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Who wants to marry a multimillionaire? | page 1, 2
And though she was certainly surprised, she didn't look exactly pleased when Multi ambled over and took her hand. Because the man was all chin. Well, 50 percent chin, 50 percent quiet desperation. Expressing shock at all the trouble that had been gone to "for him," he spoke eloquently on the subject of contestants' rights ("It's not fair that I got to ask them all the questions. It's not fair that I got to see them and they didn't get to see me") and planted a big, wet one on his fiancée, who was, by then, shaking like a leaf and looking quite pale. Then they got married. Nobody cried. And now, perhaps, we should take a moment to reflect on the state and fate of the networks in this age of information on command (well, almost). Maybe it's time American networks made like the Europeans and started trotting out hot, half-naked girls whenever the news needs reading or a letter needs turning. Or maybe the producers could have considered partnering up with Jerry Springer or Ricki Lake. They could have called it "Get Your Hands off My Multimillionaire, Bitch!" or "Bitch Stole My Multimillionaire." That might have been fun. What wasn't fun at all -- and remained not fun all the way through the repulsive denouement -- was watching these "real" women answer questions about why they'd be perfect for, um, whoever. They made Marla Maples look principled. Every time they cut to the back of Multi's head, I wished that something truly outlandish would happen. Something that would really make television history -- like that he'd turn around and have no nose. (What if he had no nose and they forced the contestant to marry him anyway? Why not? "Felicity" did a "Twilight Zone" episode.) But no such luck. The groom is unveiled and he's just a big-chinned real estate developer who's excited about the beachside "estates" he's erecting. All he wants is to find an average-looking 34-year-old nurse to be insular and domestic and take walks on the beach with. And for that he has to go on TV and marry a stranger. It was all so droopy and sad. It was just no fun at all. I'm only saying this because, if this thing goes to series, we will watch it only to witness moral bankruptcy on parade. And if you're going to put it on parade, put it on parade. Enough with the muted grays and wholesome questions. Include a talent show. Have the girls perform song-and-dance numbers. Hold a pie-baking race. Make them blow a banana. But try to dress it all up in the cloak of respectability and the air goes out of the balloon and distracts us from what's really important -- gawking at people who are very, very ill. Judging from the look of abject terror and remorse on the bride's face, "Who Wants to Marry a Multi-Millionaire?" probably won't, after all, make television history. But it might be the kind of thing that eventually makes the networks history.
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