We live in a silly, superficial era, an era of infinite choices and nervous punchlines. If the audience is laughing, the audience is still listening, and thus TV news is the new stand-up, evangelists hire joke writers, and in 2007, there are only two men left in the universe who’ve got the balls to burn more than thirty seconds of prime time without going for a single laugh. One is the president, but only in moments of national emergency. The other is Ryan Seacrest.
When the people in charge of the Emmy Awards revealed that the ubiquitous infotainment set-dressing would be hosting this year’s show, the jackals pounced. He’s not a comedian. He’s a test pattern with a haircut that makes John Edwards look like Grizzly Adams. He has to climb up on a fruit crate each day just to get tit-high to his E! News co-buoy, Giuliana DePandi. Having Seacrest host the Emmys is like having air host 10 gallons of monkey piss, so stock up on Swiffers, boys, because there’s gonna be a big wet mess to clean up Monday morning.
But do you really think the people in charge of the people in charge of the Emmys hire idiots? There’s a reason Ryan Seacrest has more jobs than a dozen illegal aliens even though the Brian McFaydens of the world are willing to work for Revlon Frost & Glow Highlighting Kits, and the reason is this: Ryan Seacrest is the Michelangelo of empty patter, the Einstein of filling time and space in a seamless, pleasantly narcotizing manner. Not since John Tesh abdicated the Entertainment Tonight throne has anyone made doing so little look so effortless.
For the men and women who dream of holding microphones near famous people, this is a golden era: There are so many sponsors to thank, so many red-carpet suck-baths to administer, so many statues and recording contracts and dinette sets to dispense. And yet despite all the opportunities out there, despite the teeming hoards of aspiring Merv Griffins and Mary Harts, Seacrest has become the Wal-Mart of infotainment. In addition to his gigs on American Idol and E! News, he hosts a morning-drive show on LA radio station KIIS-FM, counts down America’s Top 40 each week, helps out Dick Clark on New Year’s Eve, shows up at the Oscars and countless other awards shows and fills in for Larry King on CNN.
He makes it look easy, too, and that’s why he’s in such demand. But as that vast grim warehouse of twitchy bedroom monologues known as YouTube so painfully illustrates, it isn’t easy. In the same way that it takes razors, shears, flat irons and carcinogenic dye to achieve the disheveled “spontaneity” of his hairdo, it takes years of practice to learn how to stare down the cool, demanding eye of the camera and do absolutely nothing in a way that is completely assured and watchable.
Indeed, sometimes even Seacrest falters. His Cowell-baiting on American Idol took on a tic-like gruesomeness last season, and who can forget “Seacrest out!,” that verbal Edsel he launched in 2006 in an effort to elevate his brand awareness with a vacuous, jarring catchphrase? (Or was that just his way of telling the Teri Hatchers of the world not to bother?)
Excepting these rare missteps, however, Seacrest shines. Or perhaps more aptly, incandesces in an ambient manner. He adds energy to any stage, but not too much energy. He keeps things moving at a pace that is brisk but never frantic. He’s snappy with a quip, but he isn’t out to convince anyone that he’s the smartest, funniest, most spectacular talent in the room. One rarely has the sense that he thinks, say, quizzing Kaley Cuoco about her shopping habits is in any way beneath him. He earns $14 million a year, and yet he’s perfectly willing to let a tone-deaf nutcase from Kentucky treat him like a piss boy if it makes for good TV.
At a time when a million bedroom Lettermen spend most of their waking moments no further than six inches from their webcams, Seacrest is a team player. At a time when referring to oneself in the third person is the closest most celebrities get to empathy, Seacrest actually listens and is, as a consequence, a surprisingly good interviewer. At a time when everyone wants to be the star of their own 24-hour TV show and will go to almost any length to hold our attention just a few seconds longer, Seacrest steps aside and shuts up, setting up camp three steps to the left of the center of attention. He occupies that territory so adeptly he just may reside there forever.