Package 1: The left eye brow raises in uncertainty. The host’s slow, contemplative gaze turns from contestant to computer and back again.
"Could you repeat the question?"
"Most of North America is watching this program right now because
a) There’s nothing better on;
b) The host is fiendishly charming; (cue laugh track and coy chuckle from host)
c) Viewers want to find out, once and for all, if muffins are actually dairy products;
d) Shiny packaging."
"D."
The host shifts from right-leg-over-left, to left-over-right. "Are you sure? This is for a lot of money… the most ever given away on prime-time television."
Hesitation. the contestant, however, maintains his prime-time confidence, looks straight into the host’s little eyes, and nods assuredly.
Pause. Inhale. Glance. Here it comes; "Final answer?"
"Yes. That’s my final answer."
Shiny Packaging: the only thing "Who Wants to be a Millionaire" has going for it. Take away the space-age set, poker-face host, and tension-building musak and you’re left with not a hell of a lot.
Just a whack of questions. A few challenging. Most insultingly easy. It’s all show. No substance.
Bravo, ABC. Seriously.
"Who Wants to be a Millionaire" may possibly be the best game show ever created. Fat guys calling themselves fat, candid thought process commentaries, phone calls to mom in front of a national audience, the Jethro Tull technicalityÑit’s fabulous.
This latest prime-time wonder constitutes only one example, among many, of the kind of lustrous outer wrappings rapidly becoming affixed for attraction’s sake; boy bands, Pizza Pop spots, George Lucas flicks and the latest Dave Barry column. Like Regis Philbin’s newest gig, there’s most often not much underneath, but the outside sure is slick.
This method is quite harmless for shows like "Who Wants to be a Millionaire." However, if you’re a university, and Regis isn’t the Dean, it doesn’t quite jive.
Package 2: The geraniums on campus were beautiful this summer. Fresh red sign posts added an air of distinction. A checkered latte-chic floor stretches across the library’s new Information Commons. It all looks fabulous.
But take those things away and you’re not left with a hell of a lot. Just a whack of courses. A few worthwhile. Most insultingly useless.
The university seems to be trying to distract its viewers (read: students) from the substance of education with a postmodern, post-secondary version of Candy Land. This wekk, frosh will believe their profs are as good as the manicured laws look, and their future degrees as functional as Pentium III processors and strawberry-flavoured IMacs in the Information Commons.
Believe again.
:Like the multiple face-lift look of Regis’ day-time partner, there may be temporary youthful appearance, but the soul underneath strains with neglect and continues to rot.
Tuition keeps rising. Professors flee. Classrooms overcrowd like the hull of a rusted freighter smuggling illegal immigrants. Our Maclean’s rating slithers definitively lower.
But aesthetically, the school looks better and better.
I guess that’s the University of Calgary’s final answer.