Being Miss America: Behind the Rhinestone Curtain (Discovering America) by Kate Shindle
Authors: Kate Shindle
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of the decade, the pageant decided to unceremoniously dump longtime emcee Bert Parks. In characteristic fashion, the leadership made a mess of things; a reporter broke the news to Parks before he had received his termination letter.
Like the pageant, Parks’s shtick had begun to wear thin by 1980. In addition, as he grew older and the contestants didn’t, an air of condescension crept into his performance. With each dutiful cheek kiss from a pair of Miss Americas or a trio (or more) of female dancers, Parks moved further from his “cool young uncle” persona of 1954 and closer to a less appealing identity. Still, he was practiced and effective. He may have been on the way to becoming a parody of himself, but at least he seemed to be in on the joke.
By that time, he was certainly the most famous individual on the stage. His cohosts each year included the outgoing Miss America and an assortment of former MissAmericas: usually Phyllis George, often Lee Meriwether, and a few others. But one moment in a single telecast is emblematic of how his influence had evolved from charming upstart to monopolizing presence. The 1977–1978 show opens with Parks’s talking, disembodied head floating against a backdrop of Atlantic City’s skyline. Cut to the inside of Convention Hall, where the introductions start with outgoing Miss America Dorothy Benham and continue with the guest entertainers and Miss America Dancers. And finally, Parks himself, facing upstage in silhouette, turning to the audience, Norma Desmond-style, and descending a giant staircase to great applause. At the time, it was an utterly acceptable variety-show introduction for a host; again, though, it emphasizes how entirely he had evolved from facilitator to star of the Miss America Pageant.
Watching the telecasts of the mid- to late 1970s, it’s obvious that the formula had gotten stale. The production numbers were too long, featuring endless variations on patriotism, and too many non-singing former Miss Americas were being asked to sing. Most desperate and borderline depressing of all was the ongoing attempt to make the telecast more current simply by using contemporary music. Once you hear Bert Parks sing “Blues in the Night,” or do the Charleston to a Wings song, you can’t ever un-have that experience. In these later years, the contestants seem almost an afterthought, filler between opportunities for Phyllis George to sing the Beatles or a former state winner to perform “Feelings.” It’s a shame, because, given its still-significant popularity, the pageant probably could have attracted the most current artists of the day to perform their
own
songs. Instead, the audience endured the cognitive dissonance of disco music played by the Glen Osser Orchestra—an accomplished group, but one that certainly didn’t count any electric guitarists among its ranks. Those years did showcase some very talented contestants and producedsome interesting winners, a couple of whom were outside the box and at least one (Dorothy Benham, 1977) who was such an obvious winner that the contestant next to her—still technically in contention—turned and smiled at Benham for several seconds before her name was announced. But the pageant as a whole had become a quaint tradition with an identity crisis. Juxtaposed against the backdrop of “tune in, turn on, drop out,” and subsequently, second-wave feminism, those shows seem almost preposterous.
Even an annual intervention by Miss America president Al Marks met with mixed success. Over the course of several telecasts, he made brief appearances to clarify the pageant’s mission. One year, he chatted with former Miss America Terry Meeuwsen (1975) about the positive career effect of having been Miss America; another time, Marks explained the scoring in the context of Miss-America-as-well-rounded-woman. A third appearance had him flatly stating that “this is not a beauty contest.” But it’s hard to argue that his plain,
Like the pageant, Parks’s shtick had begun to wear thin by 1980. In addition, as he grew older and the contestants didn’t, an air of condescension crept into his performance. With each dutiful cheek kiss from a pair of Miss Americas or a trio (or more) of female dancers, Parks moved further from his “cool young uncle” persona of 1954 and closer to a less appealing identity. Still, he was practiced and effective. He may have been on the way to becoming a parody of himself, but at least he seemed to be in on the joke.
By that time, he was certainly the most famous individual on the stage. His cohosts each year included the outgoing Miss America and an assortment of former MissAmericas: usually Phyllis George, often Lee Meriwether, and a few others. But one moment in a single telecast is emblematic of how his influence had evolved from charming upstart to monopolizing presence. The 1977–1978 show opens with Parks’s talking, disembodied head floating against a backdrop of Atlantic City’s skyline. Cut to the inside of Convention Hall, where the introductions start with outgoing Miss America Dorothy Benham and continue with the guest entertainers and Miss America Dancers. And finally, Parks himself, facing upstage in silhouette, turning to the audience, Norma Desmond-style, and descending a giant staircase to great applause. At the time, it was an utterly acceptable variety-show introduction for a host; again, though, it emphasizes how entirely he had evolved from facilitator to star of the Miss America Pageant.
Watching the telecasts of the mid- to late 1970s, it’s obvious that the formula had gotten stale. The production numbers were too long, featuring endless variations on patriotism, and too many non-singing former Miss Americas were being asked to sing. Most desperate and borderline depressing of all was the ongoing attempt to make the telecast more current simply by using contemporary music. Once you hear Bert Parks sing “Blues in the Night,” or do the Charleston to a Wings song, you can’t ever un-have that experience. In these later years, the contestants seem almost an afterthought, filler between opportunities for Phyllis George to sing the Beatles or a former state winner to perform “Feelings.” It’s a shame, because, given its still-significant popularity, the pageant probably could have attracted the most current artists of the day to perform their
own
songs. Instead, the audience endured the cognitive dissonance of disco music played by the Glen Osser Orchestra—an accomplished group, but one that certainly didn’t count any electric guitarists among its ranks. Those years did showcase some very talented contestants and producedsome interesting winners, a couple of whom were outside the box and at least one (Dorothy Benham, 1977) who was such an obvious winner that the contestant next to her—still technically in contention—turned and smiled at Benham for several seconds before her name was announced. But the pageant as a whole had become a quaint tradition with an identity crisis. Juxtaposed against the backdrop of “tune in, turn on, drop out,” and subsequently, second-wave feminism, those shows seem almost preposterous.
Even an annual intervention by Miss America president Al Marks met with mixed success. Over the course of several telecasts, he made brief appearances to clarify the pageant’s mission. One year, he chatted with former Miss America Terry Meeuwsen (1975) about the positive career effect of having been Miss America; another time, Marks explained the scoring in the context of Miss-America-as-well-rounded-woman. A third appearance had him flatly stating that “this is not a beauty contest.” But it’s hard to argue that his plain,
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