![]() “Single Ladies” dares the more sheltered among us to ask: “Are there people who really look and talk like this?” The men all talk like that grandiloquently suave Old Spice spokesman who rides his stallion shirtless. The women seem to be operating from a false sense of empowerment, a soulfulness that unfortunately reads as soullessness. Even if “Single Ladies” can be enjoyed in some basic brainless way (and even though it’s safely sequestered on VH1, where standards are aggressively low), there’s something steadfastly embarrassing about it. ![]() It’s the TV equivalent of a beach read with no words. This is a series for people who found “Sex and the City” too quick-witted and “The Wendy Williams Show” too intellectually stimulating. Big, waiting for the next everything-must-go stampede on low-cut wedding dresses. That sort of high-end, bougie consumer nonsense is, I guess, part of the escapism offered by “Single Ladies,” which borrows its title from the fully charred Beyonce hit and the equally overdone idea that female viewers are still (still!) waiting to exhale, waiting for Mr. It’s all champagne fountains, micro-miniskirts and cuisine served by, as one showoff suitor tells a single lady, “my personal four-star chef.” In this world, when a sister is feeling down (and/or stressed-out about trying to launch her fancy dress boutique of dis- tinc-tion), nothing can cheer her up as much as signing the lease on a new Jaguar. “Single Ladies,” a new VH1 soap opera premiering Monday night, exists in a gold-flecked nightmare version of Atlanta, where life can be winnowed down to the lyrics of assertive pop songs and a series of upscale, urban cliches.
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