With Donald Trump in charge, 'Apprentice' isn't business as usual
One lesson is abundantly clear in "The Apprentice," the new reality show that positions Donald Trump as a demigod. Money -- even The Donald's billions of dollars -- can't buy good hair. With his seedy combover, which perches on his forehead like a mohair racoon, the world-famous real estate baron is living proof that conspicuous consumption does not necessarily include a personal Fab Five.
NBC's "The Apprentice," which premieres tonight at 8:30, is the latest creation from Mark Burnett, the executive producer of "Survivor" and the class among reality creators. And it, too, is about prevailing in the jungle, but this time the jungle is concrete and the bonny young players wear business suits instead of belly shirts. Of course, the eight men and eight women chosen to play "The Apprentice" are being housed in two same-sex luxury suites, which probably means we'll be seeing on-site hot tubs and sweaty champagne sessions before too long; but I digress. As it explores the efficacy of varying business tactics, "The Apprentice" actually has a hint of promise, given the fact that the spectre of reality TV and vapid series such as "The Simple Life" are not going away in the near future.
Basically, the 16 fledgling entrepreneurs are competing for a job with Trump, heading up one of his companies. They've been split into two teams, the men (Versacorp) vs. the women (Protege Corporation), and over the course of 15 episodes they'll compete in various business tasks. They'll also bicker, back-stab, bond, and, most importantly, blazon the cliches of their respective genders. In tonight's contest, which is to sell the most lemonade on the streets of New York, the ladies use sex appeal to attract buyers while the men approach the game like a cocky football team. At the end of the day, "The Apprentice" is a reality battle of the sexes as much as it is a "Bonfire of the Vanities"-esque playoff.
All the job candidates have type A personalities, but they also have radically different business orientations, ranging from street smarts to graduate degrees. Oddball venture capitalist David Gould is a cerebral chap with both an MD and an MBA, for instance, while Troy McClain is a baby-face good old boy who invested well. All the players have been cast with type in mind, of course; that's de rigueur in the reality realm, where there is always a villain and a vixen, a control freak and a slacker, a cowboy and a lady. Tonight, stockbrocker Tammy Lee promises to be the resident two-face of Protege, betraying the trust of political consultant Omarosa Manigault-Stallworth after taking a very long lunch break.
At the end of each episode, one person is "fired" from the losing team, just like on "Survivor." And Trump presides over the proceedings like a vain and decadent king, patting himself on his own back for his immense accomplishments as he tough-loves the kids. No false modesty in his briefcase. His star quality is nothing to brag about, however; Trump speaks his cheesily written lines stiffly and artificially. And when the winning team visits his palatial apartment, which looks like it has literally been dipped in gold, he flirts with ridiculousness by saying, "I show this apartment to very few people." I guess 10 or 20 million TV viewers qualifies as "very few" to a billionaire.
The show's 1980s-style greed-is-good themes appear to be ignoring the painful disparity between the wealthy and the poor in America, but they're not. Indeed, that gap is what gives "The Apprentice" its reality mojo, the festering social issue that every reality series mines in order to provoke and hook viewers. When the carefree rich girls mix it up with the hard-working farmers on "The Simple Life," they're pushing the same socioeconomic buttons.
"The Apprentice" restates the popular question "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire," but from the angle of the sharks instead of the goldfish.
Matthew Gilbert can be reached at gilbert@globe.com.
THE APPRENTICE
Starring: Donald Trump
On: NBC, Ch.7
Time: Tonight, 8:30-10
