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Tuesday, Nov 10, 2009
Like ripped sweat shirts and leg warmers, Donald Trump has never really left us. On "The Apprentice," fawning hopefuls happily enslave themselves to this icon of cheesy excess.
Jan 14, 2004 | He [Sir Walter Elliot] considered the blessing of beauty as inferior only to the blessing of a baronetcy; and the Sir Walter Elliot, who united these gifts, was the constant object of his warmest respect and devotion.
-- Jane Austen, "Persuasion"
Some rich people make wealth look hopelessly appealing and delectable. Donald Trump is not one of those people. Instead of reflecting the glamour of incredible wealth, Trump has come to represent its attendant afflictions, which range from deadly sins to personality disorders: greed, vanity, obsessive-compulsive disorder, decadence, delusions of grandeur and germ phobia, to name just a few. No matter what trick "The Donald" has dreamed up to stay in the spotlight, his stubborn determination not to go away and not to change one iota is, oddly enough, what finally keeps him in our affections.
The blindingly beautiful supermodel on his arm, that thinning Kristy McNichol-style flip on the top of his head, those cartoonishly self-aggrandizing statements, somehow combine to form an immutable presence in American life as difficult to ignore as his flashy New York landmarks. Forget that he's been tooting the same tired horn for two decades now. Like a recurring character straight out of a Jane Austen novel, Trump fully inhabits his role as the unpardonably vain, tacky aristocrat whose thin charms do little to sugarcoat his fixation on his status and power among the privileged. Boorish as he might seem, we embrace him for making us feel like humble, down-to-earth Anne Elliots and Elizabeth Bennets by comparison.
Of course, while Austen had a knack for disassembling the tiresome habits of the preening elites, nothing raised her ire more than sycophants, flatterers and obsequious fawners, those who dedicate most of their energies to moving in the right circles and attracting the attention of those of rank and circumstance. Austen would've had a field day with the cloyingly ambitious contestants on "The Apprentice," a gaggle of hearty hand-shakers and earnestly dogmatic professionals selected to compete for the chance to work for Trump for a year. Since many of the group are already wealthy, it must be the glory and not the $250,000 salary that has them ready to cut each other's hearts out for Trump's approval. All the better, as far as the narrative is concerned.
When they're not falling all over themselves at the thought of all the power and fame and complimentary hand soaps that could be theirs, the contestants are murmuring self-help platitudes and management clichés at the camera without the slightest hint of irony. Thus, despite a somewhat shaky premise and a dorky start, "The Apprentice" has quickly established itself as a spectacle starring some of the most polished yet least self-aware characters to bask in pop culture's thin light since Austen's "Persuasion."
"Game's on! Game's been on for me since I showed up on the plane," proclaims Nick, a copier salesman.
"If you pull one over on me, I'm gonna 10-time you. I'm gonna do you over by 10 times. My mind works like that," says Bowie Hogg, an account executive at FedEx, apropos of nothing.
But where can the Donald exist, except in an irony-free zone, surrounded by salivating business puppies who lap up his every word? Here, the Donald is free to breeze in, drop some phat wisdom, and breeze out without having to stick around and chat about something other than himself.
Strangely, within the first few minutes of the show, a shadow of doubt falls on the sharpness of the assembled contestants. When the men and women are split up, they have to name their teams. After hours of jabbering, the women decide to call themselves "Protégé Corporation," which sounds eerily like the name a 7-year-old might give to the office where her Barbie works. The guys come up with "Versacorp," quickly proclaiming the bland and meaningless name a brilliant creation. "I wasn't a big proponent of that," Nick snips, distinguishing himself from his fellow yes men. "I don't think it's flashy, I don't think it represents all of us, and I don't think Trump will particularly love the name. I mean, Versacorp! It's dumb. It's corny!"
Cutely enough, the teams' first task is to sell lemonade on the streets of New York. The guys begin with a few smart decisions, borrowing equipment from a local bodega in exchange for sending business their way, while the women bicker and then panic because they can't find each other. Despite their inept start, some of the longer-legged women wise up and flirt their way into the wallets of passersby, charging $5 a cup for lemonade and a peck on the cheek while the men continue to scramble and beg for $1 cups across town. Kristi, a restaurant owner from Santa Monica, Calif., seems particularly good at buttering up young strangers. Perhaps she's drawing on her rumored soft-porn experience. Everyone brings special talents to the picnic on "The Apprentice."
