One gets the feeling that Dustin Diamond's pathetic fumbling toward middle age would not make for compelling TV.
Whereas everyone from a creepily manic Gary Busey to a drunken, publicly urinating Verne "Mini Me" Troyer has sullied their thinly admirable reputations on VH1 recently, Saved By The Bell's Screech had to settle for pummeling Welcome Back Kotter's Horshack in a "celebrity" boxing match, and an entertainment news-type program showing how he planned to save his house by selling T-shirts.
But who needs television when you can distribute your own sex tape? I can only imagine the behind-the-scenes leaking - to parties unknown - who would rather eye-drop Arsenic than assure the veracity of the tape.
So Diamond set a new trend in the cultural nadir by openly marketing it himself. We are to blame for not taking a road trip to Diamond's house to assure him that not even his flailing interested us in the least. You had to care about something to begin with to get schadenfreude.
The truly nefarious elements of the film shall neither sully our minds, nor PRWeek's printers, but suffice to say that elements hyped suddenly cast former Bell actress Elizabeth Berkley (Showgirls) as a prude.
Diamond's intent is to get his name, you know, back out there in the industry. But what Screech should have known is that his name is already known - as the name to avoid. The world loves a lingering, public death, and Diamond built the coliseum. We all just wish he'd wear pants.
PR Play Rating
3. On the right track