Matt Roush's America's Next Producer Blog

Beverly Hills is a quiet concrete ghost town on the Saturday morning we gather to begin the process of making our at-long-last final selections on who’ll become America’s Next Producer. For someone like me, who covers the business of TV from the outside, it’s a kick to be participating in an actual pitch meeting at the offices of an actual studio operation: Imagine, a company whose framed posters on the walls speak of success both in movies (A Beautiful Mind) and TV (24, my beloved Friday Night Lights, Arrested Development and Shark).

As we gather early in the morning on what’s going to be a very busy day for the show, we experience what many people do when they come into work on a day off. The air-conditioning isn’t working, but they’re scrambling to remedy that as the perspiring crew prepare for action. Finally, we’re brought into a very cozy room made even more crowded by the presence of four cameras (no room for tripods, so the cameras must be held on the operators’ shoulders, and they’re exhausted by the time each pitch is wrapped). It’s the last time Ananda Lewis, David Hill and I will be together like this for a while, but that bittersweet reality is leavened by the presence of David Nevins, president of Imagine TV, an impressively smart exec who doesn’t disguise how tough it is to pitch to someone on his level.

Before the final three come in one by one, D. Hill jokes with D. Nevins about their favorite ways of subtly signaling that a pitch’s time is up. For Nevins, it’s about "shooting the cuffs" on his shirt and reaching out to shake the pitchee’s hand. Not that any of us is intending to cut short the final pitches of our last remaining contestants.

Unlike the elimination panels, where distance separates us from the contestants, we’re almost in each other’s laps for the pitches. It’s very intense, never more so than when Zo emotionally recalls his encounter with famed photographer Gordon Parks, who told Zo, "You are the future."

Impassioned to the end, Zo is a very impressive and undeniably talented guy, but his pitches (despite his commanding personal presence) lack oomph. He has clearly thought through Push Play, a comedic drama set in the world of local-access TV, but it’s a premise that clearly turns off Nevins and the rest of us as being dated in a world of pervasive YouTube-ism. Worse, Zo begins this presentation with a lengthy recitation of FCC/public access/First Amendment context. Zzzzzz. His pitch for Exposure, a reality show built around photography challenges, is much more commercial, but so familiar that we can’t possibly go with it. (In fact, there are several such shows already in the pipeline on various cable networks.)

Jessica’s and Gwen’s pitches give us more to work with, but in each case, the show the judges (led here by Nevins) decide to go with is, I believe, not the dream project the contestants came in with, but their backup.

Jessica comes from the world of reality TV, but her reality pitch was pretty thin, while her setup for Welcome to Haggerty’s (a sitcom set in a department store of misfits all vying for control) intrigues the panel.

Gwen comes from the world of news, but her newsroom pitch for Live at 10 hits a wall. Nevins rightly points out that shows (in particular dramas) about journalists almost never work, because journalists merely report stories, they aren’t the story. But Gwen smartly has a second scripted backup, rightly sensing that the room is more interested in greenlighting nonreality projects. And Playboy of Sin City, a Malcolm in the Middle-like story of a kid growing up amid outrageous characters in a Las Vegas penthouse, is something we’d very much like to see.

When the pitches are over, we break for a while (long enough to grab lunch back at my apartment) and return across town to the elimination soundstage for the last time. Hearts are a bit heavy, because at this stage letting anyone go is ridiculously hard, but it’s especially tough because we believe in the potential of all three. And when it’s decided not to keep Zo for the final round, we’re all compelled to break form and speak directly to him, to reinforce our own respect for his talents. I tell Zo that he’s unquestionably a star, and he made the competition better by being there. (Words I’m sure he takes no issue with.)

We give Jessica and Gwen their marching orders to execute a presentation based on their comedy pitches. They’re excited but nervous, and so are we. Nevins tells me, "I so badly want them to come through," and so obviously do we all. We’re taking a chance on them and their risky projects in service of the bigger picture: the dearth of comedy in TV and the need to find and nurture fresh new voices.

As we bid adieu, we’re already making plans for the actual finale that will be more than a month away. (In the interim, I will have screened all the available fall pilots in advance of the critics’ press tour, and taken a vacation to France, before heading back to L.A. for the press tour, which coincides with the taping of the finale in early July.)

Flash-forward to finale night. And I do mean night. We are in a new location for the final elimination and crowning: a lobby at the sprawling L.A. Center Studios, sleek and dark, with windows looking out on more darkness. (This is where The Nine was filmed last season, and where Women’s Murder Club and Numbers are shot, gauging from posters in the hallways.) It’s a very different look from past episodes, and the feeling in the room is filled with anticipation and also the sense that we’re doing this under a shroud: after hours and in deep secret. Cameras don’t start rolling until after 10 pm (following a nearby get-reacquainted dinner with David Hill), and it will take hours and hours before we get to the end.

I’m fascinated to learn that our final two were subjected to focus groups in advance of screening their work for us (and from the look of things, focus groups can be even more brutal than your average reality-show judge). The strategy pays off, especially for Gwen, who fine-tuned her problematic piece (with subpar acting nearly sinking her clever writing) overnight with the help of former contestant Adam, who provided the new narration. For Jessica, the focus group merely helped her select the correct version (she had made two), and she and former player Daniel did virtually no extra work on her project.

