The murder in March of one “Jenny Jones” guest by another obviously hasn’t spoiled America’s appetite for trash talk. In a new book called “Tuning in Trouble: Talk TV’s Destructive Impact on Our Mental Health,” Jeanne Albronda Heaton and Nona Leigh Wilson complain that these syndicated programs “bring fair-ground-style freak shows into every home, and viewers lap them up.” What fading star could resist a career boost like that?
Back in the ’70s, celeb hosts like Mike Douglas and Merv schmoozed Hollywood glitterati. Then Phil, Geraldo and Sally Jessy came along with the “freak-of-the-week” format: lesbian nuns, stripping grannys, diaper-clad businessmen. Their background as former or quasi journalists (even Phil started as a local newsman) helped justify their unseemly exposes. What’s the new chat pack’s excuse? Their only claim to fame is fame. But the thinking is that if Ricki Lake–star of a couple of campy teen movies and now her own hit talk vehicle–can do it, anyone can,
Among the Ricki wanna-bes are Tempestt Bledsoe, the “Cosby” kid nobody remembers, and Gabrielle Carteris, the “Beverly Hills, 90210” kid nobody cared about. The most flagrant rip off is “Carnie,” the top-rated of the new shows. Carnie Wilson, daughter of nutty Beach Boy Brian, experienced 15 seconds of MTV fame three years ago as part of the insipid bubble-gum trio Wilson Phillips. She’s youngish (27), hefty like Ricki used to be and has been styled by shrewd handlers for the Clearasil generation. A self-righteous babysitter, she keeps her hysterical teens (“My mother is a whore!”) and whooping audience in line by shouting “Shhh!” or “Excuse me!” over the “Carnie”-val din.
The only one not stealing someone else’s shtik is Danny Bonaduce. The child star of “The Partridge Family” didn’t age well. He sunk into a tabloid squalor of drugs and petty violence, becoming the model talk-show guest, then segued fashionably into recovery. His Chicago radio show was the basis for “Danny!” the TV show, a forum for his effusively grating personality. When an audience member begins her question by announcing, “I have several comments,” Danny cuts her dead: “Well, pick your favorite.” He loves alluding to his dysfunctional past, saying things like, “As many of you know, I used to have a severe drug problem.” That’s another thing about famous hosts: they never miss a chance to remind us how famous they are. Or were.
Supershallow: George Hamilton’s celebrity has always been a likable parody of itself: he’s famous for his tan. His cohosting ex-wife is a saucy Southern belle. Together, they make “George and Alana,” an L.A. version of “Regis and Kathie Lee”–with less depth. They go through guests like M&M’s: TV star, chef, sexpert. Sometimes their supershallowness backfires. During one cooking segment, a Guatemalan stage-hand was brought out to taste-test two different salsas. George blindfolded him, then joked, “Don’t worry, we’re not the Sandinistas.” Wrong country, George. And what if the guy’s family had been wiped out by a death squad?
Lauren Hutton would never have said that, would she? She’s the smart ex-supermodel, always bragging that she’s been to Africa and hung out with cannibals. Well, maybe she should have asked one of them to produce “Lauren Hutton and . . .” The guy who’s doing it now (her boyfriend, coincidentally) is a disaster. Shot on film instead of video, in a style reminiscent of Ingmar Bergman’s “Persona,” this late-night one-on-one is unwatchably pretentious. It’s also amazingly narcissistic. Even when the camera’s not on Lauren, her reflection hovers weirdly in a mirror behind the person she’s interviewing. (Last week’s low point: Maury Povich.) If that weren’t confusing enough, various TV monitors project more images of Lauren reacting, chin posed pensively in hand. The guest is almost an afterthought, like the ellipsis in the show’s title. No surprise there. The only guests celebrity hosts are really interested in are themselves.
