National Review, February 5, 2001

 All those organizations with the word "family" in their names can relax. The Fox network's new Temptation Island is no threat to the American republic, the institution of marriage, or the morals of our young. The first episode was, however, a terrible waste of an hour, 9-10 P.M. on Wednesday evening, quality time that could have been better spent watching World Championship Wrestling, Rivera Live, or—for those in need of cheering up—Surviving, a movie about double teen suicide.

In case you have not seen a newspaper recently, let's start with Temptation Island 's premise. Four "unmarried couples at a crossroads in their relationships" are taken to a tropical island. The lovebirds are then separated, and each of them will be "set up on a variety of dates" with some of the 26 "fantasy" singles who have also been taken there by Fox. The idea, and, allegedly, the drama, is to test the strength of these relationships. "This could rip two people apart," gloats one potential seducer.

Oh, really? Call me old-fashioned, but any couple agreeing to "test" their relationship in this way are not at a crossroads. They are at a dead end. There's no test, no one is going to be "ripped apart." If you want to talk test, talk Gandhi. That iron man of abstinence used to test his commitment (to celibacy, as it happens) by sleeping in the same bed as a naked woman. Nothing, we are told, ever happened. That is what I call a test. Now, I never knew Gandhi, but I did watch the couples of Temptation Island; and Billy, you are no Mahatma. Nor, Taheed, Mandy, Kaya, Valerie, Ytossie, Andy, and Shannon, are any of the rest of you.

If, then, viewers cannot look forward to the vicious destruction of previously strong relationships, can they at least hope for some smut? Once again, the answer is almost certainly no. The first hour featured bikinis, shorts, and a few naughty comments, but on the whole the show was tamer than Baywatch, and the cast, it has to be said, are not as good-looking. To be sure, the initial episode was set up as a teaser, but the same, I suspect, will prove to be true for the rest of a series that is likely to pack about as much erotic excitement as an MTV beach volleyball special.

Of course, subsequent episodes will doubtless feature what the British call a "snog" or two (ask Austin Powers), but much more than that will have to take place behind closed doors. Nudity? Not a chance: This is network TV. We can rely on Fox's killjoy pixels to blur what little voyeuristic fun there is to be had. What will be on display is far more shocking. In a future episode, we can apparently expect to see one of the participants (a grown man!) weeping on the beach. On Wednesday night we already saw some sobs from two of the ladies, Ytossie and, I think. Shannon. If this is what Fox is coming to, I might as well turn to Lifetime. Worse, there is a strong possibility that these early tears were only the overture. It is likely that much of the show will be dedicated to tantrums, wailing, whining, complaining, confessions, hugging, hand holding, insincerity, sincerity, empathetic moments, and men and women telling each other what they really, really feel. In fact, watching Temptation Island will be much like witnessing someone else's marriage-counseling sessions, and about as entertaining. Sartre was wrong; Hell is not other people, it is other people's problems.

What else can we expect after eight years of a president who wants to feel our pain? This is the Age of Oprah. We talk about everything; the notion of a private sphere of behavior is dying. Emotional restraint is considered to be a psychiatric problem rather than a necessary virtue. Publicly baring the body, a respected form of degeneracy since the days of Salome, may be too much for Fox, but baring the soul, it turns out, is quite all right. Of course, the latter is much more of an imposition on the rest of us, as even the most strait-laced should realize. Most strippers (Salome was an exception) ask nothing more from their audience than the dollars in their pockets. Emotional exhibitionists like the gang on Temptation Island are far more demanding, They would like us to share in their drama, and, yes, to feel their pain.

To some critics, this is a degrading spectacle, the show-biz equivalent of tearing the wings off some not very intelligent flies, a callous and potentially destructive exploitation of four supposedly close-knit couples. Unfortunately, the critics would be wrong even if these relationships were as strong as Fox would like us to believe—because, if anyone deserves humiliation, it is Kaya and his friends (yes, Kaya is a he). They will be contaminating my television with their simpering psychobabble and penny ante angst. They should be punished.

Far from being humiliated, however, they will revel in all the attention. They will be praised for their honesty, for "coming to terms" with themselves. If there is any residual embarrassment to the participants, it will be eased by the greatest of all the rewards this country has to offer—not money, but celebrity. If these couples play their cards right on Temptation Island, they could make their way to America's pantheon, right up there with Tonya and Monica, and even (dare to dream) Darva and Rick.

The show's 16 million viewers can either reach for the off switch or remain slumped on the sofa, hypnotized by the sheer tackiness. Those who are fascinated, but mortified, can reassure themselves that none of this is really "real": The island itself is already an alibi, a Robin Leach fantasy of tumbling waterfalls and enchanted beaches, a place where the ordinary rules are suspended. And then there are the players themselves, some with the sort of otherworldly names last heard on the bridge of the USS Enterprise: Kaya, Ytossie, Dano.

As for their jobs, well, let us just say that this is the least representative cross section of America since the Village People. Participants on the show include a singer, a singer/poet, a singer/waitress, an aspiring entertainment reporter, a practicing entertainment reporter, a bartender, the founder of an online dating service, a model/actress, an actor/drummer, the owner of a kayaking company, an artist, a masseur. Miss Georgia 2000, a teen-crisis counselor, and a motocross guy. And then, in a final hint that none of this really matters, there was the network's proviso that none of the parties should be married. It was a curiously old-fashioned gesture: a statement, in effect, that a "relationship," whether at a crossroads or not, is somehow less worth protecting than the real thing, marriage.

What a pity, then, that one of the couples turned out to be parents, the parents of a "real" child. That was against the rules too, and the wicked pair has been thrown off the island. It is on film, of course. We will be able to see it for ourselves in a few weeks. And so, one day, will their child.

A revised version of an article published on National Review Online on January, 14, 2001