Picks and Pans Review: The Bachelor
Watching The Bachelor made me grateful to be married. I mean, consider the plight of Alex Michel, the title figure of this six-week mating-game reality show. In the March 25 opener, Alex, a 31-year-old management consultant from San Francisco, had to greet, meet and size up two dozen comely young women—ranging from a neurophysiologist to an ad exec to a Hooters waitress—all vying to become his wife. You would think he'd be in Hefner Heaven. But no, the rules require him to winnow the candidates by half each week—no mean feat. As Alex complains, "It's hard for me to keep them straight." Don't feel too sorry for this guy, though. His smooth patter, reminiscent of Jude Law's boy-toy android in A.I. (Artificial Intelligence), leaves the women practically swooning. "You're special in my book," he tells Shannon, a financial-management assistant, on the April 1 show. She, no dummy, tells the audience, "I feel like he's said the same thing to all of us." Good guess. Each week's losers—the ones not handed a red rose by Alex at hour's end—look humiliated. That's entertainment? Actually, it's the survivors I worry about. True, Alex is a handsome devil. But the singles scene must be pretty bleak if women would rather mass for a prime-time cattle call than go out on a blind date.
Bottom Line: Harem-scarum