"American Idol": Lee DeWyze Is Just Afraid

by Natasha Vargas-Cooper

Paul Newman and James Dean were the two leading contenders for the part of Cal Trask, the dark-spirited lead in East of Eden. The screen test for the role was a face off between Dean and Newman. The two stood shoulder to shoulder, and then they were asked to glower at the camera. Dean was haunted, wry and burning with intensity, whereas Newman was flirty, caddish; he seemed to rely too much on his good looks. Lee Strasberg once supposedly told Newman that he could have been Brando-if he wasn’t so damned pretty. It may or may not have been his looks, but there was something about Newman that prevented him from having the rapturous effect on the audience that Dean had.

Last night, with two finalists facing off on “American Idol,” it was Lee DeWyze who played the part of Paul Newman.

He was unable to summon the nerve and discipline to take the lead in his own performances. Like Newman, he seemed to be groping his way along. His face was straining, often purple and twisted from not just from being out of breath (bad sign) but also from what looked like panic. As though the music and the crowd and the moment would swallow him up.

It felt as though he imploded from the weight of his potential stardom.

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I have to come to appreciate the two biggest punchlines on “American Idol”: Randy Jackson and Ryan Seacrest. For the first eight seasons of the show’s run, Jackson’s inarticulate and predictable commentary enraged me. Who thought it would be a good idea to put this boob at the great tribunal of pop culture? But Randy, though limited in his expression, has an unwavering enthusiasm for the show and clear affection for contestants. Randy is also open to having his mind changed: when Simon says something smart, as he often does, it makes an impression on Randy. He will even pump his fists and say,”Yeah! Yeah! That’s right!” I enjoy this man. I hope he continues to sip heartily from his Coca-Cola sponsored plastic cup.

Ryan Seacrest is a flawless host. He completely empties himself for the show. He has no voice, no view, is inoffensive and innocuous without being insulting. He instinctually knows when to talk and when to vamp. He is like oxygen in an airplane. Unnoticeable but necessary and devastating when removed. Perfect. I would have this no other way.

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Simon Cowell is no doubt in league with the dark forces. But it would be an absolute lie if I said I’m not mourning his departure from the show. He is a brilliant critic, whose comments verge on literary because they are so precise and pitiless. He’s like one of Shakespeare’s great villains: sinister, wretched, and smarter than our hero. Like when he tells someone they belong on cruise ship instead of a television. Or the poetic flourishes his comments take on, like when he told one beauty queen contestant that all her performances were overly sentimental: he described them as “wet” and “soggy.” Most importantly: he’s demanded that performers prove their relevancy each week. He is irreplaceable.

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Little DeWyze never had too much charisma. What was compelling was his story: a working class kid who sold pails of paint at a hardware store during the day and crept into open mic dives to play his guitar to indifferent audiences at night. His earnest performance of The Boxer by Simon and Garfunkel showed that he could, when pushed, use vulnerability as an asset; he could be authentically tender and enthralling. His reprise of the song last night was his undoing. It was too cold and removed, not from hubris, but from fear.

And fear has no place in the Idoldome.

Natasha Vargas-Cooper will report back tomorrow.