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Survivors? Thrivers. Going for ItBy Rick Horowitz
They've got milk. They're square with Hollywood. They're huge with the Hughleys. And they're just getting started. You know who they are, and you know what they did: They spent week after week struggling for survival (more or less) on a certain rat-and-camera-infested island in the South Pacific. Now they're back home, and they're doing what anybody would do who'd just spent week after week struggling for survival on a rat-and-camera-infested island in the South Pacific. They're cashing in. The fat one and the nasty one, of course, not to mention the cute one and the black one and -- I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Hey, Rick, who are you to talk about these folks? You didn't even watch the thing!" Untrue. Untrue. Untrue. That's exactly the way ugly rumors get started. I'll have you know I watched every one of the last ten minutes of the final episode. (The plane was late -- I had to do something.) But it's not as if I wasn't keeping track even before that. There were stories in the newspapers -- oceans of stories -- and conversations in the hallways. Fifty million Americans can't be wrong: "Survivor" was a megahit, and megahits ooze into every nook and cranny of this grand and glorious land of ours. Kind of like an oil spill, but with better editing. So I knew all I needed to know, thank you very much, about devious Richard and tart-tongued Sue and crusty Rudy and hanging-on-by-her-fingernails Kelly. I winced with the rest of the civilized world when Richard won it all. And I was delighted to see the whole assortment of innocents and back-stabbers home from their ordeal, safe and sound and showered, ready to get on with the rest of their lives. Grabbing for the gold. They've already got agents, most of them. They've already got TV gigs -- soaps and sitcoms, dramas and game shows. And don't forget the Reebok ads and the book proposals and the offers from Playboy. (More skin? Do we really need to see more skin?) Meanwhile, whole new career paths are suddenly beckoning for some of the semi-sweet 16. Or at least one new career path, which has caught the eye of two of them. "I think hosting is my forte," says Jenna. "I'm going for it," says Sue. "Game-show host...commercial endorsements." Who'd have imagined it? Marooned on an island, and suddenly people want to be TV hosts! Is this the start of a trend? Will employment counselors have to stick a brand-new page into their loose-leaf binders? "Let's see now. 'Host.' 'Host.' Here we are: 'Qualifications.' Have you ever eaten a rodent?" Of course, their qualifications -- Jenna and Sue and the rest of them, too -- are the least important part of the package. Or rather, they've each got the only qualification that really counts anymore: They're famous. Famous for what? It doesn't matter. Good famous? Bad famous? Nobody cares. Not the agents, not the bookers, not the companies panting at the chance to slap their own names onto this amazing rocket. Famous brings in the eyeballs. Eyeballs bring in the money. So why shouldn't they sign on the dotted line? Get it while you can. Get it before the next rocket comes along. Can you blame them? That's the way the game is played. Posted 8/31/00. Sign
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Rick Horowitz