"I set my standards high."--the winning contestant on "Who Wants to Marry a Multi-Millionaire"

CULTURE CATASTROPHE: 'WHO WANTS TO MARRY...'

I am ashamed to be associated with pop culture this week. In fact, these past seven days might just drive me to become... edgy. I should go out and buy horned-rimmed glasses and a matching smoking jacket, start hanging out at the Signet, watch Fellini in my spare time and invite discussions of Goethe instead of Cher--because, lord knows, I can't even begin to defend anything that happened this week in entertainment. (Maybe it's because I missed "Dawson's Creek"--the only thing that can possibly temper my spirits.) So what prompted such drastic disillusionment? A couple nights ago, I, like most of you--found myself entranced by "Who Wants to Marry a Multi-Millionaire." I mean, how could anyone resist? It actually should have been called "Who Wants to Be a Prostitute"--girls agree to sell their souls and body for the money of an anonymous millionaire (all we know about him is he's old, rich and quite desperate). Tasteless, tacky, totally trashy--but also semi-entertaining and amusing. But somewhere around 9:05 p.m., the show stopped being funny. I wanted to just scream out over and over, "Do you have any shame! Children are watching this! I'm going to call your mother!" (Then again, I suspect that all the contestants' mothers were in the audience, armed with cameras and Kleenex in case her daughter got married.)

Remember when the controversy over Miss America's swimsuit competition threatened to end that portion of the show forever? Those days are long gone. Now, little children can turn on their sets and watch a beauty pageant without the beauty or the pageantry--where the prize is an old, sleazy man rather than a tiara and sash, and the title Mrs. Multi-Millionaire is more desirable than Miss America. (A whip-smart friend pointed out that it would have been a mean little joke if the man's actual last name was Multi-Millionaire--a man who didn't have a dime to his name.) Watching the show was like watching a train wreck in slow motion--from the hostess dressed in ill-fitting gold, sequined spandex (my co-editor points out that no one should bare their shoulders at a religious event) to the millionaire's family and friends rating the various girls' swimwear to the poor attempts by the contestants to mask the importance of money in their decision to appear on the show (such a tragedy--to become so rich, they have to be so cheap...).

On top of all that, the whole thing reeked of a giant hoax. Come on, now! The Mrs. Multi-Millionaire winner was certainly the least attractive--so we looked carefully for the signs of tampering. Sure enough, she just "happened" to be from the same area of California as her husband, also roller-bladed, and eagerly gushed abou her love for golf (he, suspiciously enough, developed golf courses in the area). Most conspicuous was his lascivious romantic whispering in her ear right after she was crowned winner and the kiss which wasn't the least bit awkward. Did these two know each other?

CULTURE CATASTROPHE 2: OSCAR NOMINATIONS

I repeat: This country is going to [poop]. First, the Grammy nominations embarrassed us all by nominating Britney Spears, the Backstreet Boys and Christina Aguilera repeatedly (wait, didn't they give Celine Dion Best Album a couple years back?). And now, the Oscars prove once again that they cannot discern solid filmmaking from overindulgent hype. The voters only got two of the five Best Picture nominees right--American Beauty and The Insider. Because Oscar voters are voters for life, they all tend to be very, very old (I bet It's a Wonderful Life gets a few write-in votes every year)--so the nominees always represent either good, wholesome entertainment or box-office blockbusters (when older people are in doubt as to what's cool, they just follow the charts. By that rationale, Pokemon probably placed 6th in the Best Picture race.) So they nominate The Cider House Rules, The Green Mile and The Sixth Sense instead of the three real best pictures of the year--The Talented Mr. Ripley, Being John Malkovich and The End of the Affair (throw in Election or Toy Story 2 and I'd still be happy). To look edgy, they reluctantly toss in Spike Jonze for Best Director and omit Frank Darabont for The Green Mile even though the movie is nominated for Best Picture--but that just makes them look self-conscious and lame.

Best Actor egregiously leaves out Jim Carrey's performance in Man on the Moon in favor of Sean Penn in Woody Allen's Sweet and Lowdown, an omission that stings slightly less than if they had nominated Tom Hanks for The Green Mile. (Totally random diversion, here. Tom Hanks is a poor actor. Why does everyone insist he's God? Did anyone see The Burbs? How about Joe vs. the Volcano? Just because he cried in Philadelphia, slurred his speech in Forrest Gump and lowered his volume in Saving Private Ryan doesn't mean he's Brando. Come on.)

The Best Actress nominees are serviceable--but uselessly nominating Meryl Streep for Music of the Heart instead of Reese Witherspoon for Election is a cop-out. If Tom Cruise wins Best Supporting Actor for Magnolia, I'll turn to religion. And I pray that I'll be able to contain my temper when 'NSync takes the stage to perform their Best Original Song nominee, "Music of My Heart"--they'll perform instead of Madonna, whose "Beautiful Stranger" managed to miss the final cut. The good news? We'll also see "Blame Canada," performed on stage since the South Park tune somehow made it to the nominees list. South Park set to a full orchestra? That's the difference between good cultural catastrophe and bad cultural catastrophe.

SOMAN'S SHORTS

Crimson Arts is your ticket to arts and entertainment at Harvard and beyond. We'll hit Man of the Year and the new Pudding Show, "The Jewel of Denial" this week and have a full report for you next Friday--and look for the Spring Theater Preview and special surprise interviews in coming issues...Trying to figure out just how Harvard theater works, I signed on to help out a student writer whose play is going up in May. Pop-culture boy stranded on the island that is Harvard theater? All I can say is that the entire process is verrrry interesting. One of these days, I'll divulge... If 28 Days, Sandra Bullock's next movie, flops, she's gonna have to either a) do another Speed sequel, b) go to acting school or c) start doing infomercials... I think I'm the only one who thinks Whoopi Goldberg is a better Oscar host than Billy Crystal. Billy is nice and safe, but Whoopi was 100 percent grade-A raunch. After Vanessa Williams sang the hit song from Pocohontas, she wondered aloud about the color of her own "wind." And when she tackled Showgirls, she was just asking for trouble: "I haven't seen that many poles abused since WWII"... Poor Kelly Martin. She decided to leave "ER" and as punishment, the producers have her randomly butchered onscreen so that her bloodstained memory leaves a bitter taste... Leo on the cover of Time. Leo on the cover of Rolling Stone. Leo on the cover of Talk. My God! This boy's publicist deserves a raise. And several magazine editors deserve to be sacked. Isn't there a war in Bosnia? (And no, Leo, growing whiskers and a stubbly beard after like four months of trying doesn't mean we think you've made it through puberty.)... An intrepid student director dropped me an e-mail last week offering to take charge of my proposed music video thesis. I can't star in the thing since we all know that Indians can't be on TV, so I've decided the best way to get this thing on TRL is to form a boyband. If you want to be a star (and you're white, religious, a former member of the Mickey Mouse Club, etc.), drop me an e-mail...Oh, and if anybody wants to marry a hundred-aire, I'm accepting video applications.

Questions, Comments, Want to Be a Pop Star?

E-mail schainan@fas