Land of the Real People

It's Friday afternoon in Lee's Summit, and about 50 mostly untalented Midwesterners have assembled in one place.

They're in the holding tank at RSVP, a mini-film studio off Independence Avenue. They wear numbered stickers on their chests so that the producers don't have to learn their names.

Execs from Denver-based Starz Studio are casting a new reality TV show called Looking for Stars. One lucky amateur will end up with a part in a movie produced by Revolution Studios, distributor of such classics as The Benchwarmers and Daddy Day Care. The series has an American Idol-style format, but instead of songs, contestants deliver one-minute monologues that they've written themselves. Their attempts are evaluated by a trio of judges that includes former MTV VJ Alan Hunter, who will also host the show.

Hunter, wearing a T-shirt and sport coat, springs into the room. A boom mic, spotlights and cameras follow his movements.

"Once again, Kansas. Land of the desperate," he says to the contestants. If the contestants feel insulted, they don't show it. For his part, Hunter seems oblivious to the fact that he's actually in Missouri.

Earlier, the rookies had stood before a generic city backdrop and butchered their readings: a love poem, a drug-overdose scene, a suicide scene, a wedding proposal, and three pretend infomercials for assorted products. One tottering old lady dressed in sequins sang show tunes.

Like a guy about to dump his girlfriend, Hunter looks nervous. The contestants lack what he calls the "no-big-deal quotient" visible in the poker-faced wannabes who show up to reality-TV auditions in Los Angeles; New York; and Orlando, Florida. In those cities, would-be contestants shrug off failure like seasoned actors after bad auditions. In Kansas City, these people look unguardedly hopeful. Worse, the wide-eyed contestants take it personally when Hunter dishes out barbs.

As Hunter announces who will return, the contestants hold hands. Most of the 16 winners shriek, cry, jump and hug.

"That's the best reaction we've had in any city," Hunter tells the Pitch. "They were more eager for something fun to do."

That mentality has made Kansas City a B-list jackpot. Honchos from major networks — including MTV, NBC, CBS and ABC — agree that Midwesterners have that X factor: the hard-to-define chutzpah it takes to make it on reality TV.

"Kansas City is the new, more interesting place to cast," says Sasha Alpert, vice president of casting at Bunim/Murray Productions, the company behind the granddaddy of reality TV, The Real World. "You get a less jaded, more real group of people."

That tell-it-like-it-is mentality translates into ratings, says Scott Salyers, casting director for NBC's The Apprentice.

Robyn Kass, casting director for The Bachelor, agrees. "I don't want people on these shows who are too savvy for the process," she says. "I want to go to a place where people haven't auditioned before and they don't know what to expect, and you get more real reactions from them."

So, with Hollywood hoping that normal and naïve people can spin more drama than fiction, Kansas Citians will be playing a major role in America's obsession with watching itself.

But after the camera is off, what happens to people made famous for being themselves? And how has B-list status changed them? In the spirit of the paparazzi, the Pitch beat our own streets, looking for the real scoop. Former Apprentice wanna-be plots to trump the Donald
It's been less than a year since silent tears rolled down Felisha Mason's dimpled cheeks in Donald Trump's boardroom. She didn't bawl, but she looked pretty victimized after a co-worker backstabbed her. During the fourth season of The Apprentice, The Donald himself scolded her as "not tough enough for New York" before he swung the ax.

Since that nationally televised embarrassment, Mason has worked to build a real estate portfolio, hustling to prove herself worth more than just one outlandish, made-for-television moment.

On a recent morning, Mason struts to the counter of the Sherwin-Williams paint store in Westport to chat with an employee whose shirt is stitched with the name "Bobby." Mason's blond hair is pulled into a ponytail. The 29-year-old wears a white coat, sweater and designer jeans. She sips her morning indulgence: a nonfat venti latte, no foam, with five pumps of hazelnut syrup. The Starbucks barista knows by heart her name and order.

Mason is, as usual, crunched for time. She manages a four-story office building at 4010 Washington (the one with the Budweiser billboard on top). She also has invested in the remodeling of the former downtown University Towers building at 700 East Eighth Street into high-end condos, and she often sprints off to Lafayette, Louisiana, where she rehabbed a 100-room Econo Lodge Inn & Suites.

She has been up since dawn, working in her office, proving her credo that all hours are for business. The place is functional but the size of a walk-in closet. A thrifty choice because she doesn't pay herself rent.

She's at Sherwin-Williams to pick up a couple of gallons of paint to test for the Towers project. Bobby isn't moving fast enough.