Thursday, September 27, 2007

Rick & Steve


NYPress.com

BOY TOYS
Rick & Steve come together, no batteries required

Attention, heterosexuals. If you have been searching for societal permission to check out Logo, the MTV-owned lesbian and gay network, look no further than Tuesdays at 10 p.m. Not only might you find an actual Subaru commercial wherein the owner of the restaurant Florent refers to himself as the “queen of the Meatpacking District,” you will also be transported to the immaculate town of West Lahunga Beach, home to the brutally funny “Rick and Steve: The Happiest Gay Couple In All The World.” Even though there’s plenty of man-on-man action in this series, the men (as well as the women, pets, club kids, marriage counselors, etc.) are all plastic figurines with animated mouths filmed in stop-action animation. If the boys of “South Park” grew up to be queer, with hinged elbows and knees, the results would be a lot like this.

The benefits of being plastic include the ability to wear a “snap on,” but it’s still a world where love and porn addiction go hand in hand, and lesbian couples must barter their home-repair skills for a cup of sperm in order to reproduce.

Stereotyping is at the heart of nearly all the jokes, but from the mouths of dolls it’s dead-on humor. When inseminated lesbian Kirsten wonders why it is taking so long to get pregnant, even the semen cannot escape notice as she is reminded, “These are Rick’s tadpoles. They’ll have to completely redecorate your uterus before committing to a nine-month lease.”

Characters occasionally break into song and luckily Jeff Marx and Robert Lopez, creators of Avenue Q, are there to provide material, as is Bob Esty (“It’s Raining Men”) and series creator Q. Allan Brocka. “Love Song For Three,” their ode to the joys of a three-way begins, “Love can be so lonely when there’s just two of us.”

Another familiar name in the credits, Alan Cumming, voices Chuck, an older, wheelchair-bound, HIV victim with a chip on his shoulder. “You married me when it was cool to have a boyfriend with AIDS,” he tells his 19-year-old boyfriend. These folks might be artificial, but they draw blood for real.

- Stan Friedman   September 19, 2007

Wednesday, September 5, 2007

The Singing Bee


NYPress.com

HIVE MENTALITY
‘The Singing Bee’ is a terrible thing to waste

It’s easy to dismiss NBC’s ratings smash “The Singing Bee” as the kind of eye candy/ear Muzak that contributes to the decline of Western civilization. But make no mistake, this game show is a genius mix of the washed-up and the newly found. The brilliance begins with its choice of host, former ‘N Sync star Joey Fatone. Now a jolly, big-boned 30-year-old in an open collar and spiffy jacket, Fatone looks like a guy on his way to a first date who has stumbled into a sing-along. He awkwardly leads contestants through various challenges, all of which involve remembering the lyrics to hit songs, generally culled from the 1980s. Sometimes he’ll even dance. In 10 years that will just be creepy. Now it comes across more as a mildly pitiful effort at recapturing his boyhood. Indeed, memories and glory days are what make the show tick. Watching the contestants sing, gleefully off-key and with no inhibitions, one can imagine them back at their hometown karaoke bars attempting to relive some heydays of their own.

Lest the show turn maudlin, there are enough hilariously cheapo production values and under-rated background performances to fill a year’s worth of “American Idol” rip-offs. Four sexy dancers, known collectively as the Honey Bees, go into action with every downbeat. (NBC has given them their own blog, wherein they reveal the sweat and toil behind the boogie.) Veteran musical director Ray Chew leads the top-notch band and back-up singers. Bald and just slightly embarrassed by the proceedings, Chew is the Paul Shaffer of primetime.

Unlike its competition, “Don’t Forget the Lyrics,” on Fox there’s no false pressure or complicated rules. Joyfully, each episode has its own winner. No bothersome waiting for closure. Irritating contestants are never to return and likable ones stay happy memories. Winners walk off with meager earnings (50K max) and a trophy that must have prop departments across the land doubled over in laughter. Dismal confetti cannons signal the evening’s end and their intentionally amplified cartoonish pop let us know that the soothing power of crappy effects is not lost on this production team.

- Stan Friedman   September 5, 2007