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Thursday, Nov 26, 2009
While the rest of the networks' reality fare wilts in the heat, a mix of Bible thumping, boa constrictors and the evil genius of Tyra "Tyrant" Banks makes "America's Next Top Model" a refreshing surprise.
Jul 9, 2003 | One early summer night about five years ago, I found myself at a small gathering in the Hollywood Hills populated primarily by models. My boyfriend was also there, unfortunately, with two of his oldest childhood friends, one of whom was dating one of the models. Since it was hot that night, and there was a pool at the house, and they were models, the women stripped off their clothes and jumped in the water. Did I mention that they were models?
Delighted, my boyfriend and his two friends got naked and also dove into the pool, which was now filled to the brim with naked models. As I bade my time by the side of the pool, my mind raced through all kinds of weak, pathetic thoughts. I wanted to rewind the night and drink several more glasses of red wine at dinner. I wanted to rewind the year and join a gym. I tried to will myself to strip off my clothes and frolic with the models, but I felt certain that someone would shout, "Who threw a lumpy mortal into our model soup? Would somebody please fish it out already?"
Models are scary. I don't mean that in a "they make me sick" way, or a "they're beneath me" way. I mean that models frighten me. It's not just that they're absurdly attractive. It's not just that they make tons of money and get to travel the world. It's not just that they tie their hair in a rough knot and wear pajama pants to dinner and look gorgeous while, dressed the same way, I look like William H. Macy. Models have some combination of premature world-weariness and a lifetime of being told that they're beautiful every four minutes that ferments into a calm confidence, a confidence that allows them to look you straight in the eye, chain-smoke, and send their pasta back because it's not really vegan, all at the same time.
Despite the obvious thrills of model-centric programming, "America's Next Top Model" (Tuesdays at 9 p.m. on UPN) was by no means a sure thing. First, there's that ridiculous title, which, as far as absurd claims goes, takes a close second to "Paradise Hotel's" repeated insistence that it's shot at "the most exclusive hotel in the world." Second, the E! channel already has plenty of model-related offerings, including countless shows that feature models in their natural habitat striding down runways, pulling their clothes off backstage, getting their makeup done, and discussing the creative genius of whoever's fashions they're wearing at the time. Such shows are addictive to the fashion-obsessed, and mildly amusing to the rest of us, but we'd never seek them out. Finally, so many of this summer's shows have been ineptly produced, shoddily edited leftovers from the regular season, that the outlook for a little UPN show was less than stellar from the start.
Little did I know that, under the borderline-sadistic tutelage of the show's creator, Tyra Banks, tempers would flare, claws would be bared and egos would bloat beyond recognition. Although Banks has a bad habit of tooting her own horn endlessly while the cameras roll, she may be justified in doing so, since, from the opening graphics to the hip-hop soundtrack, her show has been undeniably imaginative and engrossing.
Now granted, any program that features women this attractive dressing up like Barbies and stripping down and dressing up again can't be all bad. But one of the best moves by Banks was to hire some of the most elitist, outrageously bitchy fashion industry types she could find to torture the girls, from "runway diva" J. Alexander, who pranced down the runway in high heels, then berated Elyse, the sharpest by far, for wanting to go to medical school, to outspoken judge Janice Dickinson, a former model who, as she repeatedly reminded us, coined the term "supermodel" years ago, and who recently appeared on Dr. Phil to discuss her addiction to plastic surgery. In fact, all of the judges were entertainingly egocentric yet oddly charismatic, and none were afraid to state their opinions or lash out at the others when they felt so moved.
But Banks' excellent casting choices were most apparent when ultra-whipped Nicole refused a chance to go to a "major fashion event," because, according to the other girls, she wanted to stay home and call her boyfriend. Makeup artist Jay Manuel responded to the impending crisis in the only way he knew how: by insulting Nicole until she was near tears.
Jay: "Why don't you want to go?"
Nicole: "I'm not feeling that well, I have a little stomachache ..."
Jay: "You do realize ... you could just be cut this week?"
Nicole: "Well, if I'm cut because of this, then that's just silly."
Jay: "So then it's silly, and you go back home, and you do what? Work at Burger King?"
In Jay's mind, you see, if you're not a part of the fashion world, you're just another slob out there flipping burgers. Somehow his ruthlessness was contagious, though, because by the time they cut to Nicole on the phone with her boyfriend that night, we could almost picture her with a little orange and brown hat on her head.
