Kay McFadden / Times staff columnist
Paris Hilton and pal Nicole Richie remain dense and unlikable down on the farm

	SAM JONES/ FOX Tinkerbell the Chihuahua, left, Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie don't cotton too well to the farm on Fox's reality series "The Simple Life."
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Whoever advised "With the rich, always a little patience" never tried to watch "The Simple Life."

In the short stretch since Paris Hilton's sex video, Michael Jackson's arrest and Prince Charles' nondenial denial of palace hanky-panky, we've been reminded that viewers love a train wreck if the passenger is traveling first-class.

But money alone can't buy TV love; an essential part of the comeuppance formula remains star-quality entertainment. That's why we relish Jackson's regally deluded peace sign at his surrender and Charles' consistently disastrous on-camera "dialogues" with the public.

Hilton, on the other hand, is an amateur. Prior to Internet overexposure, she moved mostly in the pages of InStyle and Vanity Fair, her only clear assets being the Hilton name, the Hilton money and free hotel rooms for life.

Then Fox signed Hilton and friend Nicole Richie, daughter of Lionel, to a novel reality concept. "The Simple Life" would place them with a salt-of-the-earth family in Arkansas and the audience presumably would enjoy the pair's hilarious difficulties adjusting to a rural, working existence.

The resulting half-hour series debuts tomorrow night at 8:30 (KCPQ-TV).

If any network should know how to work a magical blend of haute humiliation, it's Fox. Already home to satirical classic "The Simpsons," Fox has the season's most brilliant new comedy, "Arrested Development," which offers a scathingly funny indictment of the feckless rich.

Yet much like Paris' pallid bit of pornography, "The Simple Life" apparently was more fun in the making than in the watching.

The fault lies with the stars — and with the producers, writers and network executives. They have failed to absorb the Anna Nicole Smith law of showbiz thermodynamics, which is that you need friction to create heat.

In this case, there's barely contact between two worlds. Although the ostensible point is what happens when two pampered socialites visit the Ozarks in a reverse "Wizard of Oz" scenario, Hilton and Richie remain in a bubble more insular than the one around Glinda the Good Witch.

To put it another way, a lot rolls off them.

"I've never done this," says Hilton several dozen times in the first two episodes. This statement applies to everything from driving a pickup to getting up at 5:15 a.m. to having a job and, along with "Eew," constitutes a limited vocabulary that swiftly loses its appeal.

Conversational prodding from the host family — the Ledings — elicits glazed responses. Polite or whining, Hilton and Richie are on autopilot, vesting minimal energy in what they too plainly regard as a short and necessary step on the road to fame.

If Hilton contributes little, Richie offers less. Already doomed to the role of less-attractive sidekick, she projects a glassy-eyed indifference that perhaps only can be explained by her recent stint in drug rehab.

Under these circumstances, setups aimed at conflict are wasted. In episode 2, Richie proves incapable of filling milk bottles at a dairy farm, and the supervisor admonishes, "You're a real screwup, you know that?" Her reaction is a concern that he might not like her.

But the designer-denimed duo's serene self-absorption is a symptom of failure and not the cause.

FOX You'll have more fun playing paper dolls with these images from the Fox press kit of Paris Hilton, Nicole Richie, their wardrobe, Tinkerbell the Chihuahua and farm critters than you will watching their reality show "The Simple Life."

In a fatal misjudgment, Fox has buried its nose-thumbing propensities and assumed what viewers want is the Paris and Nicole show. The show's worshipful contents undermine its snarky premise.

Family members barely get an introduction, and their role vis-a-vis Hilton and Richie is reduced to that of foil. Brief bursts of interaction are disrupted by weary MTV-style shopping and fashion segments, accompanied by snatches of pop music praising the girls for their looks, style, etc.

As for the clothes, it's not a pretty sight when Daisy Mae meets Dolce & Gabbana. Hilton and Richie appear to be operating under orders to make the locals as uncomfortable as possible with an assortment of slitted skirts, sky-high mules and $800 overalls.

"The Simple Life" abounds in clunky contrivances. The narrator speaks in a hokey twang and has been saddled with uninspired phrases like "They've officially gone from fur collar to blue collar!" Robin Leach, where are you?

The same countrified voice points out potential sources of humor lest we miss them, as if the show's draggy pace did not provide ample opportunity. Sloppy editing and lack of connection between scenes add up to a smug assumption that the audience would be too starry-eyed to notice.

You know things are desperate when a clip of the family's cute toddler sending Hilton's pet Chihuahua, Tinkerbell, down the backyard slide provides a peak moment of suspense (and a satisfying yelp).

In the post-bubble era, just as during the Great Depression, seeing the famous and well-heeled become a cropper can be a satisfying distraction.

But such pleasures historically have been accompanied by two possibilities: reformation or permanent downfall.

The 1930s screwball comedies that skewered the rich played to one of these two outcomes. Recent television series like "Arrested Development" and "The O.C." — both Fox productions — have taken over and reinforced the tradition of humbling the hoity-toity.

"The Simple Life," on the other hand, aspires to this formula while in fact being as celebrity-addled as W or E! The producers try to do the impossible; make fun of what they revere.

In the end, viewers have no one to relate to or laugh at. "The Simple Life" unwittingly illustrates the impermeability of the privileged, leaving the rest of us with our noses pressed against the TV set.

Kay McFadden: 206-382-8888 or kmcfadden@seattletimes.com

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