Guiltiest Pleasure

About a year ago, I confessed to a guilty pleasure with which I was completely, hopelessly obsessed. It was a little Fox reality show called So You Think You Can Dance, and I dragged you all along with me for the imminent finale.

A lot can happen in a year. SYTYCD (we devotees go with all-initials sometimes) has transitioned from being “the one that isn’t Dancing with the Stars” to meriting its own niche in the reality foyer. It has also become something of an actual boon to the world of dance, with far more significance than any puffery belched out by Dancing with the Stars (it’s like comparing Roquefort to Velveeta, but don’t get me started). And now, a year later, we are approaching this season’s finale — tonight, in fact, if you pick up this paper on Thursday.

For anyone thoroughly uninterested in So You Think You Can Dance (what are you, a book-reader or something?), I recommend you stick around for a paragraph or two. I will be confessing to a new obsession, a hardcore guilty pleasure that will splay me clean across the lower depths of public opinion.

But first, about this year’s finale! It has been a season of some extra-good talent and some extra-horrible camera work. When we were actually able to see the numbers, very impressive efforts came from dancers and choreographers alike. For the first time, winnowing down the Top 10 contestants was a painful process, with significant talent dismissed on a weekly basis. Post-winnow, we are left with the finale’s four: a skilled and expressive contemporary dancer named Courtney, an agile and endearing hip-hopper named Twitch, a crazy-strong and versatile breakdancer-with-benefits named Joshua, and a deceptively demure dynamo (she deserves the alliteration) named Katee. The true battle will likely be between Joshua and Katee, who have fulfilled the show’s mandate by growing in depth and skill all season long. They are both dancing with genuine brilliance, and whichever one threw some inexplicable extra into the mix last night (after my deadline) should take all the candy on tonight’s conclusion.

If you tolerated the recap just to get to the promised humiliation, I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. Before the horrifying reveal, however, a quick word in my defense: The media rep at ABC Television told me that the New York Times and the Los Angeles Times are likewise entranced with this über-guilty pleasure. (I asked if the London Times loves it also, but she said she only handles domestic publicity.)

A few weeks ago in this column, I decried the declining state of civilization, as embodied by two of ABC’s new summer reality series. One is called I Survived a Japanese Game Show, and while it hasn’t capsized humanity, neither has it offered anything particularly seductive or redemptive. The other show — toward which I believe I may have been particularly snarky — is called Wipeout.

I have come to look forward to the weekly installments of Wipeout with a glee normally associated with a tray of Sara Lee frozen brownies. Since I don’t believe Sara Lee makes frozen brownies any longer, this is a rare — albeit primal and remorse-inducing — glee indeed. I think I was particularly vitriolic in my description of the Big Balls segment of Wipeout. I now love the Big Balls segments. I freeze the DVR and replay the Big Balls segments. I am doomed. But then, so are two or three different Times franchises. Man the lifeboats, humanity!

All I can say is, the freakin’ thing just makes me laugh. I could attempt some sociological context to justify my aberranc: With John McCain having no legitimate virtues to rival Barack Obama, his “The One” campaign is simply attacking Obama for being excellent. Talk about your Big Balls. The fact that America might heed the siren song of the moron could make me despair. But fiddle-dee-dee, I’ll take refuge from my higher-minded concerns with the lowest of diversions.

The hosts of Wipeout have found a comfy narration groove that goes from the sardonic to the silly, and the contestants approach their padded and rubberized collisions with a sunniness and determination that are both admirable and eye-rolling. I find myself also looking forward to the new and absurd ways the production team reaches further heights and depths with the stunts themselves. It’s an interesting demonstration of American resourcefulness and exploitation, as the work-in-progress feel of the evolving stunt course keeps achieveing greater ridiculous satisfaction. And kudos to whomever scored the peppy little music track that takes us to commercial. It is as if orchestrated for piccolo and kettle drum, then arranged as surf music. And, like every other absurd component of this unashamed thing, I just can’t get enough.

I await my penance. Wheeeee.  

Scott Patrick Wagner’s blog, “Multiple Personality” can be found at blog.scottpatrickwagner.com.