Watching the “live from the beautiful Miami oceanfront Miss U.S.A. Beauty Pageant” last Saturday night on CBS, it must have occurred to most sane viewers that somebody was pulling their legs. Of course all beauty pageants are satires on an American dream as archaic as rose-covered cottages and chicken every Sunday. Yet every year the most beautiful (and, one suspects, psycho-sexually disoriented) archetypes of the female species line up on some drafty stage somewhere (usually by an ocean) and exhibit their Clairol hair and their Gardol smiles. They run for Miss Everything.
In an age when the creeps and the freaks seem to be running the show, the old-fashioned American dreams make their claims for survival. And in some bizarre way, remind themselves of their own existence.
The Miss U.S.A. Beauty Pageant was like a cattle auction. The only difference is that the winning cow gets a movie contract. You know what that means. Miss U.S.A. invariably ends up as a topless waitress serving cigars in the background of a Rock Hudson flick. Gives her something to tell her grandchildren. And, in its own way, I suppose it’s as valid as telling them, “See this scar under Granny’s eye—got that beating up a cop in front of the Columbia chemistry lab.”
This year, the pageant looked like a skit from New Faces. Sponsored by an underarm deodorant, the 51 contestants were so beautiful they all looked exactly alike. (Beauty queens are like Chinese.) So to make them stand apart, somebody had the bright idea of parading them around a platform in Halloween costumes that looked like they were sewn together at the last minute by each girl’s Aunt Tillie.
The idea obviously was to represent some aspect of the contestant’s home state. I didn’t mind the ones in blue jeans and kilts and monkey fur so much, or the flappers and Scarlett O’Haras, or Miss Washington dressed like an Alpine mountain climber, but things got icky for poor Miss Montana, with pickaxe and miner’s helmet. Miss Nevada looked like a cash register. Miss Massachusetts got drowned in an ugly floor-length black Pilgrim gown, Miss District of Columbia wore a miniskirt made out of an American flag (which, even in this madhouse era, must have offended someone other than myself).
Poor, dear Miss Tennessee was pinned into an LP hillbilly record with a big hole through the middle to expose her bust-line, another unfortunate girl came out as a whole life-size Christmas tree with a star on top of her head, and my favorite wore a billboard which looked suspiciously like an “Eat at Joe’s” sign. She must have been from Brooklyn. There was not one all-American Negro girl on display, and even Miss Hawaii came from Boston.
After Paul Anka screeched his way through a chorus of “I Wanna Be a Yankee Doodle Girl, Cause 68’s a Yankee Doodle Year” about three keys beyond his range or ability, Miss U.S.A.’s answer to Bert Parks came out and introduced himself as Bob Barker. Everyone clapped a lot, like they had actually heard of him or something, then June Lockhart told the girls that “only 15 of you ever get to the swimsuit and formal evening gowns, but each and everyone of you is already a winner.”
The Fabulous Fifteen were marched out from their slots in the lineup while the other losers smiled bravely through salty tears. Then Bob Barker asked the Fabulous Fifteen questions. This was the most hilarious part of the show and I doubt if Mel Brooks could have written it better.
Miss Connecticut was interested in astrology, “but I'm not sure it’s valid.” “I’m a Sagittarius—what about me?” asked Barker. “Frank—giggle giggle—Sinatra’s a—giggle giggle—Sagittarius too—giggle giggle.” (I saw doom waiting in the wings for Miss Connecticut.)
Miss Alabama, a busty physical type, said she loved diving from high diving boards. “I jes’ do some back flops and then some other stuff and you know. You c’n do anythin’ with a sweatshirt on.” “Why a sweatshirt?” “Cause it keeps ya from stingin’ when ya hitcha back.” Miss Nevada was a prelaw student dancing in a Las Vegas nightclub. Miss New Mexico sounded like Eve Arden and wanted to be a female James Bond. Finally, Miss Maryland, a dental assistant said, “I love my work except for the ones who bite.”
Barker, a real all-around charmer, replied: “Next time I see you you’ll be all scarred up.” I tell you the show had class.
While they were hustled offstage to get into their swimsuits for the next relay, June Lockhart faced the viewers with the astounding news that: “It’s amazing what the girls want to do with their lives. They all want to get married.” Then she admitted several want to be movie stars and one might like to try brain surgery. “Their handwriting runs from chicken track to pure undecipherable, and one girl even misspelled the name of her own home town.” Dear June. June tells all.
Then they showed topless baby pictures of four girls (What about the other 11? Didn’t they have tops?), followed by the “parade of bathing beauties,” in which the girls wore identical Catalina swimsuits designed to give them the uniform appearance of underwater concrete statues in an old Esther Williams movie.
Then last year’s Miss U.S.A., a has-been already, stepped out to the White X in tears, and when the applause died down, said: “Did you ever see a llama sneeze? I did. I counted the raindrops in Waikiki, slept in a log cabin, climbed the Space Needle, and saw Disneyland. I even met a Green Beret. All I can say is thank you and goodbye.”
But it wasn’t over yet. We had the annual “super extravaganza number” to get through, with all the girls tap dancing with canes like paraplegics doing an old Virginia Mayo number. In the evening gown competition, there was so much chiffon (Purity of spirit, you know, goes hand in hand with Pepsi) that I almost cheered for one flowered print.
While they broke for a mouthwash commercial, June Lockhart asked the home viewers to get a pencil and jot down their own favorites: “See who’s the best judge in your family.” In the apartment where I watched the show, there was a mad dash at this point for the hot hors d’oeuvres, while I made a mental note to vote for the girl in the flowered print.
Ten girls were eliminated fast after the tap dancing. (I lost sight of the girl in the flowered print—dark horses go fast.) The five finalists were Blue Ribbon stock. They had to be brilliant, witty, philosophical, feet-on-the-ground, and gorgeous in 10 seconds, as they stepped into an isolated soundproof booth, like the one Daisy Clover went bananas in, to answer the Big Intellectual Question of the year: “As a spokesman for the Younger Generation, what is the best advice you can give to people your own age?” The dancer from Las Vegas said, “To thine own self be true,” and I crossed her off my list. The others looked at Heaven, and thanked their mommies and daddies. Miss Washington, bless her hide, said, “Do your own thing.” My vote was in.
After a commercial in which a woman gave beauty advice to all the women in the audience who would never get within 300 miles of Miss U.S.A. or any other pageant by taking a bath in a tub of hot milk and putting cucumber slices on her eyelids, a voice-over talked solemnly about Duty and Honor while the old Miss U.S.A. made her Farewell Walk as an accordion played what sounded like a funeral dirge. Oh, yes. Miss Washington won. I’ll be watching for the big cigar scene in the next Rock Hudson flick. Don’t forget, I knew her when.