Anyone who watches reality TV would conclude that producers enter the casting room with stock characters in mind -- "the Nerd," "the Jock," "the Bitch." The genre's most successful shows, however, won't admit to searching for types. Mark Burnett, the secretive producer of "Survivor" and "The Apprentice," insists he has no perfect mix, no secret casting formula; he merely seeks "a bunch of very A-type, driven people." But the application for "Survivor" explicitly asks candidates to state which character from "Gilligan's Island" they most identify with, and according to Lynn Spillman, who casts "Survivor," Burnett tells her to think in terms of the '70s sitcom as she makes decisions.

John Saade, a former reality TV executive for ABC who has annoyed his peers by writing "The Reality TV Handbook," which attempts to demystify the casting process, says he likes to conceive of each cast as a family. "There's the aging alpha male," he says, "the young alpha male gunning for his position, the crazy uncle sitting off to one side, the hot sister."

When I describe Saade's technique to Mike Darnell, the Fox reality chief, he rolls his eyes, calling that approach "too philosophical for me. I want the crazy bitch, the nice guy, and as much conflict as is humanly possible." Lynn Spillman agrees that pronounced differences are key, and holds to a simple casting mantra: "sex, conflict, humor." Surely, however, the grande dame of reality casting, Sasha Alpert, gatekeeper for Branson's success, wouldn't rely on some cheap formula. "You want to know the truth?" she says, leaning forward at the Bunim/Murray offices, grinning conspiratorially, and a bit sheepishly. "My model is World War II movies -- you know, the hayseed, the urban kid from Brooklyn. This is the opposite of everyone from the same family. It's everyone from a very different family."

Now in line for Alpert's unmerciful scrutinizing is Shad Sharp, another of today's five finalists. A 31-year-old self-described loan shark from Oregon, Shad made his first million at 24 and owns a jet. That success caught producers' notice early, and in his most recent interview he was impressively slimy. "OK, I'm going to go find a human side," Alpert says to the team, as she prepares to conduct Shad's final interview. "Do you have a microscope?"

From early on, Shad annoys her. He makes a habit of flashing a toothy grin at the least appropriate times, like when being asked about cheating on his girlfriend or screwing people over in business. "How come you smile after every question?" Alpert asks. "Did you read it in a book?"

No, Shad says, all gums.

"Do you smile when you're firing someone?" Alpert asks.

"I don't know," Shad says, lamely. "I'm a happy person."

Alpert's interview doesn't reveal much more depth, and the consensus in the room is that they've broken through to the real Shad. He is closed, emotionally disingenuous, one-dimensional. His answers are short and nondescript. Whatever spark they saw in his prior interviews must have been a pose.

Ah, Shad. As Americans have become more savvy about reality TV, applicants have become students of the genre -- "People come in here almost imagining the music that will be played behind them," Alpert says, making posturing and false intentions one more layer to peel away. The key, says Lynn Spillman, is consistency: "They need to be a bitch on tape, a bitch on their application, a bitch on their answering machine." Alpert and her team see right through Shad, and he becomes the butt of their jokes. They mock his lingo (he describes his girlfriend as "a good gal" and uses "rock 'n' roll" as a verb), his favorite color (silver), the pristine whiteness of his teeth.

"He would be much talked about by the others," Jon Murray admits. Ultimately, though, Shad has run headlong into the reality TV truism that phoniness will out. "I think he is who he is," Murray says. "You either want that character, or you don't."

If Shad makes the cut, he will undergo a final vetting by Fox, during which he'll submit to a battery of psychological tests, including a one-on-one interview. In the genre's frontier days, when the only shows around were "The Real World" and "Road Rules," the process consisted of a letter, a picture, an interview and not much more. Gradually, Bunim/Murray added more filtration, and about six years ago, in an effort to deepen the process, brought in a psychologist for the first time -- not so much to screen for dangerous individuals as to provide another level of insight. "Psychologists have a lot of the qualities you want in a casting director," Alpert says. "Very good listening and interviewing skills."

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