Famous Door’s Dating Game: Uncensored
I’m not convinced that game-show hosts are fully human. They never seem to come from anywhere in particular, except maybe other game shows, materializing before us like highly advanced alien life forms (it’s not a strain to imagine wires popping out of the back of Wink Martindale’s head). And with few exceptions they seem perfectly ahistorical creatures, hermetically sealed within a timeless world of sparkling oversize set pieces, invisible soundproof booths, and unmanageable screaming idiots. Their world is unaffected by even the most monumental of social or political upheavals; time has meaning only in 30-second increments during the speed round.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
Jim Lange, host of The Dating Game, was the game-show host’s game-show host. Poised and unfailingly vacant, Lange combined the animatronic slickness of the Hall of Presidents with the mesmerizing appeal of the reptile house. And he knew when to get out of the way. We didn’t necessarily tune in to listen to his patter or gawk at his magnificently lapelled velvet jackets–though such gawking was a delightful perk. Like most Americans spellbound before the televised public spectacle, we tuned in to watch people make fools of themselves and to congratulate ourselves on our own better judgment.
The show’s real strength, however, is the same as it was in the original: the voyeuristic thrill of watching strangers publicly negotiate date making while trying to avoid the nearly unavoidable snares of self-humiliation. Just imagine having to declare your love “as if you were Shakespeare” or enumerate the “dirty words you would never say” in front of a rowdy late-night audience. On the night I attended, most of the contestants got out with their self-esteem pretty much intact, at least as far as I could tell. Moreover, they were generally articulate, funny, and of course shameless–perfect for the prurient middle-class interest of the assembled audience. Since the air-conditioning was on the fritz, the least the contestants could do was titillate.
Hosted by butch dyke Flick and lipstick lesbian Fauna, this 90-minute jumble of half-formed comedy sketches barely makes it to the finish line. Ten minutes of promising material–most notably a send-up of love guru Joann Loulan explaining the difference between femme and butch–is buried under endless stammering, fumbling, and mugging. Half the time it seems as if the humor has been purposely siphoned off, leaving purely pedestrian conversation. When one caller laments that her ex-girlfriend won’t return her vibrator, for example, Fauna pulls a big face and suggests, “Go buy another one!” To which the caller replies, “They’re expensive!” Ba dum bum.
