My Life and Times

Stephanie Diani for The New York Times

Summer Wesson, Marc Marcuse and Dennis Luciani, all former ?Average Joe? stars, making an appearance at a chop house in Hollywood last week

May 1, 2005
Weren't You Famous?
By DAMIEN CAVE

DON'T let anyone tell you that reality television offers stars only one fleeting, white-hot moment in the spotlight.

Even after being kicked off "Survivor" or evicted from the chic "Real World" digs, you can still pick up $1,200 for appearing at a Baltimore bar, handing a trophy to a motocross champion in California or being twirled by a menacing lummox in a professional wrestling match.

It is not without its perils. You could become so sick of shaking hands that you drop out and find yourself adopting a baby monkey, as Tara Gerard from "Paradise Hotel" did. Or, like Eric Nies, the breakout star from "The Real World: New York" in 1992, identified back then as an "aspiring actor," you could be sucker-punched at a paid appearance.

"I came outside, and the girls there were doing their thing, and some guy sneaked in a punch," Mr. Nies said of the blow he took two years ago outside a nightclub in Iowa. After appearing on "The Real World" he went on to release the "Grind Workout" videocassette series, but the assault knocked him out cold. And the $5,000 fee didn't offer much consolation. "I'll never do another club again," he said.

Depending on one's perspective, life after reality television is either excessively rewarding or deserved punishment for anyone vainglorious enough to pursue fame at any cost. Having entered the public imagination for their ability to seduce, double-cross and perform often gruesome physical feats on national television, alumni of shows like "Survivor," "Joe Millionaire" and "Road Rules" are often unable to slip back into their old hometown routines. And if they were hoping that wading through swamps in a bikini might jump-start a more legitimate Hollywood career, they often find themselves waiting tables instead.

So they wind up in a strange celebrity netherworld. Unable to attain creative respect, they settle for attracting onlookers, commanding fees of $500 to $30,000 for appearing at shopping centers, nightclubs, resorts, colleges or corporate conferences: appearances that reflect both a nationwide addiction to fame and the stars' earnest attempts to define themselves within its dicey limbo.

"Part of the genre is based on an audience feeling superior to them," said Alan Raymond, a director of "An American Family," the landmark PBS documentary from the 1970's that propelled a dysfunctional Santa Barbara family to national prominence over 12 episodes. "That's a strange kind of fame. You're not actually being lauded. You're just in the public eye and often in ways that are unflattering."

Toni Ferrari, 30, the volatile blonde from Fox's "Paradise Hotel" and "Love Cruise," said that in her experience, "Hollywood frowns on reality because we're not looked at as real talent." She appeared in the two series, which offered six-figure prizes for competitive coupling, in hopes of furthering an acting career. But since then, she said, even after temporarily disguising herself by dyeing her hair dark brown, she has been laughed out of auditions and asked to leave several improvisational acting classes by fellow students who accused her of being a sellout. "People don't realize that I only did this because I was hoping I'd get another chance," she said.

There is no official count of ex-reality-show contestants, but each television season produces a fresh crop of dozens. In Los Angeles they've already become a sizable clique, with Sunset Boulevard hangouts, poker nights and their own talent agencies. Such is their critical mass that television programmers are designing a new entertainment genre that focuses on the alumni.

On May 24 Fox will unveil a 24-hour cable channel, Fox Reality, that is largely dedicated to reality reruns with commentary from ex-participants. MTV, not to be booted off the island it helped build, is working on a documentary with reality's old flames, while its partner VH1 shot a pilot this month for "Reality Rehab," which offers life-coach sessions to rascals like Jonny Fairplay from "Survivor: Pearl Islands."

Ms. Ferrari, who has been called in to provide commentary on Fox Reality for rebroadcasts of "Love Cruise," hopes her updated on-air persona will help rehabilitate her image. "It feels good when I'm recognized, but it's not because I did something well," said Ms. Ferrari, who is now bartending to pay the bills.

Reality stars might be facing an uphill battle when it comes to reinvention. Fans tend to overlook the power of editing, and believe they know reality stars because their personalities are on display. "There's the pretense of a greater relationship between the people on the show and the audience," said Leo Braudy, the author of "The Frenzy of Renown: Fame and Its History" (Oxford, 1986). "They just happened to be tapped by their fairy godmothers and then they're on this show, where they act normal."

Because of this, he said, viewers can easily feel envious and wonder, "Why not me?" and "What makes him so special?"

