Game Shows Get Gamier

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SHOWS: LOVE PROGRAMS

TIME: DAYTIME AND LATE NIGHT

THE BOTTOM LINE: Need a nationwide audience for your relationship problems? TV is here to help.

"If you're infatuated with someone," urges host Bob Eubanks at the end of the new game show Infatuation, "don't call them. Call us." A perfect appeal for the '90s. Why pursue your romance in private when you can confide your feelings to millions of TV viewers? In the process, you can get coached by the very same sensitive guy who used to goad feuding couples on The Newlywed Game. You might even score.

The walls of privacy continue to be bulldozed by television. Video cameras are nosing their way into courtrooms and police patrol cars. The victims of child abuse and incest disclose their darkest secrets to Oprah, Phil and Geraldo. Now a spate of game shows -- half a dozen currently on the air, with several more in the works -- are eavesdropping on the few private areas left for ordinary people: love, romance and -- in leering if not explicit terms -- sex.

Though the granddaddy of the genre is the venerable Love Connection, the current trailblazer is Studs, the syndicated show that has drawn top ratings by reaching new depths of bad taste. The premise: two hunks are sent on dates successively with the same three women, then appear on the show to guess which ones made various comments about them. The remarks are suggestive sound bites like "He gasped in amazement when I slurped down that beef" or "A few sparks, a big thrust and his mighty rocket started to rise." The real meaning, however, is usually banal; the comments, no matter how innocent (the beef was filet mignon; the rocket, fireworks on the beach), have been reprocessed by the show's writers for maximum double-entendre effect.

If Studs shows how eager people are to reduce their romantic lives to salacious gag lines, the syndicated That's Amore demonstrates how adept some folks are at turning marriage into sitcom material. Under the guiding hand of a dapper Italian host named Luca, couples restage their marital spats as if they were auditioning for a spinoff of Married . . . with Children ("You are ; the boss of nothing!" "Where were your brains -- your rear end?"). At the end of each episode, the audience selects a victor. But it matters little: the prize in either case is a "second honeymoon," so the couple can make up -- or, more likely, share a good laugh.

The scramble to find further variations on the love-show formula has strained producers' ingenuity. In A Perfect Score, on CBS's late-night schedule, a contestant is presented with three prospective dates. The twist is that the candidates are interrogated by three of his or her friends. Their questions are relatively serious and to the point: "Jackie has two children. How do you feel about an instant family?" The problem is that Jackie is onstage listening to everything; why doesn't she just choose the guy herself?