February 8, 2007 | Read Time: 5 minutes
On a recent Friday morning, Rex Shaw came to the Park Central hotel here to ask for $2-million to replace the
overcrowded classrooms of the New Jersey school he runs.
Feeling he had exhausted his traditional supporters — the state government, local foundations, and Wall Street investors — the director of the Teaneck Community Charter School had decided to approach an unusual benefactor: a television show.
At the hotel, Mr. Shaw joined about 300 people auditioning for a new NBC program, Fortune. If chosen, he would travel to Los Angeles to appear before a panel of five millionaires and make a 60-second plea for funds.
The millionaires, the so-called Fortune Five, would then debate who should receive their money.
Depending on their decisions, one contestant is expected to win money each episode of the program, which has yet to be scheduled for broadcast.
Besides New York, Fortune held tryouts in six cities last month, and also accepted video submissions, to pick people to appear on the show.
“You don’t need to sing or dance or travel the world,” says NBC’s Web site about the show’s criteria for contestants. “All that’s required from you is a need for money and, most importantly, to be able to impress us — and ultimately our multimillionaires.”
Taking a Number
Fortune is the latest in a growing number of TV shows that seek to entertain at the same time that they support needy people or causes. While nonprofit leaders have raised concerns about such programs, several fund raisers like Mr. Shaw came to last month’s casting call hoping to drum up support.
That Friday morning, the charter-school leader woke up near dawn to drive to the Manhattan hotel, hoping to beat the crowd. He arrived before 8 a.m. only to find a line had already formed on West 55th Street.
Once inside, he received the contestant number 155 and sat in an armchair in a second-floor hallway, waiting to audition. Every few minutes a number was called, and a contestant would enter a small room to meet Fortune’s casting director and make a pitch on camera.
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” said Mr. Shaw, a large, bearded man. “We hope to carry the day, but if not, we’ll have fun.”
All along the hallway, contestants lined the walls, practicing their proposals and filling out the five-page application and waiver, which, among other things, allowed the producers “to conduct psychological and physical examinations” of the applicants, a condition that seemed understandable considering the odd assortment of characters who had come to audition.
Down the hall from Mr. Shaw stood a 31-year-old entrepreneur from Philadelphia dressed in a homemade Superman outfit. He wanted Fortune funds to open a shop that would sell superhero costumes. With a blue towel safety-pinned around his neck to make a cape, he rifled through a plastic tub filled with Man of Steel memorabilia.
It contained 40 Superman T-shirts, several Superman pillowcases and sheets, a Superman salt-and-pepper shaker, and three Superman lunchboxes. “Superheroes got to eat, too,” he said.
His appearance and comic ranting drew quizzical looks. “I got issues. I got issues,” he said as he held up several shirts and a pillowcase. “I’m off my meds.”
Nearby, in a quieter part of the hall, a Brooklyn man sat on the floor, holding a piece of yellow legal paper on which he had written his pitch.
He was asking Fortune for $55,000 to fulfill his mother’s lifelong dream: a trip to Paris. “She gave me so much and kept so little for herself,” he explained.
To show his maternal dedication, he pointed to the rose that was tattooed on his arm in honor of her. On his other arm, he displayed a blue-eyed skeleton dressed in a tuxedo and a Wild West pistol.
A few minutes later, the hip-hop legend Darryl McDaniels, of Run-DMC, quickly walked through the crowd in jeans and a black T-shirt. His sudden appearance generated whispers of “Is that DMC?” and the occasional sneer — the tattooed man accused Mr. McDaniels of using his celebrity status to skip ahead in line.
The former singer of such rap hits as “You Be Illin’” and “It’s Tricky” had come to Fortune seeking money for orphans and adopted children, a cause he started supporting after he learned, at age 35, that his mother was not his birth parent.
“All the kids have a purpose,” said the bald, goateed Mr. McDaniels, as he paused for a few minutes to sign autographs.
Other charitable pitchmen at the audition included an English professor who wanted to build a “Church of Performing Arts” near Nashville to stage plays and musicals that would ease racial tension, and a former landscaper who sought funds for Maureen’s Mission, a breast-cancer advocacy group he formed after his wife died of the disease.
‘An Interesting Experience’
To distinguish his proposal from those of the other fund raisers, Teaneck’s Mr. Shaw had brought along potent salespeople: two cute-as-a-button sixth graders.
In a hotel alcove, the boy-and-girl team rehearsed their pitch as they waited for their number.
The Teaneck school needed new facilities for the “teachers to teach,” said the boy.
“And the students to stu — I mean, learn, of course,” said the girl, flashing a precocious smile.
After a wait of about six hours, number 155 was finally called, and Mr. Shaw and his duo got their chance to try and impress the casting director.
The audition went well, Mr. Shaw said later. The kids had hit their marks perfectly.
But three weeks after the chaotic day, the show’s producers still had not called him, and overall, Mr. Shaw was not thrilled about his brush with the TV world.
“It was an interesting experience, though not exactly a positive one,” he said, complaining that the audition process had felt like a cattle call.
And with the outlandish competition that showed up at the Park Central hotel, his hopes of appearing on Fortune and winning millions of dollars for his students’ education had faded.
“Given that we had Run-DMC and Superman there,” he said, “I’m not so sure.”