In the end the final decision hinges on vision over execution. We’re pleased with how much both finalists achieved, but there’s little doubt, especially to me, that Jessica’s is the more polished piece, and it’s certainly better cast, including an actress from an earlier round (who had been in the Brian Dunkleman sitcom project) whom Jessica had flown out from Los Angeles to play the Tourettes-stricken sales clerk, something I found amazingly resourceful. Plus she was able, through connections, to get sitcom icon Joyce DeWitt (of Three’s Company fame) to play another role, and that tickles me to no end, given my deep and abiding fondness for kitsch. Jessica also brings props to prop up her pitch: a gift bag for each of us with a fake Haggerty’s store logo. Cute. But the feeling is that while her production skills are obvious, the writing is a bit obvious and crude.

Gwen’s piece is obviously far rougher, but it’s seen as fresher in terms of originality and comic potential. Not to mention her earning our respect for taking on the challenge of working with both animals and children (and bad adult actors). We all admit we love Tom Jones the turtle — and until I watched the actual episode, I had no idea how hard it is to wrangle such an animal. Ultimately, when David Nevins says he sees "more spark" in Gwen and that she’s the one he’d be more likely to hire ("I like the way her mind works"), it’s hard not to listen and take notice.

The final decision isn’t altogether unanimous, and it certainly isn’t an easy one, but we’re all at peace as we declare Gwen the underdog, Gwen the youngest and greenest, Gwen the masterful pitch artist with endless reserves of self-confidence, as America’s Next Producer.

Hugs all around, including for Jessica, who has no reason to feel like a loser in this contest. As I head back to my hotel, bleary-eyed and still jet-lagged, at the ungodly hour of 3:30 in the morning (very surreal to drive in this notoriously congested city on streets with no traffic), something tells me that I’ll be hearing again from many of these contestants. I certainly hope so.

And finally, well-deserved congratulations to Gwen. Welcome to Hollywood!

After a couple of rounds of bad producing and (sometimes) even worse behavior, it’s good to see the final three contestants acting like good sports again — which is only fitting, given the sports theme of this next-to-final challenge.

Like Jessica, I’m a little out of my element in this round. I’m not nearly as sports-phobic as she reveals herself to be in this episode, but as I tell my fellow judges (in a remark that thankfully doesn’t make the final cut), when I hear that we’ll be watching pieces involving the Avengers (the name of L.A.’s local arena-football team), I’m not thinking pigskin, I’m thinking Diana Rigg as Emma Peel — of the '60s cult classic The Avengers. Once a TV junkie...

This Avengers quip really cracks up the two sports nuts who flank me: regular judge David Hill, who as CEO of Fox Sports knows more than the average exec about sports producing, and our guest judge, an authentic superstar, Pro Football Hall of Famer Kellen Winslow, a legendary tight end for the San Diego Chargers from 1979 to 1987.

Big guy. Also a nice guy. How nice? In our downtime, Kellen turns our lovely host Ananda Lewis on to Sudoku, showing the ropes of the game to this notorious crossword-puzzle addict — Ananda had a book of crosswords at the ready throughout the run of this show to keep her occupied during breaks. She takes to Sudoku instantly, and by the time we finish production, she has moved on from letters to numbers.

Back to the game at hand, by which I mean America’s Next Producer. David Hill assures me that while I may feel out of my league (so to speak) in this context, my perspective will be important. He explains: If any of these pregame segments they’ve produce can make someone who doesn’t "give a crap" (his words) want to watch the game, that will be a sign of a job well done.

All three pieces are very different, reflecting the producers' respective degrees of comfort level and confidence with the subject matter.

Zo's captures my attention the most, with his well-written voiceover lionizing the offensive linemen, whom he considers the underdogs (something with which he empathizes), and he brings them to life in a distinctive visual style.

Jessica’s segment (plagued by technical problems, as the episode reveals) is a much softer segment, almost a PSA about the team’s community-based education outreach program. But once again, we admire how she finds her own angle, her own story to tell, while also capturing some of the players’ personalities.

Gwen, who’s declared the winner, produces a segment closest to what one might expect to find in a pregame package: a profile of the coach. It’s safe, with few surprises, but it delivers the goods. And more important, to the other judges, it ties in most directly to the fact that a game is about to be played.

I probably would have chosen Zo to win this challenge, but I defer to the guys who know about this type of production, and they like Gwen’s piece best.

Fine by me, because as it turns out, no one is going home after this challenge. We have ended up with an impressive final three who each represent a very distinctive style of producing and presenting their vision, and we want to hear what they’ve been waiting the entire competition to pitch to us. Gwen is the young upstart, smart and capable of surprising us despite her inexperience. Jessica is the savvy journeywoman, sardonically funny and full of ideas. Zo is the wily veteran with tons of experience, self-confident gusto and a chip on his shoulder. They’re thrilled to learn they’re all surviving this round, but it’s not quite over yet.

Whose ideas will catch fire with the judges? Who will be sent home on the very cusp of realizing this dream? And whose final project will impress us enough to be declared America’s Next Producer?

