Fox's Bride Idea

Look at it this way: people have got married in Las Vegas for dumber reasons. Probably with less knowledge of each other. Maybe with worse odds of their union's lasting. But whatever those drunk, impulsive legions have had to regret the next morning, they, unlike Darva Conger and Rick Rockwell, did not take the plunge in front of their families, a former Miss America and millions of TV viewers.

Marriage has been ratings gold before. Thank Tiny Tim, Luke and Laura, and, most of all, Chuck and Di for that. But it used to be that at least one partner needed to be famous. Fox upset that rule--and just may have found its answer to the abc phenom Who Wants to Be a Millionaire--with the crass namesake and surprise smash Who Wants to Marry a Multi-Millionaire? In the process, it underscored the new reality of TV's New Reality: oddball, cheap nonfiction programs, from game shows to voyeurism stunts, are elbowing aside sitcoms and dramas. And they may get even weirder.

Reading the ratings for the two-hour special, which climbed steadily from 10 million viewers the first half an hour through the electronic shivaree to nearly 23 million, you could almost hear the phones ringing across America Tuesday night as viewers uttered the eternal phrase "You will not freaking believe what's on Fox." Fifty women, running the gamut from merely attractive to damn!, chosen from more than 3,000, competed for the hand of a San Diego multimillionaire (barely; his fortune is estimated at $2 million) in what amounted to a beauty pageant minus the class and intellectual heft. There was a "beachwear contest," because, host Jay Thomas rationalized, Mr. Moneybags wanted his lady love to be "as comfortable on the beach as he is." There was a "personality test," in which 10 semifinalists answered questions along the lines of how they'd spend his money and, by the way, would they mind if he went to strip clubs? There was Rockwell--picked from some 100 well-endowed lonelyhearts--watching from a high-tech perch (he should have been stroking a hairless cat), his face hidden until the end.

It ended with a bended-knee proposal and a civil ceremony under a giant floral arch that could have come from Godzilla's funeral. Friends, this is why God gave us eyesight. It was a gross spectacle in too many ways to name, degrading, if not to the 50 lovelies who showed up--who after all got a national TV debut with only a 2% chance of having to marry some desperate Croesus--then to every other woman who chooses a mate. (Not to mention men: try pitching a special called Who Wants to Marry a Sweet Guy with a Decent Job?) And it was genius: an irresistible tour of our baser natures that left us dying for the sequel.

Not to mention curious about just what kind of life awaited the insta-couple. They spent last week celebrating (or having the dry heaves) on a Caribbean cruise. Did Conger change her name? Did they play shuffleboard? Have they got to second base? (Before or after they learned each other's middle name?) Unfortunately, they're not taking calls from the press--though, interestingly, they have separate rooms. "There was a whirlwind for 24 hours, and then reality set in," says Mike Darnell, Fox executive vice president of special programming. "They're taking a step back and taking it very slow." As you'd guess, folks who get hitched on Fox to complete strangers guard their privacy jealously.

But we do know that Conger, an emergency-room nurse, walked away with more than $100,000 in loot, including an Isuzu Trooper and a $35,000, three-carat diamond ring. It's a nice nest egg to have since she, like the 49 other women, signed a standard prenuptial agreement that protects Rockwell's wealth in case of divorce. Semifinalist Julie Gardner says she believes Conger really did want to get married. Not so Gardner. A devout Christian from Los Angeles, she signed up for the excitement--after "walk[ing] around in a bathing suit on national television, I can meet any challenge with confidence"--but was "grateful" not to be picked. One semifinalist put it more bluntly: "I was in a panic. All I wanted was to go home and be with my friends. Suddenly I was up there, and the reality was looming. I was shaking. It wasn't until that moment that it occurred to me--'I don't want this, I don't want this.'"

Marry is the brainchild of Fox's Darnell, the man behind When Animals Attack--precisely the sort of crass reality program Fox was pledging to cut back on earlier this season. The brainstorm hit him at a cousin's wedding last summer, just as Millionaire was breaking out. "I realized what was driving the show was wish fulfillment," says Darnell. "People dream and wish about finding love."

As retrograde as the prime-time cattle call was, there was something very 21st century about the idiosyncratic, mediagenic couple it produced. What kind of multimillionaire did Fox find? Not an investment banker, not a ceo, but a smooth-talking corporate motivational speaker who once worked as a stand-up comedian and had a bit part in Attack of the Killer Tomatoes! (Rockwell, 42, made his money in real estate.) "He was not the richest guy, but he was the most sincere about really wanting to find a woman and start a life with her," says Mike Fleiss, president of Next Entertainment, which produced the show. And he chose for his bride not a twentysomething Pilates instructor with a Baywatch rack but a 34-year-old Gulf War vet with buff arms who spoke with the sangfroid and stage presence of Elizabeth Dole.