Now, to be clear, the dream crushing of "American Idol" actually disturbs me. When a kid has managed to avoid learning that he has no talent at all for years and years, and then Simon tells him, on national TV, that not only is he utterly deluded, but he's incredibly annoying and pathetic to boot? I mean, it's a crime, because those really bad singers on "American Idol" do have talent -- they have a special talent for avoiding any feedback that might indicate that they have no talent. Like a dog that thinks it's a human or a dictator of a small country who dreams of someday meeting Tom Cruise, such delusional types are better left undisturbed. Only a very cruel sort of a person would dare to burst such a bubble!
Aspiring Broadway singers, on the other hand, are like child beauty pageant contestants or members of ironic rockabilly bands: You gaze into their sickly sweet faces and their big, glassy saucer eyes and you want to hurt their feelings and crush their dreams and make them feel 3 inches tall. They have some talent, sure, and years of vocal training and a few dance lessons and lots of experience flashing the most energetic of jazz hands, but they're using their talents for evil, not for good. Plus, they love themselves way, way too much. Remember, it's not the greatest love of all if it's hurtful to other people.
Take Ashley. She looked like a blow-up sex doll for pedophiles and sang with so much emotion, she had a perpetual lump in her throat, one that, sadly, also made it difficult for her to hit the high notes. No one liked her voice all that much, but she was just so deliciously perky and childlike, plus there was so much raw hurt in her eyes, like a hungry kitten. Ashley was begging to be rejected, so the judges and producers kept dragging her through to the next round despite her lack of a good voice, knowing that when she cried big salty tears, it would make for some excellent television.
Like Ashley, the other aspiring Dannys and Sandys seem to have no idea that the audience at home finds them ever-so-slightly creepy. You can see it in their eyes, when they step up to the stage, the women in their bad SuperStar Barbie dresses and their silver stilettos, the men in their dorky man-blouses and pleather ass-pants. To them, this is not a sick cross between talent show and freak show, but a date with destiny! So, like figures at a Broadway Hits wax museum come to life, the little Dannys and Sandys jump, jive and wail their big, open, romantic hearts out while we at home roll our eyes and criticize their tone quality and then change the channel.
And yes, we do change the channel. "Grease: YTOTIW" was a tiny bit amusing back when all the kids were enrolled in "Grease Academy" (oof) trying to learn how to sing in bubble-gum Broadway voices and dance with empty smiles plastered on their faces. We got to see several dreams crushed per episode. But now that there are only a handful of finalists performing on a cheesy stage, the show is unbearable. Instead of belting out your favorite hits from "Grease," the finalists sing alarmingly dorky renditions of pop songs (Remember when your junior high school band played "Hit Me With Your Best Shot" and changed all the eighth notes to quarter notes?) and the arrangements suck and the choreography is pure Disneyfied hell and, basically, the whole thing makes "American Idol" look like great art.
Plus, the judges' comments are toothless and benign and insipid. Imagine replacing Simon Cowell and Randy Jackson with two more Paula Abduls. Here are some of the creepiest little dreamers on the planet, ready to have their little ducks blasted out of the water, their bubbles burst, their apple-pie-in-the-sky hopes shot to smithereens, and all they get from the judges are some smiles and supportive remarks about how good their "energy" was. Come on, guys! You know what we want. We want to see these adorable little bunnies gasp and collapse into a heap, right there onstage, hugging their knees and rocking back and forth mumbling, "This isn't happening, this isn't happening!" until some men in white suits have to inject them with horse tranquilizers and drag them off by their ankles, weeping all the way. "Sorry, Jimmy, but you're not the one that we want to play Danny on Broadway. You're the one that we want to fall to pieces and turn to a life of booze and meth and wayward women."
Next page: Searching for the next great white rapper