three will ultimately become “Baby” to her respective teacher’s “Johnny” in the final round of competition. I’m not exactly sure what form the final dance contest will take; however, I fully expect the phrase “spaghetti arms” to be tossed around freely during the rehearsal footage montages.
While I realize that “Dirty Dancing,” the reality show, unlike “Dirty Dancing,” the movie, is not going to provide me with the time of my life, I’ll probably keep watching. Mostly because I’m hoping that Cris Judd is going to throw on some Johnny Castle pants and enter the fray.
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