Those answers will all be revealed in next Wednesday’s two-hour finale. Hard to believe it’s almost over.

This just in: These contestants are tired. (So are some of the judges, at least this one, who as this episode was being taped was in the middle of covering the networks' upfronts week from a coast away.)

As the final four file in for the judging, this is the first time it hits me how few are left standing. Each one strikes me as a potential winner at this point: Zo, the tornado of self-confidence and experience — and ego; Jessica, brash and full of ideas; Daniel, witheringly funny and smart and capable of surprising us both visually and conceptually; and dark horse Gwen, the youngest and greenest, but with nothing to lose, she often shows remarkable resilience and aptitude. And she pitches like a pro in front of the judges.

But, for the second disappointing week in a row, we're unable to select a winner, because no one brought their "A-game" to the news challenge. Fatefully, not even Daniel brought it, whose news background should have made him a natural for a quick turnaround like this.

Watching reality competitions in the past, I’ve often wondered how sleep deprivation plays a factor in how certain challenges turn out. In this episode, we witness it firsthand. After being roused from barely any sleep and being handed instant assignments from a tough and critical boss — our guest judge, Lisa Kridos, executive producer of the top-rated Good Day L.A. — these bleary-eyed teams scramble to produce a watercooler, evergreen field piece. Somewhere along the way, perspiration (meeting the hard deadline) trumps inspiration (thinking “outside the box,” as Lisa urged them to do). Sadly, what they eventually come up with looks like everything else I’ve ever seen “inside” the box. Or, as judge David Hill succinctly puts it, “They went brain-dead.” Ouch.

Should they, as Lisa suggested in the grilling that followed the screenings, have looked for more sources to quote than just the typical random man-/woman-on-the-street? Should they have sought more specific locations to shoot from, and should they have requested “B-roll” footage to brighten up their segments? All excellent points. At the very least, these would-be producers should have tried to “produce” in the most basic sense of the word. This challenge feels to me like the kind of assignment you might get in college, where aiming for a C grade shouldn’t be enough. Take the topic, try to make it your own with a twist of some sort, and if you go with your gut (which Gwen failed to do, by leaving the Fox news studio when she initially realized she could have gotten all the sound bites she needed on site), you may just end up with something memorable enough to put on air.

I hated to see Daniel go. He was an early favorite of mine, and now that I’ve watched these episodes, his professional attitude during the assignments and his pithy comments in his interviews have endeared him even more. I hope he gets his wish to get some TV work outside the news arena. I hope this show gives him the exposure and opportunity to chase that dream. In other words, I wish him luck.

And, more selfishly, as we put this episode to rest, I look forward to the next challenge, hoping that the remaining three contestants can shake themselves out of the slump of the last two episodes and deliver the goods that will eventually crown one of them “America’s Next Producer.”

This is the episode I had dreaded watching and reliving. When I’ve followed reality-competition shows in the past (such as Project Runway and Top Chef, from the same Magical Elves production company as America’s Next Producer), I tend to hate it when everyone fails. I actually like to see the contestants produce impressive work, whether it’s fashion or food or even TV. The drama of failure can be memorable, but boy, is it painful to observe. And it’s even worse in person.

The looks on our faces as we screen the late-night dating show “Click” (or as I retitled it: “Ick!”) aren’t made up for the camera. It’s genuine horror and dismay at realizing how the team was unable to keep this project, and themselves, from crashing and burning. Despite what you may have heard about professional critics, we take no joy in watching bad TV, even if ripping it can give cathartic pleasure to author and reader alike. We want what we see to be good. I certainly felt that way throughout the experience of judging the work on this show. “Click” is so dreadful it actually leaves David Hill momentarily speechless. We all agree that’s a first.

But honestly, if I’d seen everything that was going on during this episode, I might have made an argument for sending two home this week: the combative odd couple of Evie and Zo. Watching Zo basically check out of this challenge, leaving his nemesis Evie to hang in the wind, and then the ugly and abusive confrontation upstairs during the judges’ deliberations, a scene that looked like something out of Big Brother: Not a good week for this talented guy, who (as guest judge J.D. Roth put it) “can’t get out of the way of himself.” As I noted during the question-and-answer session, I couldn’t help but feel that Zo set Evie up this week and that he allowed the game to get in the way of what was best for the entire team this week. We weren’t given the double-elimination option by the show’s producers. But looking back, I almost wish we had been.

Speaking of our guest judge, the eternally boyish J.D. Roth (who I remember from when he used to host kids’ game shows): Talk about a busy guy. During this day of deliberation, the Tuesday of Upfront Week in May, he’s constantly on the phone or checking his messages, and for good reason. He’s juggling at least a dozen reality-TV projects in various states of development and production (at the time, he was well underway on NBC’s summer show Age of Love and VH1’s ongoing Scott Baio is 45 . . . And Single), and at least 34 editing bays across town are working overtime to keep up with the demand for the type of show he’s making. (Some of the other shows he’s involved with include Beauty and the Geek, The Biggest Loser and the acclaimed Discovery Kids/NBC series Endurance.)

