Oh, man. I meant to tell you this a couple of weeks ago, but The Princess Diaries II: A Royal Engagement is maybe the worst movie I've ever seen. EVER. I say this because they're replaying the Kelly SNL this weekend, and I know she's going to sing that song, and I think that song is lovely passable pop, and that, combined with the fact that The Princess Diaries is one of the coolest movies ever, lulled me into a false sense of safety that was rudely ripped away from me when I finally saw the sequel. Scared me so bad I can't see the Sandra Bullock sequel to which we lovingly and secretively refer as M.C. Deuce. Like, ever. On the other hand, The Amityville Horror is utterly frightening, and includes a disconcerting/distracting amount of half-naked Billy from Fifteen to really be what's properly called a "horror" movie, so it's unsettling on like every level, because of the complexity and contradictory input you get watching it. This whole mixed-up fight/flight/get phone number impulse, which pretty much covers the spectrum of that which we, as mammals, are capable, so it's overwhelming. Lauren Vaughn is, additionally, hot as hell, which is a total shocker, because I was pretty sure she needed to shut up.
Tuesday Afternoon Bonus Recap
Dr. Phil and his confusing son take on cyber-bullying, which is a new kind of bullying where you suck so bad that even if you don't leave the house, they still bully you by sending you mean emails, and this is the problem. Thanks, technology. The issue is not, apparently, that you let it get to you -- like a TWoP staffer would know anything about getting mean emails every day -- but that these people are sending you mean emails. That's it. I don't think this is a problem that can be so much solved, without letting Rumsfeld all up in my inbox, other than pointing out to the kids involved that it's dumb to care about some bullshit poorly-spelled illiterate email that arrives in dork-speak. (Ooh, ::ph34r::) Or a gaywad mean online journal that you go looking for so you can feel bad and victimized. Or, um, alternately, awesome about yourself, because those people are idiots. Because by the same token and to the same degree, all the spam emails that imply my genitalia are either wrongly-sized or inoperable are a hate crime. When in fact, they're just wrong: you're probably not completely sucky. Get a junk filter, because the problem isn't mean email, the problem is that you care, and that's something we can deal with.
Dr. Phil HATES cyber-bullies. And even though his son was clearly a bully back in the day -- and Dr. Phil? Not a really, really thick line there either -- they team up to yell at kids who have been cyber-bullied and yell them into not getting bullied anymore. That part was boring, and also, the victims of the bullying seem to kind of beg to be cyber-bullied, so I kind of am. It pisses me off that it hurts these kids so much, but what pisses me off is not that the people are being assholes, necessarily, but that we haven't given these kids the tools or the strength to get beyond it. Email is one step less impressive than actual paper, and sending shitty, pointless emails is like the most cowardly, ridiculous thing you can do to get someone's attention, and it's pathetic, but whatever. The kids feel bad, and I hate that, because it's possible to immunize against this without regard to any outside agency, like the bullies themselves.
“ Teenagers are, for good reason, the most narcissistic, self-obsessed people on the planet, and honestly, the world is actually ending when this shit happens, and we've all forgotten how to speak that language. Can't explain red to a dog, can't explain getting over it to a kid. ”
And that's where Clay Aiken comes in, not unlike a Superman. Phil rounds up all the extant cyber-victims and plays a nice little clip set about Clay Aiken and his life of being bullied and "Invisible" and Measure of a Manned. I don't think I'll freak you out when I say that it is not a huge shock to me that he was somewhat bullied before his mind-blowing rocket-ride to stardom. He's wearing very semiotic clothing: cute sport jacket, ringer color-blocked sweater, dirty jeans, and used sneakers. Dr. Phil loves his book, I mean really loves it, and then Clay talks really fast about how there's not a person who didn't hate middle school. The bottom third refers to him as "pop star who was bullied in school," and I'm a nice guy but that made me laugh. Dr. Phil's confusing child is wearing tattered bell bottoms and looks desperately uncomfortable.
