America chose sweetness over sizzle, small-town reticence over Vegas swagger, or as Ryan Seacrest put it, the guy next door over “the guyliner.”
It’s possible that “American Idol” viewers’ selection of Kris Allen over Adam Lambert says something about the mood and mores of the country, that viewers are too conformist to anoint a sassy, androgynous individualist. Then again, maybe not: Mr. Allen’s victory may merely reflect the voters’ conventional taste in pop music.
The choice of Mr. Allen, revealed during the two-hour finale on Fox on Wednesday night, wasn’t a breakthrough decision, even if a record 100 million votes were cast. The winsome Mr. Allen sings well, but he sounds like a lot of other good singers. Mr. Lambert, who tops his singing with a soulful screech somewhere between the blues and a smoke alarm, was like no one else.
But it isn’t necessary to seek deeper meaning in the finale; it’s the “American Idol” franchise itself that best speaks to the state of the nation.
“American Idol” matters not just as a pop culture phenomenon, but as an institution that works — with scary efficiency — at a time when so many other American enterprises seem flawed or imperiled. It stands out this season in particular: “American Idol” is a money-making machine in the middle of a worldwide recession, an old-fashioned must-see television hit at a time when the Internet and cable have eaten away at the networks’ hegemony.
It was a little sad to see all of the 13 “Idol” contestants, reunited and singing and dancing, “I Will Remember” in the service of the Ford Fusion. (Mr. Lambert and Mr. Allen each got a free car.) If only Ford could make and sell its cars as well as “American Idol” makes promotional videos to sell its sponsor, the economy might be in better shape.
The battle between Kris and Adam was one of the best, not just because these finalists were so gifted and such good foils, but because the “American Idol” engine is so fine-tuned. The finale, a two-hour exercise in delaying gratification, was as star-studded as an Academy Awards ceremony (Steve Martin, KISS, Cyndi Lauper and Keith Urban), but faster-paced and more fun.
The whole season went as smoothly. Even a feisty fourth judge, the songwriter Kara DioGuardi, didn’t disrupt the commedia dell’arte routine perfected by Simon Cowell, Paula Abdul and Randy Jackson. There were early expectations of a catfight between the two women, but most of the hissing centered on Mr. Cowell.
His digs at Ms. DioGuardi were acid — notably his disdain for the histrionic pop song “No Boundaries,” which she co-wrote and which Mr. Allen had to sing after he won. Ms. DioGuardi got her chance to upstage Mr. Cowell — and Katrina Darrell, a k a Bikini Girl — on Wednesday night. Ms. DioGuardi joined the infamous rejected contestant on stage and ripped open her dress to reveal a flash of bikini of her own — for charity, she said.
Usually, it’s Ms. Abdul’s weird behavior and odd statements that draw all the scrutiny. Ms. Abdul coyly sat out most of the season’s drama. She was so suspiciously eloquent this season that on Wednesday she was honored with a quick-edit montage of her pronouncing, with a bit of struggle, words like “instinctual” and “authenticity.”
Year after year, contestants display not just talent and poise, but a remarkable adaptability to the roles assigned to them: Mr. Allen never fell out of character as the humble, earnest country boy from Arkansas; Mr. Lambert always maintained his confident, good-humored aplomb. “American Idol” finalists stay on message in dressing rooms, airplanes and in the denouement. “It feels good,” Mr. Allen said. “But Adam deserves this.”
But it’s the relentlessness of the salesmanship that is really striking — the iTunes link, thematically appropriate promotional recaps on the Web site (“moments that made you smile” sponsored by Crest) and the seamless product placement — every pretaped scene of contestants going home is artfully positioned in front of an AT&T store. Coca-Cola is on the set (quite literally, with huge company logos as backdrops). On Wednesday, State Farm Insurance pulled out all the “American Idol” stops with a musical montage of heart-wrenching American tableaus — cancer walks, Katrina reconstruction, helping the disabled — to the tune of the Jackson 5’s “I’ll Be There.”
Yet the show’s brash commercialism is cut with “Idol Gives Back” philanthropy — appeals for donations by pop stars that last season raised more than $60 million. This season, Alicia Keys introduced a 15-year-old Rwandan rapper Noah who performed to help raise money for the Keep A Child Alive foundation.
The show is bigger than its parts. It’s a knockoff of a British talent competition that has become the apotheosis of American pop entertainment. It’s a live show so elaborately edited and overly produced that it seems taped, yet at the same time, this formulaic series still manages to look spontaneous even in its eighth iteration.
