The pursuit of fame on “The Masked Singer” and “The Other Two.”
“Enter the Pineapple!” Nick Cannon, Mariah Carey’s ex-husband, shouts. As Salt-N-Pepa’s “Whatta Man” thumps over the loudspeakers, the mystery contestant struts onto the stage, his head concealed by a bulbous pineapple mask. His Hawaiian shirt hangs open, revealing fake abs. A plastic parrot bobs on his shoulder. Two mock bodyguards strut behind him. A chyron pops up, reading “Pineapple. Weakness: Ripens Quickly.”
Ripening quickly also happens to be the weakness of a lot of reality competitions, particularly those based on gimmicks as extreme as that of “The Masked Singer,” a Gaga-glittery pageant on Fox that has become a surprise hit. But just because something is dumb fun doesn’t mean it’s not fun. Based on the South Korean series “King of Mask Singer,” “The Masked Singer” is a reality show in which contestants disguise themselves in Comic Con-style costumes, then compete for—well, mostly, to be recognized as worthy of their fame. The competitors are all C-level celebrities (or A- or B-level ones—it’s impossible to say, although I doubt that Beyoncé is lurking inside the Alien). It’s a bit like “What’s My Line?” merged with Pokémon Go.
Each participant gets a moniker— the Monster, the Lion, the Poodle— and a voice-distortion algorithm. There’s the Unicorn, who speaks in a tinny voice, like a broken Siri. There’s the Raven, with a glorious span of slick black wings, whose “strength” is being “empathetic,” and who is almost certainly the former talk-show host Ricki Lake, or perhaps Sherri Shepherd. There’s a genuinely impressive Bee; based on the clues, she seems to be Gladys Knight, an icon who probably didn’t expect to be competing with the Pineapple, who, it turns out, is the stoner comic Tommy Chong.
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة February 11, 2019 من The New Yorker.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
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هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة February 11, 2019 من The New Yorker.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك? تسجيل الدخول
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Pain and pleasure at a tattoo convention.
HEAVY SNOW HAN KANG
Kyungha-ya. That was the entirety of Inseon’s message: my name.
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Reckoning with Donald Trump's return to power.
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COLOR INSTINCT
Jadé Fadojutimi, a British painter, sees the world through a prism.
THE FAMILY PLAN
The pro-life movement’ new playbook.
President for Sale - A survey of today's political ads.
On a mid-October Sunday not long ago sun high, wind cool-I was in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, for a book festival, and I took a stroll. There were few people on the streets-like the population of a lot of capital cities, Harrisburg's swells on weekdays with lawyers and lobbyists and legislative staffers, and dwindles on the weekends. But, on the façades of small businesses and in the doorways of private homes, I could see evidence of political activity. Across from the sparkling Susquehanna River, there was a row of Democratic lawn signs: Malcolm Kenyatta for auditor general, Bob Casey for U.S. Senate, and, most important, in white letters atop a periwinkle not unlike that of the sky, Kamala Harris for President.
