There are three things I know with absolute certainty. First, vampires cannot use calculators unless they were received as a gift. Second, every restaurant in America secretly accepts backflips as payment. And third, Fox’s smash hit singing competitionThe Masked Singerwas never intended to be watched during a global pandemic in which we are all mandatorily confined to our homes. This third immutable truth of the universe has never been more apparent than it was last night duringThe Masked Singer’s specialSing-Along Spectacularepisode, a collection of performances from throughout this past season urging its trapped viewers to throatily shout pop lyrics at the animal costumes lurching across their TV screens like we’re trying to curse them back to the abyss.
The Masked Singerdepends on interaction. We as viewers need to be able to connect with other viewers to exchange theories about the contestants’ identities, share our opinions of each performance, and confirm that what we witnessed was actually broadcast on television and not a trance vision brought on by a brain tumor and/or curse and/or extreme alcohol abuse. I have no idea whether I actually saw fucking Rocksteady dance in front of pyrotechnics or if I simply ate cream of mushroom soup that had been sitting in the refrigerator for too long because I can’t go to the store without dressing up like a burglar trying to heist the Andromeda Strain. To whom can I deliver this confession? My Zoom happy hour friends? They’re all already drunk, they can’t tell me whether a frog dressed like a backup dancer in the Smooth Criminal video spat out some blazing Hammer verses on national television. For all I know, the CIA is channeling this warbling mutanimal feed directly into my home as part of MKULTRA.
Sing-alongs are designed to be viewed in a group. What kind of deranged madman sings along with a bunch of minor celebrities encased in foamcore genetic experiments by his fucking self? It’s like playing Magic: The Gathering against yourself at 1am on a Thursday – an incandescent demonstration of sheer will that is as impressive as it is haunting. This show, and moreover this special, is designed to challenge the sanity of everyone watching it. And if you have nobody with whom to confirm these terrifying visions as actual reality,The Masked Singerbecomes a goading shoulder demon urging you to eat more of that crema of mushroom soup. Listen, I don’t remember when I bought it, it was sometime before the banana
The Masked Singeralready takes place in its own dystopian dimension, in whichKen Jeongand a Pussycat Doll attempt to guess which struggling media personality put on a turtle helmet and leather pants to singSeal’s “Kiss From a Rose”. It feels like aHunger Gamespre-show governed byRobin Thicke, and I’m not entirely sure that Robin Thicke wasn’t actually in any of theHunger Gamesmovies. The fact that we’re all locked inside has only heightened the unreality ofThe Masked Singer, a show that would be playing on a TV screen behind Robocop as he blasted the president of America Motors out of the top of the Luxor pyramid with a rocket launcher.
Also, sing-alongs are the Queen’s Gambit of companies trying to squeeze blood out of the stones of their preexisting content. Remember all those Sing Along Songs videos Disney hurled at ravenous children in between the theatrical and home video releases of their blockbuster musicals? The Fox network and its carnival of karaoke horrors is the same offer, enticing us to tune into the same kaleidoscope of teeth-gnashing madness we’ve already seen to stave off boredom and generate more ad revenue.
The Sing-Along Spectacular ends with a medley of all the eliminated contestants singing “The Time of My Life” in a manner that can only be described as a deaf Gregorian choir trying to signal for help as they die of oxygen deprivation in a disabled submarine. The medley reminded me thatSarah Palin,TonyHawk, andRobGronkowskiall appeared at the same time on a psychotic game show hosted byMariah Carey’s ex-husband. I don’t need this right now. I’m staring at my walls trying to decipher whether or not the cats outside are speaking to me in Morse code. I’m not equipped to decode a sing-along special locked in my house during a viral pandemic in which one of the judges is a woman who does not believe in vaccines. This entire episode felt like a Faustian riddle, and I refuse to play their game. Except for the two minutes during which I absolutely woke up my neighbors screaming the words to “Sweet Home Alabama” at a man in a banana costume.