Those who expect to return to their former lives are kidding themselves, most participants say. Darva Conger, the blond bombshell who won Fox's "Who Wants to Marry a Multimillionaire?" in February 2000, said in an interview last week that she did the show "for a free trip to Vegas" and that she never realized that marrying Rick Rockwell on national television would be so disruptive.

After the show was recorded, she returned to work as an emergency room nurse but was fired in the aftermath of the show's finale when her marriage to Mr. Rockwell was revealed to be a sham. Unable to find another job and stuck with a mortgage, a dependent mother and no pay from Fox, she said she ate through her savings and cried.

"It was devastating," she said. "I'd never been fired. Nursing was my passion, my identity."

So, she said, she decided to play the game. Which meant that when Playboy called later that year during her desperate job search, she answered. Then, in 2002, looking for cash to wed a paramedic, the reality gravy train rolled by again: for $35,000 she agreed to appear on "Celebrity Boxing II" and take a beating from Olga Korbut, the former Olympian gymnast.

"The notoriety was still there," said Ms. Conger, 39, now five months pregnant and back in school for a degree in nursing anesthesiology. "I did one show, and it paid for my wedding."

Ms. Gerard, the dark-haired siren from "Paradise Hotel," also found herself surprised by the money she could earn. She did appearances full time for a year, signing autographs at a Toledo mall, being a host of a radio show in Canada and hanging out at bars.

It eventually burned her out, to a point where Ms. Gerard, a 23-year-old California actress, said she "had not to work." Along with shelving her bikini, she traded her bond with fans for a baby monkey. "I got her when she was three and a half weeks old," she said. "It's just like having a baby."

But the lure of fame and showbiz apparently remained too strong to resist. She stayed in Los Angeles, and a few months ago, she said, she started dipping back into the business, working on modeling shoots for a Japanese firm and appearing in a music video for someone named Jake Coco. She figures that the connections she made in reality television will keep her flush for years, and she may be right.

Though most reality alums use appearances to grab extra cash for a trip or a down payment on a house, a handful seem to have leveraged their notoriety into financial stability. Randy Barry from "The Real World: San Diego" is now a paid spokesman for STA Travel, and Alex Michel, star of "The Bachelor" during its first season, said he would only be interviewed if he was identified as a spokesman for Match.com. (Then he canceled because of "work responsibilities.")

Rachel Robinson, who appeared on MTV's "Road Rules" in 2002, has been doing about 10 appearances a month for the past three years, speaking mostly at colleges about sexual and ethnic diversity. She said that while the pay is good - $2,000 to $3,000 a gig - she and a "Road Rules" co-star, Veronica Portillo, have recently decided to move in another direction. About a month ago they started a T-shirt company called College Dropout.

The designs (with phrases like "switch hitters" and "coochie couture") parlay their image - as the two girls who took part in a threesome during an episode in 2002 - into what they hope will be a successful business.

"We turn down appearances because we have to work," said Ms. Robinson, 22. "To me this T-shirt business is about longevity."

Meanwhile Marc Marcuse, the smart aleck whose balding head was assaulted with an egg on the original "Average Joe" in 2003, now runs Reel Management, a year-old booking agency that arranges up to 10 appearances a week for cast members from 16 different reality shows.

One of his most prodigious clients is Jonny Fairplay, a man who seems to have understood from the start that television is a business and a medium that needs a villain. Before the show in 2003, he was just a curly-haired guy named Jon Dalton who worked at an art gallery in Los Angeles. But after turning himself into a jerk even more obnoxious than "Survivor's" first victor, Richard Hatch, he became a character in demand.

Mr. Fairplay said he earned $95,000 for "Survivor," even though he lost. Since then, with the help of Mr. Marcuse and other agents, he has earned more than most Los Angeles actors make in a year.

Eight appearances with TNA Wrestling alone, he says, brought in six figures; add in the club gigs that he did nearly every weekend for a year at $7,500 a shot and you've got a nest egg that even Tommy Lee might covet. Now, Mr. Fairplay says, he sleeps until whenever, with whomever, and generally enjoys a life that beats anything he did for CBS on that God-forsaken tropical island.

"I still get hate mail every single day," he said. "People love to hate me, and that's good. I don't work as a result, not a real job at least."

According to Mr. Nies, reality renown may last far longer than anyone imagined.

"It's an ongoing real-life soap opera," he said. "Luke and Laura have been on 'General Hospital' for 20 years," he said, referring to the show's fictional characters. "Maybe that's how it will be for us."

Copyright 2005 The New York Times Company | Home | Privacy Policy | Search | Corrections | RSS | Help | Back to Top