Apparently I was not supposed to watch The Pussycat Dolls Present: The Search for the Next Doll. Not because it’s a horrible show that will soften my already doughy brain and fuel my disgust for 21st century women, but because any remotely good ratings will kill Veronica Mars’ slim chance of being renewed for a 4th season. I did not know that last night.
The Search for the Next Doll poses more questions than I can think to ask and too many that just don’t have any answer, so I will sum the hour up with a rhetorical “huh?”. Skipping the process of the initial round of auditions where thousands of girls showed up desperate to be the next doll, we find ourselves with 18 girls who are immediate broken down into mini-groups to perform three singles from the Pussycat Dolls’ vast repertoire. At the end of the hour, nine are chosen to compete for the duration of the show’s two month run.
Some of the contestants are dancers, some of them are singers, most are rejects from more competitive reality shows, but they’re all whores. If you’re not into hip gyrations and crotch thrusting, the highlight of the show is most definitely the sound bites offered by some of the girls. Natascha explains why she wants to be the next doll: “I think the Pussycat Dolls have had a large influence on my generation, and that is why I gravitate towards their music.” Just five years my junior, I’d really like to think that our influences aren’t that dissimilar, but it would appear that the PCD are more renowned in the parts of the Midwest where they’re giving white girls names like Chanté and Anjelia.
The strangest and most annoying facet of the show comes from host, and former Sugar Ray front man, Mark McGrath. In his seemingly endless fall to the bottom of the low culture barrel, the heir to Pat O’Brien’s syndicated throne clearly took this job just to be surrounded by the last breed of women who actually want to have sex with him.
The best part of the show came in a moment that won’t likely be duplicated in any subsequent episodes or on any other show this year. Taking a page from the climax of Kirsten Dunst’s late-nineties gem Drop Dead Gorgeous, Anjelia (too sick to dance!) returns from the doctor’s office with some terrible news; she’s contracted a virus. “Like a virus you could spread?” asks one Doll in training. (Yes, Anastacia, you’re all getting AIDS. Being the next Pussycat Doll requires a certain amount of sacrifice!) Several minutes later we see all but 5 of the girls blowing chucks in toilets, bushes, limos and off of hotel room balconies (I wish). They all muster the energy to perform, but the combination of melodrama and graphic shots of lady-vomit is as good as this show is going to get.
Though for obvious reasons I will not be watching any more of The Search for the Next Doll, there is one thing to be gained for anyone who does. If two years of radio-play and bad American Idol auditions haven’t already left you sick of “Don’t Cha,” the show’s insistence on playing the track in the background of every scene may finally purge it from your system.
Editor’s note: It is not lost on me that the last several posts have concerned scantily clad women who may or may not have syphilis. I promise to return to scripted television about fully clothed people immediately.
After the first episode, it’s clear that this show is attempting to provide the viewer with more than just a trashy way to pass half an hour. A dating show, it offers up the usual fare of forced sexuality and slimy personalities. But as a service show, it promises to teach confused straight girls (and even more confused gay men) how to better hone their gaydar and avoid the painfully awkward moments that seem likely to ensue at the end of each episode. Trial by error is much easier when it’s someone else’s error.