Clay's a really good interpersonal speaker -- good eye contact, good reading of body language -- especially with kids, but these particular downtrodden kids seem to have just realized that, whatever Clay's strengths and talents, being onstage with him is pretty much going to cause them more cyber-bullying than they ever imagined possible. There's a distinct bad-idea-oh-my-God vibe hanging around them, and, like, their lives are hard enough. Everything he's saying is not only true but pretty insightful, but it doesn't matter. They can't even hear him because they're processing so much stuff at once. Put a kid onstage in front of a billion people and try to get through to them. Won't happen. This close to Passover I start thinking a lot about what I can do to keep the bad guys from showing up, you know? And being on daytime TV talking about how I'm desperately uncool, with Clay Aiken at my side, is just more horseradish than one maladjusted preteen can handle.
Clay Aiken is a smart guy and I like him, and he talks good game about "not caring what people think" and "being who you are." And I wish him luck with that continued undertaking. He lists all the -- frankly very excellent -- reasons that he was picked on in junior high, refers several times to "as Dr. Phil said" and smiles delightfully and points out that children don't really care to hear about that stuff, because their identities are not formed yet, so when they figure it out, it will cease to be an issue, but Clay knows it, and that it comes with time. Which: zero sum, dude. Mostly I think he's so over it that he's just like any other adult, if the kids even know who the hell he is, and if they do, I doubt they identify. It's troubling, because I know he cares and I know he really wants to communicate the whole "it's going to be okay later because being a teenager is stupid" to which every conversation always resolves down, in the end, when you're talking to a freaked-out kid. And it has the same effect, which is: none at all, because teenagers are, for good reason, the most narcissistic, self-obsessed people on the planet, and honestly, the world is actually ending when this shit happens, and we've all forgotten how to speak that language. Can't explain red to a dog, can't explain getting over it to a kid. It goes in the "good advice, has nothing to do with me" category that all adult-talk really ends up being. Mwah-mwah, Mwah-mwah-mah-mwahma-mwah. Dr. Phil and Jay have created an "anti-bullying pledge" that I'm sure will make a difference in the hideous deadly jungle of middle school politics. Thanks, Phil. Thanks, Jay. Thanks for pretty much trying, Clay. You're sweet as pie, and well-intentioned.
“ Welcome to the '70s, and I'll see you at Studio 54. I'll be the one wearing Mag Wildwood as a backpack. ”
Tuesday Night
I wanna see Anwar and Clay do a duet of "Ebony and Ivory," because all my high school eschatology research would actually come into play at that point.
Ryan's looking kind of dissipated, but in a nice way. His hair is product-free and shorter, his pants are well-fitting. I am reminded that the aphorism for this week is "pretty gay (Brandon Flowers, Franz Ferdinand) is the new ailing (Julian Casablancas, Jack White)." Tonight, he tells us, we will "play music mogul," kind of like that game where you build a thrill-ride park, and calls this "Club Idol." Ouch. He blames us once again for Nadia's ouster, and reminds us that Bo (huge freaked-out cheering) and Scott (a "woo!" here and there) were endangered last week.
Last fake week, the kids are weirded out and Anthony looks like a house boy. The "theme" is "'70s Dance Music," which is -- again -- not a thing, and Constantine with his stupid ponytail says, "Let's boogie!" and Scott says something like, "You cannot attempt to harness my boogie fire," or something. Then Ryan is supremely weird in an attempt to rile the audience to scream hornily for Constantine.
Constantine introduces the Brothers Gibb's "Nights on Broadway" (1975) with a characteristically hubristic "As the whole world knows now, I was born in the '70s," and he's creepy-looking, and then he dances with a scarf on a roller rink and says "lots of glam," which kind of chills me out because if you actually just say it, I don't mind. He's wearing some terrible, terrible Velvet Goldmine (not the good one) eyeliner that makes him look like a crier, and his pants have this hideous "Sticky Fingers" zipper that goes down to his stupid knees and could not be more obvious or ridiculous or sad.
