A Hunka Hunka Flaming Pie. AI Re-cap 1/23/07

Welcome back, friends and readers to the first installment of this week’s American Idol re-caps. Since the show is mercifully only one hour this week, I thought I would chime in on the recent announcement of the Oscar nominations. Some of my following observations…

I can't believe they nominated that fat toad, Abagail Breslin, for giving one of the worst child actor performances, ever. Dakota Fanning must be seething.

Alan Arkin gets nominated for giving the same performance he’s been handing out for the past 20 years, the irascible and/or lovable loser who speaks very quietly. Seriously, the man has a patent on this performance. Rumor has it, they first offered the role to Danny Aiello, but Arkin’s lawyers interceded and claimed all roles of this nature must be played by Alan Arkin and Alan Arkin, only. True story. And for this, the Academy passed up Michael Sheen’s incredible performance in “The Queen.”

Sasha Baron Cohen gets passed over for best actor over Ryan Gosling, yet to throw him a bone, they nominate him and four other writers for Best Adapted Screenplay for a script that was largely improvised. Nice job, AMPAS.

Three, count 'em, three songs were nominated from “Dreamgirls” and I bet not one person could tell you which were the new ones and which were the ones from the original Broadway score.

Jennifer Hudson is about to become this century’s first “Dr. Haing S. Ngor,” winning an Academy Award she doesn’t really deserve and then becoming a trivia question and nothing more.

Phillip Glass gets nominated for his score for “Notes on a Scandal,” quite possibly the worst score of the year, and that includes adult films.

Leonardo DeCaprio gets nominated for the worst accent heard in a film this year (fake) and Mark Wahlberg gets nominated for the worst accent heard in a film this year (real)

Al Gore gets nominated for talking in front of a screen for 90 minutes with no discernible filmmaking skills on display (however interesting the subject matter was), yet "Who Killed the Electric Car," which was about the same general subject matter but managed to feel and play like a real film with plot, suspense, drama and tension, gets ignored. At least we're spared any Holocaust films this year, though that was probably on purpose to assure An Inconvenient Truth would win.

Martin Scorcese is finally going to get an Oscar. Not for directing such masterpieces as “Taxi Driver,” “Raging Bull,” or “Goodfellas,” but for directing a film whose last moment is a two minute shot of a rat on a window ledge so the viewer really gets the symbolism. They used to do things like that in my first year film school classes.

Diane Lane for “Hollywoodland” and Phyllis Somerville for “Little Children,” the two very best supporting actress performances this year, both get passed over for that fat little monster, Abagail Breslin. (It bears repeating.)

But you came here to listen to me bitch about Idol and bitch about Idol, I shall. Proving once again, we have our fingers on the pulse when it comes to AI, did I not call it last week when I said that viewers would not stand for the fake bad auditions and the abject cruelty of the real bad ones? Idol fans are in an uproar with the show, producers and judges for doling out such harsh criticism to the little auditioning lambs. Though ratings were at an all-time high for the beginning of the season, many critics and viewers complained long and loud, calling the first two episodes the worst ever of Idol. Keep it up, folks. I think you will see a change, if not this season, then definitely in seasons to come. Keep letting your frustration be heard.

Tonight, we’re in Memphis, Tennessee, because apparently the producers figured if we weren’t scared off last year by the sight of Priscilla Presley’s living Michael Myers mask, then nothing could keep us from tuning in. Ryan Seacrest is yammering on about the sights, sounds and smells of Memphis. I’m waiting for the shot of Marc Cohn with a gaping head wound to pique my interest. Did anyone happen to catch Howard Stern this past week completely ripping Seacrest a new anus? Stern was vicious and merciless, mocking Ryan’s obsequious interviewing style on the red carpet at the Golden Globes, one of the several thousand reasons I switched from XM to Sirius, and no, I’m not being paid to say that, though I happily would shill if someone wants to offer me an endorsement agreement.

First up in the human interest story queue is 21 year old Frank Byers, a young black college student with unfortunate pit stains who is also a cheerleader. Frank (or the producers) has brought his cheer squad down to do a couple splits, yells and shake some tit for Old Rydell (whoops, wrong reality show, sorry.) The segment is a little silly, but Frank actually comes across as a nice, humble guy, so my guess is this was not his idea. Still, I can’t tell if he’s going to do well or not. This is what these shows have come down to, trying to figure out if the person with a “segment” is going to fail or proceed. Simon reveals that Frank’s nickname is “Franks & Beans,” though to his credit, Frank rolls his eyes when he says it. I’m gonna predict he does not get through for nothing else than a gut feeling. He’s singing some Marvin Gaye and he’s not so great, but he’s not embarrassing. Simon hated it, calling it “cabaret” for the first time this season. Interrupting Simon, Frank Launches into “Unchain My Heart.” The kid is dead meat. Simon tries to stop him, but Frank persists. Dead meat. Outside the audition room, Frank’s cheer squad rallies into action, picking up all 5’2” of Ryan (who is like a pig in shit) and the marching band goes into overtime, while back in the audition room, Simon is already in a bad mood, wondering aloud if Frank realizes he’s not going through.

