Sunday, Jul 20, 2008
For years, Richard Simmons has made people earn their dreams the hard way. Now he can't give them away.
Dec 1, 1999 |
What I love to do is help people and I wanted to do a show that was non-competitive [and] very exciting. It's not just about giving away money. That's easy, but to give away dreams and make them come true is more intricate.
-- Richard Simmons in TV Guide
Richard Simmons is one our more exuberant showbiz personalities. The man hides his feelings about as well as his trademark skimpy satin shorts cover his "buns." But nakedness has served him well, as millions of the unhappily overweight have turned to Simmons to learn how to eat sensibly, exercise and feel good about themselves. In return, they've helped him sweat his way to an empire rivaling Martha Stewart's.
Not many people, even celebrities, will ever know what it's like to feel so needed by so many. Simmons' constant efforts to "be there" for his fans -- the aerobics classes he leads at his Beverly Hills exercise center, "Slimmons," and elsewhere; the "Cruise to Lose" vacations he captains; the monthly chats from his online clubhouse -- mean a day seldom goes by that he does not hear another emotional testimonial by someone who couldn't have done it without him. If hugs were hamburgers, Simmons would have a tally to beat McDonald's.
Imagine Simmons taking a moment to reflect on the incredible run he's had. When he shuts his eyes, a parade of faces, many of them tear-streaked, must appear before him -- the faces of the bed-ridden, the morbidly obese, the snack-obsessed -- one for each life he's touched over the past 27-years.
Another man might congratulate himself on a job well done, figure he's earned a little break, take the time to replenish his emotional resources with a little work on "Project Me." But not Mr. Richard Simmons -- he can only fret about how many more remain unsaved. By focusing his compassion on one demographic, he has selfishly ignored countless other forms of human misery.
This is, I imagine, the kind of crisis that spawned "Richard Simmons's Dream Maker," a short-lived syndicated daytime show that debuted in September and ceased production last week.
Simmons made his intention to reach out beyond the Deal-a-Meal demographic very clear from the get-go: He actually wore pants. The "court jester of health" reinvented himself as the "Dream Maker," and all were invited to petition him for a few rubs of his genie's lamp (literally) in the service of their particular desire.
Those whose phone calls, e-mails or letters were chosen won the chance to have their dream come true on national television. But dismal ratings have unplugged the "Dream Maker" request line, and the already-taped episodes that will languish on the air until Jan. 14 may help explain why.
In the P.R. blitz preceding its premiere, "Dream Maker" was presented as "Nice TV," an antidote to the kind of mean-spirited trash talk produced by Jerry Springer, Maury Povich, et al.
Those wondering what form this antidote would take were invited to imagine an updated "Queen for a Day," which ran on NBC from 1956 to 1960. An ironic comparison, considering that the show was an exploratory foray into territory Jerry Springer would later colonize.
Both "Queen for a Day" and "The Jerry Springer Show" satisfy a similar craving in the viewer: a taste for that pleasant mix of gratitude and smug superiority we get when see some poor slob who's worse off than we are make a fool of himself on TV. Whatever else you want to call it, "nice" it's certainly not.
On one episode of "Queen for a Day," host Jack Bailey -- a dapper, mustachioed asshole who barely bothered to conceal his contempt for his contestants -- introduces the audience to a row of five women, each poignantly dressed-up for the occasion and touchingly ill at ease before the cameras.
Bailey shepherds the women to center stage one by one, where they are told to describe their problem.
Contestant No. 1 needs some power tools to provide some "saw-curity" for her out-of-work stepfather.
Contestant No. 2 -- a Native American who good-naturedly plays along with Bailey's ribbing about tribes and reservations -- wants a washer and dryer to ease her housework load. This is hardly life-or-death material, but the show has a ringer ready.
Enter Contestant No. 3, gazing down at her hands, which a quick close-up reveals she is wringing vigorously. She's so terrified she can't look Bailey in the eye, and he has to coax her to speak up more than once. What she wants, simply, is "a house and some food." It turns out she's one day away from being evicted from the trailer where she, her husband, four children and in-laws sleep on the floor.
When it comes time to turn on the applause-meter, not even the contestant who wanted a reunion with her birth mother is any competition. No. 3 is crowned and showered with roses, her rent on a new house to be paid, her icebox to be stocked.
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