He sounds great, he does. Also, though, his hair looks diseased, and the eyeliner makes him look like a palace eunuch in a period piece. You know, like Alexander the Great movies, or Caligula or whatever, where they want to say the guy was into dudes but then there's the Hayes code, so they just have some totally weird/creepy-looking andro dude with girly hair and a smoky kohl-eyed stare in the background as the standard catamite. That's not the '70s that the BeeGees are about, technically, and that's not the '70s that I am about, categorically, but it doesn't shock me that it's the '70s that Constantine is about, because he is willfully perplexing. For her birthday one year I bought Anna a diamond tiara and a tight pink t-shirt that says "I Fucked Mick Jagger" and underneath, all blurry Sex Pistols stencil-style, is the cover of The Man Who Sold The World, and that's the story of the best birthday present I ever bought, and that's the effect we're creating here, in a nutshell. Welcome to the '70s, and I'll see you at Studio 54. I'll be the one wearing Mag Wildwood as a backpack.
“ And I guess I've felt that way, like in junior high or something, but for Christ's sake I've not told anyone, because then I'd deserve what I'd get, which is: no love. Ever. I don't want my junior high haircut either, and for basically the same reason: lots and lots of feelings. Also: Depeche Mode. ”
For this performance, the part of Mag Wildwood will be played by Constantine's mom, who couldn't look more adorable, or more like a thin and lovely version of the mom in East of Eden. Randy calls it a "good choice" and calls him kind of Vegas. I've never been to Vegas, but yeah. He also calls the white jacket "Travolta." Paula says that everything about him in the past few weeks is "Oh My God." I agree. She calls attention to his lovely mix of rock, pop, theatricality, and something called "stage presence beyond." Simon hates the confusing sexuality stuff, but is drawn to it like a Brit to a Seacrest, so he must comment: akin to a waiter in a ghastly Spanish nightclub. To me, he looks like a day player in Wonderland. Ryan asks if everybody hates him, Constantine says something something "one big family," and Ryan digs in again, "but seriously" and Constantine laughs and reiterates that he's everybody's big brother (so scary), but please vote only for him, which Ryan mocks cutely and not without affection. He's getting to Ryan, and he's getting to me, kind of, and I hate myself, kind of. I still hate him personally, but he's pretty much awesome all of a sudden, as a performer. I mean, go ahead and pick the one BeeGees song where there's no chance of leaving like the one octave you've staked out, but whatever, it was good. In the audience there's a girl -- a pretty and normal-seeming girl, my integrity forces me to note -- holding up a sign that I swear to God says: "Constantine U Rock My World." And so my life of celibacy commences. So gross!
Carrie introduces "MacArthur Park" (here attributed to Donna Summer, 1978), with a partially true anecdote about how she, upon "discovering" the "theme" for this week, thought, "Oh man, I'm in trouble." Also, there were no dance clubs in her hometown in Oklahoma. Which is half the story, because she, um, was neither "alive" nor "clubbing" in the '70s, in Oklahoma or anywhere else, but also because what I heard -- and rumors, as you know, are always good enough for me -- is that she and possibly Bo freaked out about "Disco" as a theme, so the bailiwick was widened because she couldn't pick a song. But this song is actually disco, so I don't know, maybe she just couldn't pick, period, because this song isnot the joke that people think it is, because it doesn't take a grad-level music theory course (Anwar) to understand why this song was over and over a hit, but is certainly pretty smurfy, with a dumb Laurel Canyon pothead "metaphor" that would get you kicked out of a high school poetry elective for suckage. Her roller-rink dancing in the intro is sexy as hell, and honestly I'm getting used to her turning it on and off, and I'm starting to think she's another Jasmine Trias: not intrinsically a bad person, just weird about being onstage. Girlfriend says "cutting a rug" without irony. What do you do with that?