Back from the break and somewhere in the crowd of hopefuls, I see Fab Moran from Milli Vanilli is hoping to stage his comeback. But in the audition room, Tamika Simms, today’s first punching bag, is about ready to go audition. Let’s hope for Rosie O’Donnell’s sake, Simon doesn’t compare her to a Bush Baby, even though her freaky eyes are just about as bugged out as last week’s schmuck. Tamika speaks as though she’s found Paula’s secret stash of muscle relaxers, which, let’s face it, are probably taped to the bottom of every toilet tank lid in every ladies room in the building. Ryan peppers Tamika with the same hard hitting questions he used on Angelina Jolie on the red carpet. Tamika could care less about him, or maybe she just can’t see him, as her eyes are still dilated from her trip to the Optometrist. Once in the room, Simon asks if Tamika feels she can be the next American Idol. Tamika responds (however mumbly) that she thinks she could be the next Mya and she and Simon go round a few times with him asking, “The next Mayor??” and her replying, “Mya,” until Randy finally clears it up. Apparently, Simon thought she was speaking in a cockney accent. Maybe he forgot he wasn’t auditioning kids for the new West End production of “Oliver,” on that new BBC show “Consider Yourself!- The Search for the New Oliver Twist.” Tamika sings an Ashanti song and from her nasal delivery, it’s clear her eyes are so bulgy because her sinuses are pushing them through the sockets. All three judges basically tell her that no only can he not sing, but they couldn’t understand a word she said. Simon wants to know who Tamika think she sounds like. Instead of clearly answering “Eddie Murphy doing “Buckwheat,” she responds “Ashanti.” Tamika asks to sing another song, is told no, then charges right into “Secret Lovers.” I was really hoping it was going to be “Wookin Pa Nub.”

Christopher Rivera performs a really bad version of “Supersition,” though it doesn’t compare to the poor fashion choice of those jeans he’s wearing. However he’s just an appetizer for the next contestant, Alexis, who seems to be wearing the good luck bridge she got from her dead grandmother’s mouth. Alexis is accompanied by jangling bracelets, is rejected, then slips on the pile of apple cores she’d been snacking on before her audition.

Sundance is up next. Sundance is a cute, hairy little bear cub who is self-effacing about his hippie name, even though he suffers some very unfortunate chin pubes. Sundance’s dad is ‘60s singer Roy Head who had a #1 pop hit back in the day that’s so obscure, I’ve never even heard of him. Sundance looks older than the requisite cut off of 29, but at this point, the producers are probably happy to fudge for someone with talent. Sundance enters the room and Simon, seeing 300 lbs of unmarketability, is immediately rude to the man, slagging off his recent marriage and impending baby. Paula shakes her head in disbelief right along with me. On the chyron, we see “Sundance” is actually a nickname and the man is named Jason. So he really does have no excuse. Fantastic. I now can refrain from ever having to type the word again and will refer to him as Jason. Jason is singing “Stormy Monday.” He does, as Simon later says, “blow Taylor out of the park,” though for my money, Bo Bice had a richer, fuller, more accomplished voice without having to resort to so many melismas. They love him and Simon says he’ll be shocked if Jason doesn’t make it to the finals. I won’t. Top 12, probably, but they won’t put this kind of voice in the finals three years in a row.

Wandera Hitchye, (who would actually benefit by taking the name “Sundance”) stopped off at RuPaul’s mother’s salon and got her hair did before coming in to audition. She sings “A Change Gon’ Come,” and has a good, solid voice. Surprisingly, she is told by all three judges that her voice is nothing special and she sounds like a million other singers out there. And their point is??? Shit, if originality was a criterion for going to Hollywood, then the show would be off the air in two weeks. They shamefully reject this girl while taking so many other worse singers, and though yes, she probably would not have gone too far on the show, she had enough promise to get further than she did. Wandera is understandably upset, but my computer is heaving a sigh of relief as her name almost short circuited the spelling program.

Unfunny montage of rejections before Seacrest segues into another one of his annoyingly faux sincere voiceovers. You know, the ones he does when he’s about to introduce some buffoon. That buffoon is named Travis McKinney, who brought his very own shovel and pickaxe to dig his grave. Travis is quite obviously one of those idiots we’ve been complaining about this season and he minute he starts doing his “thing,” I check out. Sorry, won’t cover any more plants.

