By Michael E. Miller
By Ryan Yousefi
By Kyle Munzenrieder
By Sabrina Rodriguez
By Michael E. Miller
By Carlos Suarez De Jesus
By Luther Campbell
By Kyle Munzenrieder
A risky move, but the counterattack turned everyone's negative ass around, and from then on it was all uncommonly personal, a triumphant, if occasionally surreal, evangelistic lovefest crossed with a faux USO revue and just-us-girls talk show. Full-bore numbers drifted off into massive engagement with the audience, from casual chats to dance contests and total seduction. One fan rose up in abject supplication, bearing witness to her glory, and LaBelle obligingly brought him on-stage for an elegant duet and slow dance. Lyric fragments spiraled off into scatting, general whoops, and notes sustained to infinity, the showboating followed by an absolutely straight rendition of the classic ballad "At Last," crystallized with perfection. In between numbers she wallowed in self-promotion ("I'm wearing my own makeup line tonight, and honey, it's about to fall on the floor.... Have you all been to my club, Chez LaBelle?") and alternately embraced maudlin sentiment, self-pity, grandiosity, and hubris, remaining drop-dead lovable throughout. But then she's a splendid creation, still here after losing her sisters to cancer, and forever unto end a true star.
Unfortunately, the soul train went astray for Oprah Winfrey -- actress, media tycoon, being with a certifiable grip -- and we just missed her closing-night speech at the Fontainebleau Hilton ballroom. As people will, the delegates were still chewing over small matters: Oprah's hair weave, the relative fineness of companion Steadman Graham, Winfrey's disavowal of let-us-now-praise-dysfunction talk shows. The world by the balls, and yet she looked decidedly glum at the head table. As fate would have it, Winfrey glided right by us on the way out, close enough for all that good fortune to rub off. Mightily intimidated, we wimped out completely: This legend, quite obviously, was in no mood to be fucked with. In need of a drink and change of scenery, we stumbled over to Tommy Pooch's party at the Forge, and there's Richard Bey, the pioneer of postmodern trash-talk television, down from New York City for a respite in the Sensurround dementia of Miami Beach. He never knew what hit him.
A locus of controversy, Bey has taken the scratch-and-sniffle dimensions of the talk-show form, the human slop jar that Oprah has sworn off, and added burlesque, media parody, game-show high jinks, and hard-edged humor. It's all a kind of freak show anyway, the fall of Rome revisited with TV gladiators and jeering hordes, ritualized as kabuki theater. The host, awash in crocodile tears, lobs probing and generally specious questions at the kinky, criminal, pathetic, and merely low-rent, as the audience passes judgment on only-for-the-cameras breakdowns and true psychic bloodlettings. Worse yet, there's an ugly lie at the heart of the public stonings, the whole mess supposedly being geared toward the edification and moral instruction of the masses. Bey's version of tabloid theater is pitilessly honest, and it doesn't suffer from the mock seriousness that shrouds the other shows: Sally Jessy Raphael's yenta humanism; Montel Williams's thunderings on propriety; Jerry Springer's pointless pontificating, and the endless horror of Geraldo Rivera.
And in the end, Bey knows what the savages want. The clueless Rolanda Watts crying on cue, pretending to sympathize with the poor while patently longing to head back uptown? Or "Queen of the Trailer Park," "Teenage Sex Maniacs," the "Mrs. Big Butt Contest," and the "Voice of Truth," liars strapped to a wheel of torture like medieval sinners? What other gleeful horseman of the apocalypse could host "Dysfunctional Family Feud," a John Waters wet dream come to life, 350-pound sons squaring off against slut daughters with middle-age boyfriends, alcoholic dads, hot-number moms, and the generally shiftless? That said, Bey, a Yale drama school alumnus who graduated with Meryl Streep and Sigourney Weaver, proved immensely likable, a good listener and an even better talker, the perfect tablemate.
Under the sway of his sympathetic nature, we immediately blurted out our secret addiction -- limping home from the debasements of nightclubs, then rubbing salt in the wounds with garbage TV -- before engaging in a little trade talk. Oprah's ratings have slipped, and sweet pea Ricki Lake is closing in -- you can't beat cute, as we've learned from bitter experience. This season, Carnie Wilson of the used-to-be-big Wilson Phillips is getting her own program, as well as the 22-year-old Tempestt Bledsoe, professional pixie from Bill Cosby's old sitcom. And then there's Danny Bonaduce, former Partridge Family star, drug addict, and transsexual abuser, an icon of mondo celebrity and Bey's friend: "Danny was Hugh Grant before Hugh Grant, and he's one of the few I'm worried about. He wants me to do his show -- that's what it comes down to, hosts doing other talk shows -- but I don't know.... No, of course, I'm not too big."