Wednesday nights are still in the running for Brown's newest guilty pleasure, and it's not because of a certain bar by the river. Rather, what explains the appeal of my new favorite week day is a new addition to the ultimate boob tube trilogy. It may not be a Peter Jackson Middle Earth epic starring Elijah Wood, but who needs hobbits when you can have divas and deserted islands?
Brunonians seem to be tuning in en masse for a television sandwich worthy of the Gate panini: a little of the not-so-deserted island drama of "Lost" squeezed in between the fashion combo of "Project Runway" and "America's Next Top Model." For the purposes of continuity, and because (spoiler alert) Sawyer's past life as a Calvin Klein underwear model hasn't emerged yet, let's talk fashion.
First, there's Project Runway. With its smart take on the creative process, the injection of Parsons educator Tim Gunn and a real-life finale at Bryant Park's Olympus Fashion week, Runway has made me believe in intelligent design. Sit down, Darwin, I'm not talking about God here, but if divinity is female, she's probably wearing one of those colorful, flowing, straight-out-of-Miami Beach print dresses that have become German designer Uli Herzner's bread and butter this season.
Simply put, what's great about Runway is that you don't have to understand Zac Posen or shop at Bergdorf's to be your own judge - it's your prerogative to like Laura Bennett's empire-waisted cocktail dresses with beads, fringe and plunging necklines, regardless of whether you're a subscriber to Vogue. I'm more likely to be found in popped collars and sweatpants than in Dolce & Gabbana, and yet here I am, addicted to a show that's more TLC than MTV, more a Reading Rainbow of fashion than another bug-eating challenge on the "Fear Factor."
The sheer fact that I am able to ramble on about the unflattering sternum keyhole cutout on Michael Knight's glorified prom gown disaster dress should speak to the universal appeal of the show. What's most innovative and progressive about Runway is its widespread appeal, even amidst all the technical jargon. It's the living proof that reality television has evolved from the days of "Joe Millionaire" - at least in terms of its wardrobe.
The way such clothes are modeled is the topic of another show: "America's Next Top Model," already in its seventh "cycle" (it still remains unclear why "season" was abandoned for a word associated with the words "monthly" and "washing machine," but thus is Tyra Banks' genius). Setting aside the fact that most young models are probably shipped from Bulgaria at the ripe age of 14 to begin squeezing into size 00 couture, ANTM sells the idea that modeling is about more than just having a pretty face - it's about having a hot body too.
ANTM is the televised equivalent of crack cocaine: It's less about skillful construction and more about what happens when the seams unravel. Indeed, with its weekly dose of debauchery, mayhem and over-the-top model personalities, ANTM is a testament to the fact that divas sell shows. From drunk, disastrous, dysfunctional diva judges like Janice Dickinson to delusional contestant divas like Jade, who speak in the third person and look like aliens, nothing makes for more amusing television.
Not to hark back to my seventh grade infatuation with "Dawson's Creek" more than necessary, but don't you always need a strung-out Andie McPhee to balance the babblings of a pre-Suri Joey Potter? I thought so. Personality wins on ANTM, but blandness can lose just as quickly.
That's not to say modeling isn't difficult - I'd be hard-pressed to walk on cobblestone in four-inch Manolos, strut my stuff in haute couture without giggling, pose like a contortionist on a pedestal or look "fierce" in photographs without seeming angry or constipated. To be sure, trying to please Miss Jay on the runway, then playboy photographer Nigel during a shoot, tripped-out Twiggy during judging and Tyra on a talk-show all in one hour is pretty exhausting. But at the end of the day, that's why I go to school instead of living on a diet of celery and laxatives.
Put that celery away, Courtney Jenkins '07.
