The Only Way To Watch “Idol”
I watched exactly twelve minutes of the very end of this season of “American Idol.”
I am not really going to go out of my way to say anything too bad about the show. I have to respect what “American Idol” does: connects well with it’s audience, makes ordinary people feel special and gives these ordinary, if musically gifted, people a shot at real, honest-to-god pop stardom. I mean, Jennifer Hudson got a friggin’ Oscar!
All that being said, I generally only like watching the first auditions at the front of any new season. And I’m now tired of that– there is a sameness to all the talentless, self-deluded failures, crying and whining in the lobby after their flame-out.
Anyway, I limited my viewing of the current season to the very, very end, and taken in that context it was hilarious, exhilarating and creepy– The medium of commercial TV at it’s finest. When I came in Ryan Seacrest was standing behind the finalists, two nearly identical men named David. Well, one was a slightly magnified version of the other, and there were differences in the facial hair, but these were superficial, Spock-with-a-beard differences. As I had not watched the interminable biographical pieces on these guys, or even heard them sing, it looked for all the world like a joke, a contest between clones.
With the clock ticking ever closer to the top of the hour, Ryan never stopped padding. Apparently, from people I know who watched the entire final show, padding was the central theme, silly celebrity drop-ins and mindless cameos by unfunny actors, all hawking upcoming summer films.
So David Cook (the taller one) won, cried, stuff dropped from the lighting grids, and he sang his song of triumph, an undifferentiated bit of bombast called “Time of My Life.” I sat there amazed by the lyrics:
I’ve been waiting for my dreams
To turn into something…So I’ll taste every moment
And live it out loud
I know this is the time,
This is the time to be
More than a name
Or a face in the crowd
I know this is the time
This is the time of my life
Time of my life
In a show that features people typically belting out randomly picked pop tunes, Mr. Cook’s musical declaration was as precise as a Sondheim musical cue, a succinct bit of emotional reportage. No more waiting in ATM lines for tall David anymore.
More cheering and crying, confused-looking family members milled on stage, and finally: “Seacrest out!”
It all ended up making the news start late. Only a few minutes late, though.
–Skot C.