He is the perfect judge for this challenge. He has seen these sorts of shows done well, and done badly. But maybe never THIS badly. He nails what’s wrong with “Click” from every angle, from the incessant porn-quality music to the phoniness of the execution. I’m glad he can focus on the technical side, because I’m too busy shuddering at how creepy it all is, especially the blindfolded part with the sniff and smell tests. (My fingers begin to shrivel even as I type this.)

Here’s a bit from a memorable exchange during our deliberations that you didn’t see. In describing the passion and energy that’s required to pull off even this sort of guilty-pleasure programming, J.D. tells us an anecdote about how a network once called him over the weekend in need of a certain type of reality project but that they’d need to see a tape with a pitch presentation on Monday. J.D. rallied his troops, his resources and got it done. And, more important, he got it on the air. J.D. then says that from what he could see this week, these contestants are playing checkers when what’s being required from them is their best chess game. I add that, given Evie’s defeated demeanor during this entire elimination round, she’s not even playing checkers. She’s playing Sorry. It’s not hard to decide that it’s finally her week to go.

Final note from a reality-TV judge’s diary: The morning of this elimination taping, I had yet another experience of reality worlds colliding, which apparently happens a lot if you spend enough time in L.A. Because the Internet had temporarily gone down in the apartment complex where I was staying, I headed to the business office to use one of their computers (which were working) to check in back at the office and to blog on ABC’s just-announced fall schedule. As I’m typing away, I look up to see who has joined the line waiting for computers. None other than Bruno Tonioli, the most effusive of the Dancing With the Stars judges (which was then in its next-to-last week of production). The Dancing With the Stars judges were staying in my complex (very near CBS Television City, which makes sense), and I didn’t even know it? Weird. I’m happy to say he waited his turn quietly, not acting the diva at all.

Just another reminder of how small a town Hollywood can sometimes seem.

Who says reality TV can’t be good for you? This is without doubt our timeliest and most pro-social episode yet. America’s Next Producer goes green, and after meeting this episode’s guest judge, Daniel Hinerfeld of the Natural Resources Defense Council, I find myself wishing I’d considered riding a bike to the stage today instead of my rental car.

We’re shooting this episode on the afternoon of Mother’s Day, 24 hours before network TV’s upfront week is to begin on my home turf of New York. Everyone I know is obsessed with what new shows are being ordered and which shows on the ropes might get canceled, so it’s actually refreshing to take my head out of show biz for a few hours and think about more important matters facing the planet at large.

Overall, we’re impressed by the public service announcements the teams have produced. Most have done remarkably well considering the ridiculous time pressures: two hours to research, three hours to shoot, seven to edit. And once again, Zo bursts out of the pack with a powerful on-camera performance in his and Jessica’s well-conceived spot. Picking Zo as a winner this week (his first win, and it’s obvious he feels it’s overdue) is one of our easier calls.

Here are some Zo moments you didn’t see in the final cut. When the contestants line up in front of the judges, Zo is distracted by a gap he notices in the rug under the judges’ table. He asks if it’s OK if he walks over and fixes it, which he goes ahead and does. Talk about hands-on producing. And later, when the contestants return to the floor for the elimination, Zo has attached the NRDC’s logo to his forehead. When Zo tells us he’s a hustler, he’s not kidding. Something tells me he knew he had this one in the bag.

On the other hand: Poor Schliz. I would never have expected him to go out without a fight, but this round really seems to have defeated him. (Later, watching the actual episode, I can see just how demoralized he was by his technical screw-up at overexposing the film during his beach shoot.) His and Evie’s PSA was the weakest on several levels: visually as well as in concept. We like the “It starts with me” mantra that Evie came up with, but why bury that at the end? Still, it’s Schliz’s overall air of resignation that dooms him in our eyes.

When we shake hands after his elimination, I tell Schliz, “You rock,” and he does. His I’ll-do-anything-to-win spirit has been clear from the first challenge, when he volunteered to be an idiot-for-hire on Hollywood Boulevard. He did excellent work directing the Brian Dunkleman sitcom treatment. And he loved working with the kids on the “Shelby’s World” children’s show. But his heart didn’t seem to be in this one (a suspicion confirmed by playing back the actual episode), and combined with his camera snafu, that’s all it takes to be ejected from this tough competition.

More and more, it’s clear that whoever’s going to be America’s next producer is going to have to roll with every conceivable punch, regardless of format. Schliz’s inability to connect with this material is a serious handicap, and we reluctantly are forced to see the back (if not the last) of him.

By the next elimination, I’ll find myself wishing he were still in the game. If the producers of America’s Next Producer had switched the order of this challenge and the one that follows, for which Schliz is infinitely better suited, the final results might have been so different. But that’s the way it goes. (And you’ll see what I mean when you see the episode.)

Saving the world isn’t easy—and I wish you could have seen Daniel Hinerfeld’s rousing final pep talk to the remaining contestants urging them to put environmental messages in whatever form of TV they might ultimately produce. Neither, it turns out, is winning this game.

The first thing I hear from one of the staff as I arrive at the stage on a Friday afternoon in May (exactly one week after the first elimination panel): “They behaved themselves in front of the children.”

