"Just reality" in ABC's 'Shark Tank'

Have you ever thought to yourself, “If only I could be a fly on the wall of some low-stakes business deals. I would give my left pinky toe—hell, maybe even the right one, too—just to hear some people talk percentages right now”? Well, if you have, you are in luck. Apparently, Mark Burnett of Tribal Buff fame and the good folks of ABC have cooked up a show just for you. It’s full of all the things you’ve come to expect from the exciting world of reality television: numbers, sales data, and literally standing in one spot for minutes on end, while everyone else in the room sits and stares. It’s called Shark Tank, and these sharks are…wait. There were no sharks.

Instead of sharks, ABC’s show offers a business-focused show that has far less action and challenge than, say, NBC’s Apprentice (which, indeed, it did seem to be riffing on, especially with the opening credits set to “Give Me Money,” in a very “Money”-reminiscent way). In this show, all contestants ever do is take the elevator up a floor to stand in a darkened room while they pitch their company/idea/device-thingy (it varies) to a bunch of millionaires (which is supposed to translate to “smart, successful people,” I assume). Said millionaires then haggle over the details and decide whether they will invest or not, and on what terms.

Take Tod the Pie Man, for example. Todd of Mr. Tod’s Pie Factory came in with a pie mascot and handed out free pie. After taking tiny bites (who cares about the actual product, right?), they begin to listen to this guy’s numbers. It comes down to two potential investors (Barbara of real estate and Daymond of FUBU), and then they just go wild with the fascinating statistics. Barbara needs this much equity, Daymond needs that much, and then they’ll give Todd half the money, but only if he…you get the point. It was around this time that I literally found myself asking “Wait. Is business equity now considered good television?” Tod eventually took the deal, and the climactic moment of his “win” (i.e., forking over half his business to unknown investors) was sealed by…a handshake. Then Tod left, and that was it. A new person got on the elevator, and I will probably never here about Tod again, unless he actually does make it to McDonald’s (that was his plan), in which case I totally hope that the Pie Mascot starts hanging out with Grimace and the gang. But since that probably won’t happen, I myself felt a bit defrauded, if you will—robbed of the climax to the plot.

The lack of plot structure and moment of triumph, though, isn’t the only problem with Shark Tank. Not only does it manage to stretch the limits of what actually constitutes entertainment, it also seems a bit haughty for this economic climate. We watch as struggling person after struggling person comes in and puts him or herself at the mercy of these millionaires. Some are laughed at, like Darrin Johnson, who wants to implant some kind of device in your head (it defies explanation). Some are just denied what they need. Some are granted money, but they end up sacrificing large portions of their profits. In short, we watch as the rich get richer at the expense of those with the actual products and ideas. I don’t endorse this as entertainment in any climate, but in this economy it seems particularly crass. And are we really supposed to believe and respect these people simply because they have money? I’m supposed to esteem Kevin Harrington, for example, because he commodified Barack Obama’s historic win and hawked the “Obama Coin” for his own profit? The value-system the show depends on is the very same that many in the country are taking issue with right now, making it a dubious fit for the current moment to say the least.

At one point in the show, Kevin O’Leary, a software tycoon says to one of the little people that deigned come before him, “That’s what I love about money. No emotions, no tears, just reality.” Oh, yes. And isn’t that what we all love about reality shows as well? No one lots a lot of emotion or drama in reality television. It’s not like reality television is based on emotion, tears, and in-fighting or anything, right? We just want reality. And evidently, that consists of rich people getting richer off the poor(er) people that come to talk to them in dark, ominous rooms, all documented in the most yawn-inducing way possible.

The Return of 'Millionaire'

Let me take you back to the year 2000, when the first US installment of Who Wants to be a Millionaire became so insanely popular. Unemployment was at a thirty-one-year low, President Clinton was finishing up his second term, no one was thinking about a war in Iraq, and the twin towers were still standing. Yes, a lot has certainly changed since 2000. Unfortunately, Regis Philbin and his ABC cohorts don’t quite seem to get this. The return of Who Wants to be A Millionaire attempts to recreate a phenomenon by using the same methods and ideas—right down to the shiny, lavender tie—that most of the country is now trying to move past.

The problem, largely, is Regis Philbin himself. From the opening one-liners (“I’ve been standing here in the dark for the past five years”) to the mocking of the recession-turned-carnival-worker contestant Brad (Regis: “How long are you going to stay at the carnival and count rabbits?” Awkward and humiliated contestant: “I don’t know…until I find another job…”), Regis shows he just doesn’t get the state of the nation right now. The result can be as mild as a disconnect where there once might have been excitement, but it can also be more catastrophic. Take Brad, for example. When he lost at the $1000-dollar level, he sat stunned and sad in his chair for longer than was comfortable. As he shuffled off the stage to return to his Carnie life, separated from his girlfriend, Regis ushered in the new contestant with only a “too bad about that Brad.” It was a little too sad for millionaire, and it was clearly beyond Regis’s capabilities to understand the shmuck on any level other than “loser contestant.”

But the blame isn’t all on Regis, either. The few changes that have been made to the show’s format only make the disconnect between Millionaire and American audiences at large wider. Instead of spending time talking with or relating to the pesky “average” contestants, the show has tried to bolster itself with a round of “celebrities.” At several times in the broadcast, Regis breaks us away to talk with “Washington correspondent Sam Donaldson” who can help with a question at some point (though he never does, so his presence is entirely pointless). The last seven minutes of the show is entirely devoted to the vapid Katy Perry, who answers a gimme question about her rich, famous friends for charity and tells stories about her cat (all while wearing a shiny dress!). The few new life lines really add nothing to the show, and the contestants’ shortened time limits don’t add pressure so much as choppiness to the overall format.

Not only are these gimmicks completely pointless, but they cut the very drama and tension that the original Millionaire played on so well. Even Meredith Vieira’s syndicated version (of which Regis seemed blissfully unaware for the first half of this broadcast) does a better job here because Vieira emotes, connects, and focuses on the contestants and their stories. This Philbin reincarnation, though, no longer seems to want to tell the story of the contestants attempting to secure a financial future; it wants to distract us from the fact that so many are now in such dire need of this kind of security. The result is a cold, detached, oddly anachronistic, and somehow dishonest hour of television that I won’t likely be watching again.