The lyrics are effing priceless: "Between the parted pages we were pressed / in love's hot, fevered iron / like a striped pair of pants." Okay? "I will have the things that I desire / and my passion flow/like rivers through the sky." And the main hotness: "Someone left the cake out in the rain / I don't think that I can take it / 'cause it took so long to bake it / and I'll never have that recipe again." Plus disco. Although to be fair, she leaves out all the horrible words and just sings one verse about old people playing chess and also babies and some birds. So the cake is love, and she'll never love anybody in precisely the way that she loved this person, because this person left the love out in the rain. And I guess I've felt that way, like in junior high or something, but for Christ's sake I've not told anyone, because then I'd deserve what I'd get, which is: no love. Ever. I don't want my junior high haircut either, and for basically the same reason: lots and lots of feelings. Also: Depeche Mode.
Speaking of gaybo hairstyling; Carrie's got the "bigger the hair = closer to God" working in a way that I have not seen since "Alone" -- frankly, it might be even more intense -- and this crazy, awesome JonBenet dress, and she's great, and sounds great, looks somehow great and I love her. Also there's the whole thing of the eleven-measure held note, which (and you would think this would not be at such a premium) not even clear-toned shouter Anthony could pull off. We've seen how Scott can and will mangle that every time, and Constantine and Bo of course would never try it, and how Anwar's demons of self-sabotage would drive that so far up in his nasal that he would end up singing out the top of his head, and that Vonzell would giggle in the middle. We've also seen how Nadia, who might or might not have pulled it off, and how Jessica would have made it seem like twenty measures with her proficiency, were voted off with a quickness, so I have to say I'm impressed. Because it's one thing to go "ahhhhh" for 45 beats, and another thing to make it fun and disco diva, and maybe I'm impressed because that's not natural for her, but I'm glad she practiced, because the modulation and interest of the note were flawless, and I'm not here to do vocal critique, nor am I here to be impressed by sit-up-and-beg tricks like this, and yet I was very, very pleased.
Like, all of Carrie's audience signs are in pink lettering and covered in hearts. In case you hadn't just assumed. What's awesome in the after-song part is how fucking overjoyed she is -- she knew she rocked it, and she's proud, but mostly she's just really, really happy, and she could be dumb as shit and I'm not discounting that possibility, but real joy and happiness does something to me. Even Constantine, when he's happy or proud of what he's done to the degree that he forgets to do the one hundred and one fucking things that make me sick, is beautiful to me. Randy has almost the same look on his face, too, and I imagine if I were in that audience I'd be freaking out too. My friend Andrea and her buddy Marti are going to be in the audience the 26th, so expect some validation of my assumption that the audience feels this stuff but for real. I kind of wish I were there tonight. Randy gives some unequivocated love, there are well-timed audience protestations of love, and then Paula gives it up for the unending note ("Simon turned 53 on that last note," hee!), and says that no Idol has ever balls-out held a note like that. And you know, my watching has been spotty through the years, but I believe that out of hand. Cute mohawk guy behind Paula makes eleven faces and then Simon dismisses her with a "you sang it very well" only to attack her "styling" as "Barbie meets the Stepford Wives." Which, maybe I'm weird, but that's awesome.
“ The arms are moving and the feet are going all Snagglepuss, but they're not moving all that quickly? And you realize they're giving the illusion of intensity, of hustle, but in fact there is no hustle? Until we get to the register change halfway through, that's what's going on here. A lot of 'I'm trying' without a whole lot of trying. ”
If I were a girl and somebody said that to me, I'd be like, that's exactly what I was going for. In fact, I went to a friend's party once and the getting-ready pictures got my ensemble called "frat boy meets zombie- and/or junkie-fighting sleeper agent," and I said, that's what I was going for, but said it wrong, and the person who threw the party heard this and we haven't spoken since, and that's horrible, because my response was worded in such a way that it seemed I was calling her party a collection of junkies and zombies, when really they were just industry and scared the hell out of me -- I'm fragile -- so I ended up drinking a bomb and getting carted home and feeling shit about it. Ryan bugs Simon about his personal styling, and in a very ham-fisted way, and then he and Carrie joke about the sucky metaphor in a way that makes them both look dumb even though they're funny and cool -- it's about a cake, y'all -- and then Ryan accidentally Paulas that Carrie has "the cheese factor," and immediately corrects himself in such a way that it calls attention to this, which is painful and quite Paula of him, once again, because it makes you think about things you weren't thinking about before.