Well, that’s a relief. After the first few judging panels, in which many of the contestants acted like petulant children, sniping and fighting among each other like schoolyard brats, a little civility would be welcome. (Although as it turns out, taking too high a road would turn out to be one contestant’s downfall.)

I get a sense today isn’t an ordinary one when I’m told the kids are upstairs “in school,” and they’re not talking about the wannabe producers for once. They’re talking actual kids, child performers, who took part in executing the latest challenge. (I don’t get to meet them, but that’s not a surprise, as the show’s producers tend to keep us away from the actual process.)

As we get ready for the taping of the judges’ panel, we’re joined by our guest judges, the ebullient Claude Brooks and his producing partner, the elegant and charming Gelila Asres. I recognize Claude from his days as a young TV actor in the ’80s, when he made the rounds of shows like The Cosby Show, The Facts of Life and Amen. His detour into producing really paid off with the hit pre-school music/education show Hip Hop Harry, which airs on Discovery Kids and TLC. The third person in their group, David Joyner, doesn’t stay long. And it isn’t until after he’s left that I learn that we were sitting around with the guy who for years put on that purple costume to play Barney the lovable dinosaur! You really never know who you’ll meet in Hollywood. (Joyner gamely put on the suit as Shelby the Sea Turtle for America’s Next Producer this week.)

Watching “Shelby’s World” is probably the most pleasurable viewing experience we’ve had yet—except for a sound glitch when the musical segment is played for us the first time. We can’t hear anything, prompting floor director Paul Hogan to quip, “Which one of US do you want to send home?”

Mostly, we like what we see, which makes judging more difficult. But Claude, one of our more opinionated and forceful guest judges, notices a few technical glitches that only a veteran of the kids-TV biz might spot, such as a visible voice/microphone pack on Shelby during some of the more energetic sequences. Breaking the illusory fourth wall in children’s TV is a real no-no. Claude also says he was prepared to grade on a curve for the scripted segment, but he actually likes that one better than the musical scene. (Watching the episode, I wonder if they’d had more time and more takes to pull off the musical number if his opinion would be different. The time pressure on this challenge is insane.)

When I see Schliz stand in front of us with a devil-horn hat and shorts, at first I wonder about his professionalism, but then I get it: He’s a big kid at heart, perfect for this challenge. (And everyone agrees he was great around the kids, no big surprise there.)

Making the best impressions this episode: Jessica for sure. She named Shelby (as in “shell,” as in “Come out of your shell”) and came up with the “clean, green, self-esteem” concept. Being able to brainstorm and present ideas that effectively and quickly is the hallmark of a strong producer. Also, this was the week when I first began to coin the phrase “Zo knows.” As in: Zo knows how to produce. He wrote not only the music but oversaw the lyrics and supervised the recording session for the musical segment. This guy delivers, and he brings passion to the game (also, of course, conflict, and if you couldn’t predict that he and arch-nemesis Evie would pick each other to send home, you haven’t been watching). Choosing a winner between Jessica and Zo isn’t easy, but Jessica’s ideas win the day.

Eliminating someone is made trickier than usual by the fact that no one really failed this time—the closest would be Daniel and his time-management problems, allowing too much time during the rehearsal phase for the musical segment, but not enough production time for the same piece. Still, it’s hard to punish him for leading the entire group on one of its most successful challenges yet.

What the decision ultimately boils down to this time is potential, in leadership and producing. Ananda asks each player to make a tough call and select a contestant to be let go if the budget for this hypothetical children’s show demanded it. Is this even a fair question to ask? According to all of the professionals around me, including David Hill and the team of Brooks and Asres, the answer is a resounding yes. A producer is always forced to deal with the economic realities of show business, and when Adam ducks it—twice—he becomes a target. And while nobody actually singles Adam out when asked who they’d let go, during the actual episode he runs afoul of both Evie (“Adam is scattered”) and Jessica (“Adam drives me up a wall”).

And for the second week in a row, Adam prompts a classic David Hill-ism: “I don’t think he could produce his way out of a paper bag.”

Which isn’t to say Adam lacks skills as a comedy writer, where he’s more in his element, and there were times later in the competition when I would wish he was still around so we could see just what he was capable of.

But in choosing not to give anyone else the ax, Adam fell on his sword. Turns out that being a producer, or even being on a reality show about the making of a producer, is anything but child’s play.

The motto of this week's episode: Comedy is hard, but watching people make comedy can be even harder. Or not, depending.

I can feel this round is going to be different when I arrive at the stage, three days after the last elimination (the longest time between challenges yet), and find a laptop on a table in the judges' green room. David Hill and I meet our guest judge, Regency Television's classy president Robin Schwartz (whose company produced such comedy hits as Malcolm in the Middle and The Bernie Mac Show), and we're instructed to play a DVD with video performances of two very different stand-up acts. (We see what the contestants saw on their field trip to the M Bar comedy club.)

Major kudos, by the way, to Robin Schwartz for taking time away from one of the most intense periods of any TV year — the week before the network upfronts and schedule announcements in May — to help us out. In between camera set-ups, she's checking her Blackberry and returning calls, because she's only days away from hearing the fate of several shows her company is hoping to get on the fall schedule. (Two make it: Fox's New Amsterdam and Amy Sherman-Palladino's midseason comedy The Return of Jezebel James; ABC would later pass on a series version of the movie Mr. and Mrs. Smith.)

