Episode Report Card Joe R: B- | 25 USERS: A+ YOU GRADE IT Don't Cry Out Loud
By Joe R | Season 6 | Episode 3 | Aired on 01.22.2007
The judges arrive: Paula is dressed for Sunday School, for some reason, but looks clear-headed again. Well, that's just not fun. One day of sobriety is admirable, Paula, but think of the recaps! We need fodder! Randy speaks and says nothing, again. Simon makes a fake phone call while he walks, to further the impression that he's far too busy and important for the universe. And finally, tonight's guest judge is...okay, see my first thought was "Elizabeth Taylor's White Diamonds," but that very quickly settled into "Carole Bayer Sager should really not look exactly like Joan Collins." It's like a sci-fi movie where Carole has to infiltrate Joan's underworld cartel by getting surgery to look exactly like her, to the point where Joan just plays her for the rest of the movie. Lady better watch out, too. Mrs. Garrett's liable to mistake Carole for the real thing, and that could get real ugly, real quick. Carole and Randy sing a little "Arthur's Theme" for us, and Ryan takes up on a video journey of Carole's career, the only salient points contained therein being that she was married to Burt Bacharach and she wrote "A Groovy Kind of Love," which is the prettiest song ever to prominently feature such a silly word. She also wrote "Nobody Does It Better," which isn't mentioned, but it's much cooler than "That's What Friends Are For," which is. Time for auditions!
Starting us off, Ryan tells us, is "the ultimate New Yorker," so you already know this is going to be insulting. And boy, is it ever, because here's Ian Benardo. Here's a funny story: some time last summer, my wonderful and awesome cousin Katie emailed me with a YouTube link to a clip from So You Think You Can Dance (a show I did not watch), saying she went to college with the asshole lunatic pitching a drama queen fit worthy of...well, this show. So the second Ian starts strutting around with his awful fur stole and headband, I pause the DVR, call up my cousin, and ask if this is the same guy. It is. "Is he for real?" "Oh yeah. Frighteningly so." This is one of those things where being on TV is all that's feeding Ian, so we're all ultimately giving him exactly what he wants, and even though we may make fun of him and rightly hate his obnoxious guts...that's what he's shooting for. Which makes me depressed. Ryan asks him about the dancing show, and since we're all a part of the FOX family tonight, we can see it. He's...pitching a fit and yelling to the camera about how the "British judge" is a dick. How novel! Back in the now, he's got a t-shirt with his name on it, and he's shown trolling the streets of New York, begging people to pay attention to him, scoffing at "illegals" for some strange reason, and essentially daring everyone to not hate him. I never do anything on a dare, so...hate! "When America sees this," he false-bravados, "they're gonna be like, 'Taylor who? Carrie Under0where? Fantasia when?'" But he says we'll all remember his name. You know, Ian something. With the weird puffy lips and repellant personality and no friends.
He divas into the audition room, like the gay Jewish boogeyman called "New York" that this show has chosen him to be. The sweatband around his brush-cut head makes him look like a cancer patient or an off-hours drag queen; I'll let you all guess which seems more likely. He gives Simon attitude from the beginning, not like he ever had a chance to begin with. Ian says "American Idol" would go well with the rest of his "resumé," which includes "superstar, dancer, singer..." He also takes great pains to point out that his stole is "chinchilla," which he wears "specifically to show the world how wealthy I could be." Has the chinchilla stole become the gay man's version of a red sports car? Something to ponder. Simon attempts to bring reality into the situation, reminding Ian that he's "not a superstar." He doesn't even amend that with "yet," God bless him. Ian invites Simon to verify his superstar status with his family, friend (singular, no "s"), or therapists (plural). Oh, New York City. With your Jewy neuroticism and flamboyant obnoxiousness. No wonder America will never vote for you to win. Simon's had enough: sing, motherfucker. Ian sings "Gloria," pronounced "Glawwwria" like Linda Richman, and...as a performance-art piece about old Jewish ladies singing pop songs, it's almost funny. Like Ellen DeGeneres speak-singing "Shoop" on that one comedy special. But Ian demands we take him seriously, and so when the judges laugh at him, he's insulted. Randy asks if he's for real, and neither I, nor you, nor my awesome cousin, nor Ian, really, can answer that question. The layers of fake on this kid are astounding. Simon aims for the heart: "This was a bad, hammy audition for something you aspire to be, which obviously isn't a singer. It's not funny. You're not good at anything..." Ian interrupts to decry a Brit supposing he knows what makes an "American" Idol, and I'm exhausted. "Rubbish," says Simon. Which is Brit-speak for garbage, says Ian, who then tries to Lou Dobbs his way into some anti-immigrant controversy, which he hopes gets people interested again, but Simon maintains he's bored, and so am I. Next!
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