I truly hate to be one of those people chiming in with "I told you so" after last week's "Who Wants to Marry a Multi-millionaire?" debacle, but ...
Come on. Is there anyone out there who considered this anything more than a tasteless sweeps-month ratings ploy by the Fox network? If you did, you'd better quit reading now, because you're only going to get ticked off by the rest of this. (And might I suggest that you consider hopping on the Clue Bus the next time you see it go past?)
It's bad enough that we've been swept up in "Who Wants to be a Millionaire" mania, which no doubt has caused the nation's collective IQ to drop by at least 45 points. This Fox sleazefest -- which, to my great satisfaction, has come back to bite the network in the hindquarters -- adds insult to injury.
Yes, I watched it. Well, parts of it. There was a certain horrified fascination involved in watching a bunch of women with apparently non-existent self-esteem display themselves for "mystery man" Rick Rockwell (whose cover was partially blown when his identity was revealed the day before the show aired -- it didn't come out until later that the guy is a misogynistic moron whose former girlfriend once took out a restraining order against him).
The show lent new meaning to the term "meat market." It was worse than a beauty pageant (where at least the prize sometimes involves a scholarship and the hope that the woman who wins it might learn enough to shun beauty pageants in the future). It set back the so-called women's movement about 200 years. It looked like a glorified slave auction.
It was as creepy as hell.
The "contestants" paraded around in evening wear and swimsuits -- just like in a beauty pageant. They answered lame questions. They oozed perkiness (at least the 10 semifinalists did). The square-jawed Rockwell watched from the shadows, an appropriate location for cockroaches and similarly nasty creatures.
Actor Jay Thomas, apparently unable to get honest work since leaving his last sitcom, slunk around the stage alternately attempting to hype the proceedings and lighten the atmosphere. He failed miserably at both, resembling nothing so much as a snake-oil salesman in a traveling show.
He was assisted in his hosting duties by former Miss America Leanza Corbett, stuffed into a dress that would have been suitable as a sausage casing and looking, appropriately enough, like the madam in a brothel.
To lower the sleaze level even further, during the week leading up to the show, the 50 women -- in addition to shopping for wedding gowns and trying on wedding rings, clearly the most important parts of marriage -- attended a show by Las Vegas slimemaster Wayne Newton. It seemed astonishingly suitable.
As the evening progressed, the original 50 contestants were winnowed down to 10 semifinalists and then five -- all by a group of Rockwell's friends and family, who assigned scores to the women after they gave 30-second answers to questions about honesty, intimate relations, money, ex-boyfriends -- that kind of thing.
The semifinalists were paraded out in swimsuits. The lame reason given by Thomas for this display: Rockwell apparently said that he needed a wife "who is as comfortable on the beach as he is." (Presumably, had Rockwell's hobby been fencing or beekeeping, the women would have been forced to don appropriate gear and strut about onstage to demonstrate their comfort levels in those getups.)
The creepiest part of all was when the five finalists floated out onstage, one at a time, wearing wedding gowns. It was utterly surreal: Here was this square-jawed jerk sitting in seclusion, feasting his eyes on five women all decked out in wedding finery -- about to choose one of them to marry, based entirely on how they looked in evening gowns, swimsuits and wedding gowns and how they answered a couple of trite questions.
Rockwell, after a brief pre-taped segment that explained what a great, well-adjusted millionaire he is, strode out and selected Darva Conger to be his wife. The judge declared them married. They embraced. Confetti fell. The audience wept and applauded. The newlyweds danced awkwardly while Rockwell murmured, "You're beautiful. You're wonderful. I'll make you so happy" to his bride.
Well, by this time everyone knows what happened after the happy couple jetted off on their honeymoon to Barbados:
- A former girlfriend of Rockwell's announced that she had once taken out a restraining order against him after he hit her and threatened to kill her -- a charge that Rockwell denied, but not particularly vehemently.
- Rockwell appeared Tuesday night on "Dateline NBC" and admitted that not only did he let the air out of the former girlfriend's tires ("to get her attention") and threaten to kill her (in the heat of the moment, he said -- you know how it is, heh heh), but he and his new bride slept in separate rooms on their honeymoon, they haven't seen each other since Sunday, and he doesn't expect his marriage to last a year. (I'd say that's pretty optimistic of him.) "Don't screw up on a slow news day," he advised, in a display of towering arrogance.
- Conger appeared Wednesday morning on "Good Morning America" and feigned surprise that she was actually married (I'm thinking that the wedding gown, the ring, the judge and the words "I now pronounce you husband and wife" should have tipped her off). She called the escapade an "error in judgment" and expressed dismay that Rockwell kissed her: "I would really like to think that someone who really has an interest in me or respect for me would have kissed me on the cheek and said, 'I'm delighted to meet you,'" she complained.
- Fox, which had been gloating over the sky-high ratings for its two-hour special, scrambled to cancel plans to rebroadcast an edited one-hour version of the show, along with plans for subsequent millionaire-marrying specials. The network also claimed to be stunned by the revelations about Rockwell's past; the production company's "extensive" background checks apparently consisted of asking Rockwell if there was anything embarrassing in his past.
There is one more thing that's occurred to me about this whole mess, but only the truly cynical among us are likely to believe it:
Could it be that Fox -- the network that consistently aims at the lowest common human denominator with shows like "World's Most Dangerous Animal Attacks" -- knew about Rockwell's past and purposely went ahead with the show because of the publicity it would generate? You know the theory: There's no such thing as bad publicity.
Forget it. Even I'm not that cynical.
Note: Betsy's pop culture column, Culture Shocked, appears every Wednesday in our Entertainment section. She welcomes your questions and comments.
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