So, after some initial gossip about what a tough year it's looking to be to get new comedies on the air, we gather around the laptop to see the comics in action, and we make our first impressions. Natasha Leggero, what a find. David Hill likens her to a new Rita Rudner. She's offbeat, absurd, completely winning. And then there's Brian Dunkleman, infamous for having dropped off the radar after co-hosting the first season of American Idol. His material isn't nearly as distinctive, but his hangdog self-deprecation is endearing.

We figure whichever team draws Natasha is the lucky one. We turn out to be wrong.

But then, look at the team Sharon has assembled: Zo and Evie, already mortal enemies! (As Zo said on camera, "What concentric circle of Hell is this?!") Poor Adam, the wannabe comedy writer, hardly stands a chance. "I should own this," he says. By the end, I'm thinking he probably wishes he could trade it in for a better model.

Schliz leads the team building a sitcom pitch around Brian Dunkleman, and it's clear his group (Daniel, Jessica and Gwen) runs much more smoothly. Good for Schliz to step up in what for him is alien (as in: scripted) territory.

What we discover in watching the producers' pieces is that while Natasha could well be a comic discovery waiting to happen, Brian's story makes for a much more coherent, and funnier, comedy presentation. From where we sit as judges, it looks as if Sharon's team took a sharp comedian and drained much of the humor out of her by trying to push the wacky comedy. Whereas Schliz's team milked the sad-sack situation of Dunkleman's act to the fullest.

Plus, we love Gwen's pitch. She's the youngest of the contestants, but she sure doesn't act it when time comes to step up. (Watching the episode, I see that she's just as strong when it came to pitching ideas about the show to her star.) Could this underdog become a front-runner?

Zo also comes into his own in this episode, for better or worse. While Sharon naps (one of many fatal flaws in lousy leadership this round), Zo steps up. He directs, and even takes on one of the acting parts, and is clearly good at what he does — except when it comes to collaboration. There, he's a bust, tearing his teammates down and shutting down others' ideas way too quickly, storming out of the editing room rather than consider compromising. (I admit I laughed when he said of Sharon: "Sweetheart, you got a future — just not in this business!")

For the judges, Nobody's Idol is a hit. Delusions of Grandeur is anything but. It's a painful loss for Adam, who takes pride in his comedy, and for Sharon, whose leadership is assailed on all fronts. I feel especially bad for Adam, but I can't stop myself here from quoting my fellow judge David Hill, who gets off one of his pithiest "Hill-isms" of the entire series in this episode: "I don't think he could sell fresh fish to hungry seals." Ouch! But ultimately, Adam gets another chance to prove himself, while we send Sharon home.

Final thoughts: In the first few weeks that America's Next Producer has been on the air, I've been in situations where I've had to defend our decision to keep Sharon on the show as long as we did. Reality shows like this often get accused of keeping questionable but controversial contestants around longer than they deserve because they make for good TV. In this case, I assure you there was no pressure from the producers or anyone to cut Sharon any slack whatsoever, regardless of her obvious (and to her fellow contestants, often maddening) eccentricities.

She survived the first week, barely, because hers wasn't the worst piece and because Brad couldn't keep his mouth shut at a critical time. In week two, she overcame a setback by becoming the star of her own reality show, and as bizarre as that spectacle was, we couldn't punish her for having produced something so startling and different. This week, Sharon was put to the leadership test, and not only didn't she deliver, she seemed to let her team and her star down.

It really wasn't much of a choice this time. But as we look at who's left standing, we can't help wondering who will step up next and who will collapse under the pressure.

Yes, comedy is hard. But reality? Absolutely surreal.

To quote myself, as I’ve been known to do: “Reality television creates celebrities out of almost anyone.” That line, spoken during the judging panel, pretty much sums up the theme of this episode.

It also applies to this week’s guest judge, Chris Moore, who became famous as the no-holds-barred taskmaster of HBO’s pioneering docu-reality series Project Greenlight. Chris is a larger-than-life personality, as anyone knows who's watched Greenlight. He’s funny and bawdy, yet as I get to know him during the long course of a shoot on a balmy Sunday night, he still seems genuinely surprised that he became a recognizable TV personality by being on a reality show.

He’s the perfect choice to guide us through this challenge, which took on an unexpectedly wacky dimension when one of the guest celebs “backed out” — as in threw out his back. As we arrive at the stage, we’re told of the unusual circumstances: Lorenzo Lamas had dropped out at the last second, stranding Sharon’s team (which included her nemesis from the last episode, Gwen, as well as Jessica) without a subject. They were given the choice to either join the other preexisting teams, who were assigned to create a “pitch reel” for a reality show built around an actual celebrity, or to start from scratch and come up with a different reality pitch of their own. To their credit, and the judges’ trepidation, they chose the latter course.