This week’s slutty chick is named Danielle McCullouch. She’s much worse than Wandera Hitchye, but she’s pretty, peroxided and wearing a low cut top, so she’s gonna make it. Randy calls it and says no, claiming Danielle will be gone immediately if she gets put through to Hollywood, but Paula and Simon say yes. I’m not sure who is the dumber whore, Danielle or Simon.

We’re at the halfway mark and my kitten is looking at me very impatiently, waiting for me to hurry up and finish so she can get access to my lap. This past year, I adopted a second cat, a little blue manx I named Hedwig, because she has a little nub for a tail that she wags when she gets mad, which I dubbed her “angry inch.” Hedwig was in the shelter with pneumonia, malnourished and dehydrated and about to be put to sleep. Now she’s happy and healthy and about to turn 8 months old. I’m very big on adoption of pets from the public shelters in favor of buying from a pet store or a mill, so if anyone is considering a new pet, please visit the shelter first. Okay, off my soapbox and back to the show.

Paula has a superfan and he’s not dressed as a Beefeater, though he looks like he’s eaten a few cattle in his lifetime. His name is Topher McCain and he thinks Paula is way hot. Topher (Ugh, I hate this recent modernization of Christopher. It’s like the Kwanzaa of nicknames.) reveals to us that his wife has recently left him. He found out she was sleeping with another guy, but can you blame her? The poor woman had fractures on both sides of her hipbones from Topher being on top. Topher thinks that when he reaches the top (of Idol) that his wife will come crawling back, but he won’t be having any of it. Topher, that gal is gonna be harder to find than Ameila Earhart.

While Topher is saying his goodbyes, the hooker Randy ordered has arrived at the convention center. My mistake, it’s just the next Idol hopeful, Janita Burks. Janita says her style is very important. It works in with her “confidentiality.” Well, it’s nice to know she can be discreet about her johns. That’s always a good quality in a lady of the evening. Style “boostes” Janita’s confidence, but she believes in dressing sexy, but not too over the top. Because everyone knows, if you want to see pink, you have to come up with the green. Janita is singing “Disco Inferno,” in her sexy, yet conservative way and her breasts almost set off another fire. Janita does not impress the judges but asks if she can sing another song. What is it with the people of Memphis that they just can’t take no for an answer? Janita is turned down again, but she shouldn’t feel too bad. Outside the audition room is a line of Shriners waiting to sample Janita’s other talents.

Some asshole is dressed like Fidel Castro and trying to pretend he’s actually being serious, so I’m gonna go use the bathroom while he wastes everyone else’s time.
Unortunately, no one gets the joke and he is put through to Hollywood, so I have to rewind and watch. His name is Sean Michel and he has a decent, if unspectacular voice. Expect a freakout along the lines of that moron from last year who sang the Meatloaf song during Hollywood week.

Melinda Doolittle, however, is a professional background singer and looks like a cross between Vonzell Solomon (remember her?) and a young Gladys Knight. She’s excited and very nervous. She’s adorable and articulate and has a lovely, rich voice. She’s humble and cute and is singing the shit out of a Stevie Wonder song. I love her and so do the judges. Let’s hope she doesn’t squander our good graces. I remember I loved Paris Bennett’s audition, too.

Robert Lee Holmes thinks he sounds just like Elvis. I’d say he sounded more like Weird Harold from the Fat Albert cartoons, but hey, what do I know? Fantasia built a middling career convincing five people she was the next Aretha Franklin. I think the real story in this segment is the pink gingham western shirt Seacrest is sporting. Yee-ikes! Meanwhile, Stepin Fetchitt is claiming he has an “outstanding voice and an outstanding vocal.” From the looks of his teeth, I’d bet he probably has an outstanding warrant, as well. Robert is wearing a brown suit he borrowed from Fred Sanford’s friend Grady, sings horrendously and may be a bit teched. ‘Nuff said.

Oh goody, another montage of the same song. I wish I had to pee again.

Last scene. It’s Phil Stacy, who is here to audition, and missed the birth of his first child to do so. Hey, way to make memories, Phil. Can’t wait until the kid is old enough to hear that one. Start saving for therapy now. Phil is kind of a moron. He claims the baby is more important to him than getting through to Hollywood, yet here he stands. Actions speak louder, my friend. Phil sings “My Girl,” by The Temptations. He’ll go through, but he’s not going to make it too much further than that. I’d say he made the wrong choice. Twenty two contestants get through but instead of seeing more than a handful of them, we get to go home and see Phil and his new baby, whom he named Mikala.

And with that, is there anything else to say? Seagulls out.