The Conveyor Belt of Love is either the greatest reality-TV show of all time or the worst. It takes the modern commoditization of dating and literally puts it on parade –infusing the ritual with all the dignity of a man being led to the guillotine. In that respect – or lack thereof – it’s a kind of self-deprecating hybrid of The Dating Game, The Gong Show and a Hostess Twinkie factory. Make that a Hostestosterone Twinkie factory.
On Conveyor Belt, a panel of three women sits watching a life-size conveyor belt move along eligible men – one at a time – across a rather unflattering stage. This is degradation bordering on castration, and it’s done game-show style. The belt stops, cold turkey, and the man in the spotlight tries to sell himself. At this point the show becomes, among other things, a valuable lesson for men who continue to ponder the unanswerable, “what do women really want?” Apparently today’s gal will go for a statuesque guy in a Speedo, holding a Pomeranian. This otherwise clueless dolt – who resembles a cross between Crispin Glover and The Incredible Hulk -- is smart enough to let the dog do the selling. They buy. Another guy looks like an office-worker version of Chris Farley after three months on a diet. Surprisingly, both specimens win over two of the women, each of whom lifts up a sign that says “Interested.” (On the flip-side it says “Not Interested,” a much more common reaction.) And because these novel fellows intrigued at least two of the ladies, the power switches and each man chooses one of the panelists who liked him. He then steps into a small area behind the conveyor belt that bears that woman’s name. Like a caged animal, he remains there until a man that eclipses him – which may or may not happen, but usually does – comes along. The panelists, you see, are paid to be fickle (“let’s see…do I want the sitar-playing Tarzan lookalike that lives with his mother or the nerdy tap-dancer with the goatee?”).
The contestants, literally the meat of the show, are a colorful batch of talentless GQ wannabes and misfits who wouldn’t qualify to be an extra on Sex and the City. Right before the conveyor belt brings a new man into view, you can see the mix of dread and anticipation in the eyes of the women. What’ll come next? One guy came out doing the worst Sean Connery impersonation of all time. “The name is Bond,” he said with a creepy seriousness. “James Bond.” Before he could even finish saying his name (which wasn’t his name), the panelists flexed their “Not Interested” signs with unanimous enthusiasm. At the end of the program, each of the women goes on a date with the man who’s still in her holding stall. And you never know. Remember that Chris Farley lookalike? By the end of Conveyor Belt, he beat out several other guys for a date with an unlikely Pamela Anderson-type. “I wanted to try something different,” revealed the panelist, addressing the presumption that she was dating down. Then the show follows each couple along on their date, voyeuristically relishing the mismatches in action. At this point the program becomes a bit duller, and almost indistinguishable from comparatively stale relics like Blind Date. So, then, what is it that makes The Conveyor Belt of Love so factory-fresh? For one thing, it’s stupid beyond belief -- the black-sheep child of the God of Ingenuity. But more notably, unlike its lead-in The Bachelor, it’s not smug and doesn’t dare take itself seriously. And unlike The Bachelor, Conveyor Belt doesn’t move along at a snail’s pace. Even better, it’s a subtle jab at both the objectification of women and the “I’ll have that” culture of lazy consumerism. But the show’s very best aspect is that it’s been syndicated from a different dimension, a place where women call the shots and rule the world. Well, at least for an hour.
The Conveyor Belt of Love can be seen Mondays at 9pm central on ABC.
Jordan Oakes is a local journalist who has written for publications such as St. Louis Magazine and the Christian Science Monitor. He has strong opinions that begin to atrophy if he doesn't exercise his right to express them. Tune in every Wednesday for another installment of Mediatribe - and if you missed last week's post, click here.
