With Donald Trump in charge, 'Apprentice' isn't business as usual

January 08, 2004|Globe Staff

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.