This weekend I had the opportunity to observe the phenomenon that drives relatively normal people into becoming Rupert Pupkins, desperate to eat worms in front of cameras to become the new King Of Reality.
CBS is currently holding casting calls in 21 American cities to find the next 16 individuals who will play "Degrade Myself in Front of the Nation." When they announced that there would be such an open audition in my hometown, Hollywood, I decided to attend and observe firsthand the would-be Survivors, the good citizens of this burg who would risk everything to be the next Richard or Rudy.
The auditions were called for Saturday between 10 a.m. and 4 p.m. When I arrived at the CBS studios in Hollywood at 9:55 a.m I discovered more than 2,000 people snaking around Sunset Boulevard, ready for their close-up. It was a good-natured crowd. Just your average L.A. auditioners taking the morning sunshine by standing in a never-ending line wrapped around a studio. The ages seemed to range from late teens to early septuagenarians, with the majority being Gen X-ers in their late 20s and early 30s. Many were well prepared for the ordeal. I saw auditioners applying suntan lotion in varying SP factors, drinking bottled water sporting various designer labels, and several comfort-loving individuals who had brought portable beach chairs and recliners to help them endure what looked like a three-hour wait. They did not look like hardy types ready to brazen out an extended ordeal in the Outback, let alone the Hollywood jungle.
The rules of the audition were quite simple. Each person had to fill out a six-page application form and then deliver a three-minute peroration into a video camera as to why he or she would make the ultimate Survivor. The application form listed 24 different eligibility requirements.
Point 6 was comforting. "You must not now be a candidate for public office and must agree not to become one until after initial broadcast of all programs in which you appear, if selected as a contestant." The knowledge that everyone considering a run for positions ranging from president to town dog-catcher are ineligible is a relief. Perish the thought that the program might attract professional Machiavellians. It's amateurs that this program wants.
There were 46 direct personal questions. Number 18 inquired if you had been treated for any serious mental illness within the last three years. This isn't a disqualification per se. In fact it may help. I suspect that the producers just want to ensure a full range of mental disturbance among the finalists rather than have say, two competitors with the identical strain of delusional schizophrenia.
You had to list your favorite TV show. (Putting "Temptation Island" or C-Span "The Week in Politics" would not be advisable.) And number 24, "Are you a vegetarian or do you eat meat?" is deceptively polite. This is not because they wish to order you a special meal on your flight to the exotic locale. It's because vegetarians make the best face of disgust when asked to consume a crunchy bug.
The million-dollar questions were number 36 ("What would be the craziest, wildest thing you would do for a million dollars?") and number 37 ("What would you NOT do for a million dollars?") The ideal answers being "waste three hours standing on line on a nice Saturday morning" and "worry about my self-respect."
I felt it my reportorial duty to chat with a cross-section of candidates, and yet I knew I had neither the time nor the tolerance toward the emotionally disturbed to speak to all 2,000. So I took my cue from "Survivor" producer Mark Burnett and tried to interview just 16 competitors who were trying to prove they could survive a Hollywood audition. However I was to find that, like watching the "Survivor" program itself, or eating semi-rancid potato chips when one is starving, it's hard to stop.
I selected my finalists on similar criteria to the way that cast members for the actual show are picked. I sought out those who looked or behaved in a bizarre fashion. And I believe I picked well.
Take for example Duncan, a 36-year-old factory sales rep who showed up in a dapper black pinstripe suit ("not Armani — it was made in Hong Kong") while most around him were dressed in T-shirts and baggies. Wasn't he overdressed? No, he said, he'd worn the suit to prove that one couldn't judge a book by its cover. You could put a man who looked like "corporate America" in the middle of nowhere and he'd survive.
I asked Rusty, 29 and from Montana, if he knew where the next "Survivor" series was to be held. He'd heard rumors of Africa or a South American rain forest. Was he worried about existing in a tropical jungle? "Nah. I survive L.A. And that's a real jungle." I wondered if he was your standard unemployed actor, but discovered that he just looked like one. He was a salesman for a trucking company. Apparently life is equally tough for those in L.A. who are not actors.
Chris, 32, was an actor. A struggling one, he said. But he was determined to endure any hardship.... pay any price... bear any burden... to win the million dollars. What if the series was shot in Antarctica? I asked. Well, that was different. He was from Alabama, and he didn't like the cold.
"Eternity" was a rapper from Jamaica wearing a leopard print sari (imitation) who said that she was game for anything. "The sky's the limit!" Was there any locale that scared her? "No. There's no place on earth I haven't been." On a whim I asked her about her travels to China. "That's the one place I ain't been." Figuring that Eternity was perhaps her showbiz name, I inquired what her parents had called her and was told "Anthony." Closer inspection revealed this to be correct. I bade him good-bye — and wondered if the show might make the same mistake as I had.
Robin was definitely an L.A. female. She had the biker tattoos and punk chic look. Dyed black hair, 21 and from South Pasadena. Which had obviously given her much to be alienated from. She was a waitress/hairstylist (Hollywood abounds in interesting hyphenates) who liked the idea of the show as a way to meet new people. Didn't she meet plenty of people in her chosen professions? "Yeah, but you can't tell them what you feel. A waitress gotta keep her mouth shut." But wouldn't she risk being voted out if she expressed her true feelings on the show? "That's their problem," she said, looking rather too much like Joan Jett for comfort.
Around this time I became aware that the endless line and being grilled by me were not the only endurance tests these brave individuals were facing. Many were also having to survive that ultimate stress — an on-camera interview with Jay Leno. It seems that the prospect of creating one of his trademark "people-in-the-street" segments with this many disturbed people to choose from was irresistible to the "Tonight Show" host, who was wending his way through the crowd.
Next I encountered Balloon-Man. His real name was Sean, but since he'd fashioned exotic headgear for himself out of a number of colored balloons, I gave him his tag. Do you think the balloons will work for you? I asked. "Well, it got your attention, and Jay Leno's attention." Touché. We media types fall for this every time. Sean is a self-described "street performer and children's entertainer." He thinks he'd be a good show contestant because he'd be the court jester. And because he had a recipe for barbecuing penguins.
Among the older competitors I encountered 70-something white-haired Jeanne Carmen, a former movie starlet. I wouldn't have called her that myself, but she proudly showed me the latest issue of Mojo magazine with a photo of her younger self with a very early-period Elvis Presley, and that's exactly how she was captioned. Being on "Survivor" would be a career-topper for her, as well as a crack at that cool million. She took me through some of her life from the cotton fields of Alabama to her first chorus role on Broadway — age 17 — alongside Bert Lahr. I heard something about her performing a trick in which she could drive a golf ball 250 yards using my face as a tee before I made my excuses and deserted her for Kristin, who was in full safari garb, complete with a javelin.
On the end of this very serious-looking javelin the twenty-something Kristin had speared a toy lion cub. "It's to show how I could survive" she explained. But it's only a miniature plush animal, I pointed out. "But it proves I could kill if I was hungry." I asked her what gave her the killer instinct. "I teach 30 fifth-grade kids."
"Fan," a 23-year-old pre-med student who sported a ginger-colored Johnny Rotten hairdo, hailed Richard Hatch as his hero. "He did what he had to do to win." Fan was prepared to do everything Richard had done "except get naked."