There have been plenty of arguments, over the years, against the existence of God, and Paris Hilton has to be one of them. Here, in a bleached and artificially tanned package, is proof positive that you don’t have to be talented, intelligent, or even moderately nice to achieve more than the usual trappings of success.
Hilton has survived and thrived, her bout with incarceration a mere smudge in the rear-view mirror, her perfume business possibly recession- proof (because really, do teens know how to spend their allowances wisely?), her TV career at an all-time high.
This is a stupendous feat, given that the more you watch this woman — and I’ve been watching far too much of her new MTV reality contest, “Paris Hilton’s My New BFF” — the less charisma she seems to have. She exists as a blank slate, interesting only because of the way she makes other people behave.
California judicial systems go into frenzied overdrive. Larry King grovels. David Letterman pounces and doesn’t let go.
And then there are the contestants on “My New BFF,” brought to us by Hilton herself (she’s credited as an executive producer) and Michael Hirschorn, a former VH1 executive who built an empire of raucous reality- TV spoofs, from “The Surreal Life” to the Flavor Flav/New York/Bret Michaels dating shows.
Hilton narrates each episode while lounging in a chaise, resplendent in hair extensions. She speaks in a perfectly honed bored-rich-girl monotone, explaining the various tasks she sets before her “besties” to see if they can keep up with her lifestyle.
Above all, these kids must prove their loyalty to Hilton; every week she picks a “pet,” charged with taking her text messages and spying on the other castmates. At the end of each episode, she sits on a throne and declares that her friendship with one of them is over. Her sendoff is “TTYM,” text-speak for “Talk to you mañana.” Who would go through such humiliation? Pretty much the people you’d expect: a string of 20-somethings, perilously thin and basically venal. The varied kiss-ups — some of whom are still with us, five weeks in — have ranged from Kayley, the coarse granddaughter of Clark Gable, to Onch, the frail androgynous boy who had a long, loud panic attack in the amusement park.
There is Shelley, the resident virgin. There is Corrie, who speaks proudly of her three plastic surgeries and her inherent racism.
What’s most striking about this series, in a way, is how much more personality the contestants have than Paris herself.
Yes, “My New BFF” is sick fun, in the sense that it doles out punishment to those who could probably use it.
But what about Paris herself? Usually, we watch rich people on TV because we like to see them suffer. That’s why Letterman’s grilling, last September, felt a little like a national catharsis. But apart from those few fleeting minutes, months ago, Paris Hilton appears not to have suffered at all.
