I do not watch American Idol. Despite Jenny Garth's presence, I cannot stomach Dancing With The Stars. I find The Amazing Race to be an unfair exploitation of midgets and attractive newlyweds with low self-esteem. Even if the Hollywood Writers' Guild strike were to last until the birth of Parker's second child, I still would not watch Jeff Probst blow out a contestant's torch for fear that Richard Hatch was watching somewhere, aroused. I've even abandoned The Real World, the St. Pepper's of faux-reality shows, after that bizzaro season in Philly where one of the curly-haired frat guys brandished a knife during a drunken argument.
But let me be clear: Project Runway -- which pits 15 fashion designers against one another each week in a series of challenges and begins its fourth season on Bravo next week -- is the fucking truth.
I say this as a straight, married, football-loving, beer-drinking, serious-literature-reading red-blooded American male who doesn't care about clothes any more than he cares about designing them. But I cannot wait for this seasons PR debut. I would rather watch people on PR sew evening gowns on 97-pound models than watch pretty much any NBA basketball game.
It's the best damn reality show on television, and it's so far ahead of the pack, everyone else is squabbling and cat-fighting and back-stabbing in a drunken contest for fifth place. It's the only show on TV where talent and substance trump squawking and stupidity 98 times out of 100. And it features Tim Gunn, the most venerable and stylish gay man in showbiz. To borrow a line from Jack Nicholson's character in As Good As It Gets: Tim, you make me want to be a better man. I would weave a prom dress out of corn husks for you (as Austin tried to do in Season 1). I would make it work. And if I failed miserably, and was scolded and mocked by Nina Garcia and Michael Kors and you told me I had to pack up my things, clean up my workspace, and leave Parsons the New School for Design without my much-coveted photo shoot in Elle Magazine or my 2007 Saturn Roadster, I wouldn't be mad. I could never be mad at you. I would just pray I could be invited back like Daniel Franco was after he lost the first challenge in Season 1, even if he did return and make awkward and creepy remarks toward Hedi and all the female designers in Season 2.
Project Runway is the truth because creativity -- and your ability to execute it -- rule. There are no attention-grabbing lesbian romps with a fellow roommate for more screen time; no secret alliances; no audience plants to weep whenever Sanjaya's voice breaks during "Ain't No Mountain High Enough." Either you can make a cocktail dress out of aluminum foil and a bicycle seat, or you can't. You can be a hilarious a-hole like Santino, a compulsive liar like Wendy, a ruthless but honest ex-heroin addict punk like Jeffery, a flake like Jay, a cheater like Keith, a hottie like Alison, a no-talent clown and excuse maker like Angela, but ultimately you're going to have to sew your skanky, tired ass off for eight hours and maybe glue some pasties onto your model three minutes before the runway show. You try your best, and then you throw yourself at the mercy of Heidi, Michael, Nina, and possibly a guest judge like Sasha Cohen or Nicky Hilton and pray that your figure skating outfit sucks a little less than the designer to your left. It's as ruthless as an NFL training camp, but with better music, more smoking and properly tailored outfits.
Watch it for Klum's German aloofness, her bastardization of the English language, and her Hall of Fame rack. Watch it because Kors can say more catty, but truthful, things about a dress by raising his eyebrow than Simon Cowell can about a ballad with a 10-minute monologue. Watch because Nina Garcia is a devilishly sexy Colombian ice queen whose incredulity at awful designs is wonderfully uncomfortable theater. Watch simply to see Tim Gunn, the most fabulous and dignified gay uncle I never got to have, encourage the designers to follow their hearts and believe they can put together a pleated skirt made of burlap and sequins they found of the floor of a New Jersey recycling depot, even though time is running out.
Because as long as a few minutes remain, there is a chance, always a chance, to make it work.
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