Scott Savol actually cracks an actual smile as he roller-rink dances, and it's actually not horrible, and he talks about how the '70s aren't actually "his thing," mostly because of the clothes and the dancing. And his ignorance, because if you think "'70s dance," as a thing, you think BeeGees and some non-Scott bullshit, but if you think "'70s" plus "dance," the book is essentially open for you, because hello, Motown is where you live, in your heart. He picked the excellent "Everlasting Love," by Carl Carlton, after what I'm sure was a bunch of soul-searching, and of course that's the perfect song for him to sing. And then he sings it with some kind ofyou know when you're driving, and there are people in the road, trying to cross the road, and the arms are moving and the feet are going all Snagglepuss, but they're not moving all that quickly? And you realize they're giving the illusion of intensity, of hustle, but in fact there is no hustle? Until we get to the register change halfway through, that's what's going on here. A lot of "I'm trying" without a whole lot of trying. And he's not bad, in either half, and I'm trying not to let my revulsion get the better of me, so I must say that this was a good choice, and he did it pretty well. He's plateaued and maybe slightly redeemed on the whole degeneration of his vocals thing I've been thinking about every week. But he's still not the fucking American Idol, and he never will be.
The question on everybody's lips is "Why?" And all I can say, that hasn't been said a million times before, is that we who are on the internet regularly make assumptions. And one of those assumptions is that everybody in the country is on the internet regularly, just like us. Gossip, news about baby-mama drama, who's dating who, what did fucking Corey Clark do this week -- it's easy to assume that everybody is conversant with these things. That everybody not only has access to the internet, but loves/hates/whatevers this show so very much that they seek out the extra information, and use it to make decisions, and it's hard to remember that this simply isn't the case. There's a large part of the real America that couldn't care less about the internet, which means that their information is coming from other sources, sources of which we make use and to which we think there's an equal amount of attention paid: newspapers, TV news, traditional media. And I defy you to tell me who's going to make money on talking about it: are FOX news (which airs one half to one hour after this show), or the local Cleveland paper, going to get higher ratings or sell more papers if they talk shit about the very product that funds them? Hell no.
“ Scott makes some awful faces and then talks about his mother, wishing her happy birthday, and then talks really, really slowly and stupidly and does an impression of his mother that is neither cute nor compelling, blows me a kiss, and is disgusting. ”
Meaning that there's no reason to waste airtime on Scott Savol's dirty laundry. Which means that there are massive numbers of our American brothers and sisters who watch this show in a bubble created by the show itself. Imagine getting all of your information from just the show itself and from the FOX "exclusives" aired after the show. If the show reveals to us over the weeks that Constantine is less a rocker and more a metro theatre kid, then we will discover gradually that this is the case. If the show declines to reveal that Nadia has a five-year-old daughter, because that's too Fantasia, then we won't find out about it in traditional media. And if the show tells us that Scott is an underdog who never got recognized for his glorious voice, even within his own personal family, and had to work at pizza joints to support his dream, and has been given the no-holds-barred chance of a lifetime, and is a loving and caring baby daddy who never would hurt a fly, why would we question it?
As much as I hate him, I think it's kind of arrogant to assume that the people who support him are assholes, because if you play by the no-internet rule, you can see how he's still the underdog and desperately in need of confirmation, validation, love, and success. Especially if you have a grudge against TV and the media for ignoring you in the first place. There's no downside, just a chance to strike one for the proletariat. Makes sense, there are no bad guys, and we are each free to hate him or not as we will. It's not a moral issue, for pete's sake, it's an information flow issue, a lost-in-translation issue, and to criticize people's intelligence or other virtues for what's merely a delay in technology sprawl is really not cool. Who's voting for him? People who don't know, or don't care, about the whole story. And I'm not up to the challenge of hating them for it, because there are more of them than there are of the other, and I would rather understand and love my country the way it is, and try to change what I can in my daily life, than pointlessly bitch about the way I wish it were.
