There are short segments in every competition episode of American Idol in which viewers get a glimpse into each contestant’s rehearsal process. That week’s mentor, along with affable slimeball Jimmy Iovine in recent seasons, espouses the greatness or, on a rare, delicious occasion, reinforces the mediocrity of the performer we are about to see. Perfectly-applied mascara runs down young, idealistic faces. Fears are voiced. Celebrities are fawned over. It’s a short buffer that forces the famous-mentor to put in the work for the product placement time they will receive during the telecast and allows for costume changes and set maneuvering during the commercial-heavy broadcast.
Think of Opening Act as an hour-long version of that rehearsal process, minus any of the stakes that American Idol is based on. If the potential Idol performance is a bust, America relishes the opportunity to stomp on a contestant's dreams. If the Act performance is terrible, we’ll probably never hear from that group again. But if it’s great, we’ll probably also never hear from them again.
That’s the inherent problem with Opening Act. We know who wins before the show even hits its first commercial break, and we don't get a say in it. Instead, American Idol/So You Think You Can Dance svengali Nigel Lythgoe relies on a panel made up of former Fall Out Boy member Pete Wentz, country star Martina McBride, R&B singer-songwriter Jason Derülo, and some other people who aren’t famous and are, therefore, not noteworthy (even though they end doing most of the coaching). They comb through YouTube videos in order to find the best fit for their pop star of the week.
But if we already know the ultimate victor, what are we sticking around for? To watch struggling musicians go through the natural competition show arc of freaking out, discussing their insecurities with relative strangers and talking about how lucky they are to get five minutes onstage in front of an audience who didn’t pay to see them? The show never overcomes this structural flaw.