We are told not to grade on the curve, to judge Sharon’s group as toughly and fairly as the others, so before we go in, it’s unclear whether this twist will prove a blessing or a curse for her team. Given that Sharon once again put herself in the middle of it, driving everyone (including we judges from time to time) nuts, we figure she’ll find a way to take an advantage and make it a liability. (In screening this episode, I had to laugh when I saw Jessica scribbling in her pad: “KILL ME NOW!”)

Moments to remember during this night’s taping:

As one of the sound guys is attaching my mic, he tells me he’s never seen a cast jump down each other’s throats so quickly. And he assures me he’s worked on a lot of these shows. (After last week’s fight, which we couldn’t help hearing during deliberations, I’m not surprised. But it’s interesting to get unsolicited confirmation, and it makes me wonder what all transpired during this challenge.)

While we wait for the taping to start, I find it ironic if not amusing to watch Chris Moore working the phone to the studio bankrolling his movie directorial debut Last Resort, wheedling them for more money and more production days. (A reversal of Project Greenlight fortune to be sure, given how hard he rode those fledgling directors when they didn’t stay on schedule or budget.)

As we start to roll, floor director Paul Hogan shouts, “I smell Emmy!” which I later learn is a familiar, funny refrain. (And not all that far from reality, given that the Magical Elves producers would earn nominations this year for their Bravo series Project Runway and Top Chef. Which also explains why some of the crew occasionally call for the “chefs” to come to the stage, correcting themselves to say “producers” when they realize which show they’re now working on.)

Before all the alpha-type contestants walk out, one of the producers mutters to us that he can’t remember the last time they’ve heard this many excuses in the execution of a challenge. I figure we’ll get an earful, and we do.

This proves to be a tricky challenge to judge. One team (Lindsay’s, with Schliz and Adam) clearly gets along, but their piece is uninspired and doesn’t truly seem to capture either Santino’s personality or to make us care about his design collection. Another team clearly does not get along (Daniel’s, with Zo and Evie in constant conflict, making us wonder if they have the temperaments to be producers), and while they do their best to showcase soap star Michelle Stafford, there isn’t much to the pitch. Frankly, it’s hard to pay attention, given the seething hostility that exists between Zo and Evie.

Then there’s Sharon’s team. Whoa. Talk about a surprise. “I am a celebrity in my own mind,” Sharon says to our astonishment as she defends using her life as the inspiration for this startling, unusually personal reality pitch about looking for love and hoping to beat the biological clock, symbolized by (what else) a ticking clock and a close-up on a bowl of eggs. It’s strange. It’s funny. It gets our attention.

But Chris Moore seems especially puzzled by the rules of this round. He wishes they’d all been made to drop the celebs they’d been assigned and told to create a reality pitch from scratch. He is especially unnerved by Sharon’s insistence that she’s the real star of this pitch, instead of broadening out the pitch to be about the desperation of all women when they reach a certain age. He agrees that Lindsay failed, but he maintains he’d rather work with an inexperienced person who can be guided than with a loose cannon he says he’d never trust to produce anything.

I’m beginning to get a better picture of what we should be looking for in a producer, and it isn’t always going to show up in the final product. But this time around, we decide Lindsay dropped the ball, and much as I hated to see her go, not feeling we’d ever seen her true potential, we arrive at this imperfect solution to an odd situation. Just as the contestants must follow the rules they’re given in each challenge, so must the judges make the best rulings we can given the sometimes bizarre circumstances.

It’s in this round, as the judges once again spend long awkward minutes staring across at the contestants as cameras and lights are arranged and rearranged, that I find myself trying to figure out what’s going on in their heads. I don’t know these people. Outside of the Q&A’s, I haven’t spoken to them. (Strictly forbidden.) Some smile. Some don’t. And I begin to think that I’m seeing in their eyes a hunger, an ambition, a confidence, but also a feeling that they’re trying to tell us without saying so that they’re better than some of what they’re about to show us.

During one especially pregnant pause, Ananda begins whistling TV themes (Jeopardy, The Addams Family) and we all start playing along. Anything to pass the time.

But eventually, it’s time to lower the boom on Lindsay. I feel awful for her, but as she approaches to shake our hands, she whispers, “Thank you for getting me away from the crazy people.” I’m assuming she’s referring to Sharon, Zo, Evie and maybe others I haven’t got a handle on yet. I’m glad she seems to be taking it well.

Adding to the awkwardness: After we wrap, Sharon and Daniel have to come back and redo their exits, because they walked out the wrong way (not going behind the glass wall). Lindsay, significantly, does not return to exit.

Can’t say I blame her.

Being on the inside of a reality-competition show, as a judge for TV Guide Network’s America’s Next Producer, has one major disadvantage: As it’s happening, I’m only seeing half the show. When watching at home and seeing what went into the execution of each of these challenges, you may well come up with a different decision some weeks on who should stay and who should go. We on the judges’ panel only are able to see the final result and have to use that, as well as whatever info we glean from the Q&A on the stage, to make the tough call on who to send home.

First elimination taping, and it’s a warm Friday afternoon in early May. The judges convene in a spartan green room. The regulars are myself and David Hill, the wonderfully outspoken CEO of Fox Sports. The guest judge is David Friedman, the boyish executive producer of NBC’s Last Call with Carson Daly. (The name seems familiar, and I soon discover his father is renowned news executive Paul Friedman, currently senior vice president at CBS News.)

