Jenny who? For anyone who’s joined Jones in a “Girls’ Night Out,” there’s no ID problem. That’s the blond comic’s for-females-only show, which has been packing clubs in a score of cities. Equal parts pajama party, group therapy and male bashathon, the show allows women (guys are banned from the audience) to gripe and guffaw about their most personal concerns: leg stubble, breast implants, stretch marks, obscene callers and PMS.
Clearly, this is a woman made for our most intimate medium. David Salzman, coexecutive producer of “Jenny Jones,” likens her skills to those of Mike Douglas, his former employer. “Mike could make you cry and, minutes later, take a pie in the face,” marvels Salzman. “Jenny has the same ability to switch from the serious to the funny.” We’ll see. But to sit in on some prelaunch tapings is to discover a talk show with format schizophrenia. By ricocheting between the heavy and the light, Jones risks switching some viewers off.
In one segment, a woman hidden behind a screen describes how her ex-husband fled overseas with all their money. The studio audience is still brooding over that when on comes a female photographer for Playgirl, who fields giggly questions about shooting nude men. The same emotional whiplashing infuses other tapings. Segments bounce from the titillating (secrets of soap-opera hunks) to the homey (fruits and vegetables at war in the refrigerator) to the heartbreaking (a boy who’s allergic to every thing). The amazing thing is, nothing seems to undermine the bond between Jones and her audience. This woman knows how other women think, especially when they’re thinking raunchy. After a soap hunk denies getting aroused during love scenes, she inquires: “Are we buying that?” One woman isn’t. “Do you,” she asks him, “wear rubber bands on it?”
The former Jenny Stronski came by her comedic insights the hard way. A onetime waitress and model, she performed with 30 rock bands, graduating from drummer to singer to joke-teller between numbers. As a TV boss, Jones has proven somewhat demanding; so far she’s gone through seven hairdressers. Maybe it’s because she’s already suffering flop sweats. “Even before we air,” she frets, “we’ve made television history. I’m afraid everyone is going to expect a talk-show goddess.” Not to worry, the woman is too down-to-earth. Just watch her during taping breaks. When things turn unsettlingly quiet, Jones chides the audience: “If you can fake an orgasm, fake a laugh.” She gets howls.