Randy has no problems with it, Paula bares her teeth and once again "gives Scotty his props," and notes that he was on pitch, and that Simon was snapping to the song. Simon doesn't talk, Scott acts like a jag-off, and Paula waves her hands around. Simon calls him an "ordinary guy who is doing quite well," and Scott acts like a dick some more, but vastly less blatantly than in circumstances. Ryan goads him into talking back, but Scott screws this nicely by thanking him for his comments and invoking Fake Jesus. Ryan translates this to "I can't stand you," and then goes for the hat trick by asking if Scott had a panic attack about this week's "theme." Scott makes some awful faces and then talks about his mother, wishing her happy birthday, and then talks really, really slowly and stupidly and does an impression of his mother that is neither cute nor compelling, blows me a kiss, and is disgusting.
Ryan calls Anthony's dancing "unholy," for the bumper to commercial, but "unholy" is not so much the word I'd use. Although "unholy" is not entirely unrelated to the way it makes me feel, which is best described as "once again kind of nervous w/r/t A-Fed as adult male human being." I can't shake the feeling that I'm a bad, bad man, especially when he seems to be making it difficult on purpose.
“ (For this particular meltdown, I blame the 24-hour Michael Jackson trial coverage. Like how I almost convinced myself that I shot Bonny Lee Bakley. I'm suggestible.) ”
Alex Trebek is in the audience. Why? Ryan talks to him. Why? Anthony Federov. Why?
Then there is some more dancing. I don't know if it is good, but it's veryyou know Good Will Hunting? The one part where Matt Damon is trying to freak out each of his successive psychotherapists? You know what I mean. This is pretty much a dramatic reenactment of one of those scenes, as expressed through interpretive dance, and it's veryinterpretive. There are hips. I joke about this every week, but not anymore. Never again. Um, on to the song. The song is "Don't Take Away The Music," by Tavares, and it's awful, but he's very good and very A-Fed. This is an okay song to listen to, and it really shows off the strengths of his voice, such as they are, quite well.
The newly-darkened eyelashes make his very weird expressions very much more bizarre, and way less "How did I end up on this stage? I just woke up!" than previously, which it turns out is part of the draw. The other part is not okay. Imagine that you're hitchhiking and this trucker picks you up and before you hurl yourself bodily from the vehicle onto the pavement, he treats you to a medley of like "Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon" and "Young Girl, Get Out Of My Mind" and whatever pervy shit you can think of. Who wants to be that trucker? Gross. I always call him a sweet little pumpkin, but now I feel like Christina Ricci in Pumpkin. Not okay. Like the fucking Molfettas weren't enough for one season? I gotta go to the creepy black bug room again? And for this hack? (For this particular meltdown, I blame the 24-hour Michael Jackson trial coverage. Like how I almost convinced myself that I shot Bonny Lee Bakley. I'm suggestible.)
What. Ever. Perfunctorily: Randy mentions that A-Fed is this close to leaving every second of the day, Paula in fact is that trucker, as we already knew, and Simon is discomfited to the same degree that I am, and talks about nothing -- Paula yells, "Take it!" for which I want to slap her -- and then calls A-Fed "a little insipid." Ryan, ever one to jump on the creepy train with a loud choo-choo, repeats that A-Fed will indeed "take it," asks him for some more dance moves, and refers to all of this as "Burning. It. Up." He blatantly asks him if he's as shocked as everybody else that he continues to be on this show, and Anthony says he feels like he's finally starting to "click with" himself, and finally feels relaxed. And it shows and I hope it brings him success. Anthony dances around during the phone numbers, Ryan whispers to him to stop dancing, dude, and then orders him to show us his "Latin dance" again. Ugh. No more. Vonzell, in conjunction with the awesome dancing Nike kid, are the Calgon that takes us away from all of this troubling mixed-messaging.