So you want to be filthy rich? Thirtyish orthodontist Neil Postit does.
That’s why he chose his girlfriend, personal life coach Marcy Mallowitz, to be his Lifeline for the Filthy Rich game show. Marcy is an avid TV watcher and a virtual encyclopedia of television trivia. The show’s contestants are allowed to call on a friend or loved one if they’re stumped—and when the stakes are as high as $1.75 million, minds have a way of going blank. But the final question is a real poser, and Neil is flummoxed. Which 1970s schlock TV variety show did actress Teri Garr regularly appear on? Was it Donny and Marie, or The Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour? Spotlights are circling, the clock is ticking down, Neil is sweating . . . and Marcy gives him the wrong answer. Nasty Neil throws a spectacular tantrum in front of the studio audience, verbally flagellating Marcy and her mother. In retaliation, Marcy takes off the cheap, sort-of-engagement ring he once gave her and flings it in his face. Lo and behold, next day’s papers christen her America’s latest instant celebrity. Barbara Walters and Diane Sawyer and Oprah and Geraldo and Montel are buttering her up right and left, hoping for an exclusive interview. Marcy can’t believe all the attention. Putting everyone on hold, she goes into a brown study, wondering why somebody with a degree in psychology from Barnard ever ended up with a creep like Neil. Is it that men are just mean, or did her mom’s relentless matchmaking cause her to settle for a loser? Now that she’s famous, will she able to find love at last? Predictably, Marcy meets a really nice man, then lands a deal cohosting a morning show, and even gets back at her obnoxious ex in prime time . . . live.
Trite, unfunny rehash of contemporary fads already long out of date: an uninspired debut.