The first thing we notice when we go onto the stage and get settled on chairs behind a long table, joined by our glamorous host Ananda Lewis, is how warm it is. Most TV studios are kept mildly chilly, but this is an old-school film soundstage, and the air-conditioning is off. “This is like filming in Cancun,” David Hill announces, calling for the air to be turned on while the cameras and lights are being set up. But when the air does go on, it’s deafening, like we’re on an aircraft carrier or something. I bring this up to explain that if you see us perspiring in the final cut (why did I wear a jacket that day?), it’s not nervous tension or flop sweat. It was just plain hot in there when the cameras rolled. (Soon enough, things would get hot among the contestants. More on that in a minute.)

It’s an awkward process as the stage crew sets the lights while the 10 contestants, complete strangers to me at this point, sit across from us. We’re told to stare at them as they stare at us, and then in unison we all turn to gaze at the blank screen on which their projects will be played back. We repeat this several times as lighting cues are worked out, staying mostly silent, which feels so uncomfortable. At this point, we (especially David Hill and I, who had never laid eyes on these people before) are completely in the dark as to the identities and personalities of the hopefuls across from us. That doesn’t last long.

As we screen the pieces, some are definitely better-executed than others, which is a bit of a relief. Not knowing what to expect, I had worried they’d all be pretty indistinguishable and hard to judge. But I also soon realize we’re not basing our opinions entirely on what’s up on the screen. We’re also judging them on their presentation — how they sell themselves as well as their work. It’s especially uncomfortable when Ananda asks each team member which person on their team should be sent home should they end up in the bottom. A surprising number choose themselves.

The team making the strongest first impression is unquestionably Zo and Daniel. (It was hard to pick a single winner for the inspired skit from Britney Spears’ point of view, but it was Daniel’s idea, and his instinct — overruled by Zo — to reveal the gag at the start of the piece meshed with David Friedman’s way of thinking, so he had my vote.)

The contestant making the most explosive first impression is unquestionably Sharon. After her and teammate Lindsay’s piece is screened to sharp criticism, Sharon lectures the panel that comedy is subjective (as if we didn’t know) and begins to tell David Friedman what is and isn’t suitable for the show that he runs, although she missed the demographic target by focusing too much on women griping about men, who are that show’s primary fan base. Presumptuous much, Sharon? That’s the impression we get from the eye-rolling of her young teammate Lindsay and others in the group.

As the contestants retreat upstairs to what the producers call the “sweat room,” the judges begin deliberating, but before long, we have to stop. We can barely hear ourselves debate because a huge argument is raging upstairs, with so much screaming and shouting it sounds like a fight of epic proportions. We don’t know what it’s about, but we can’t ignore it. Once again, I can’t help but feel like an outsider. Eventually, things settle down and we make our unanimous decision. And we anxiously await the return of the contestants so we can find out what all of the hubbub was about.

The pregnant pauses this time are excruciating. Sharon stands in front of us, quivering, her eyes welling with tears and emotion. She wipes her eyes, but is looking more miserable by the moment. When Ananda finally breaks the silence to ask what the heck went on, Sharon opens up about the arguments that raged around her, peaking when Gwen, the youngest contestant, tells the 25-year-veteran producer to “shut the [bleep] up.”

We ask who all was in on the fight. Half the hands go up. We ask who all were peacemakers. Half the hands go up.

Good grief. It’s only the first judging, and already this reality competition has become uncomfortably real, with conflict and raw emotion spilling out onto the floor.

In the end, it comes down to a bottom two, Sharon and Bradley, and while Sharon’s arrogance and defensiveness make her seem like her own worst enemy, Bradley’s scatological piece is deemed worse, and his corny pep talk at the end of the judging panel earns him more demerits in the eyes of the scornful judges. (Rule of thumb: When it behooves you not to talk, keep your mouth shut.) Still, it’s hard to say goodbye to someone so early in the competition, when it’s impossible to know his or her true potential.

Still, those are the rules. And soon enough there will be more challenges to judge and another contestant to send home. Maybe with not so much angst exposed next time.

As a professional TV critic, I’ve been judging reality shows for years, especially since Survivor first exploded on the scene seven summers ago. But becoming a judge on a reality show? Didn’t see that one coming.

Here’s how it happened: This spring I was invited to participate in a new series being produced by the Magical Elves company (Project Runway, Top Chef) for the newly rechristened TV Guide Network. America’s Next Producer would be designed on the classic model of Runway and Chef, subjecting an eclectic group of contestants to a fast-paced series of grueling challenges to test their mettle in the competitive field of TV production.

My initial reaction: reluctance. “I’m a TV critic, and now I’m playing one on TV?” How surreal. But figuring that TV Guide was more or less going to be a character in this show, it seemed an appropriate fit to be the magazine’s representative. Why not? It’s certainly a new experience.

So off I fly from New York to Los Angeles at the start of May — yes, the production schedule means I’ll be divorced from my DVRs during most of the all-important May sweeps, and I’ll be observing the network upfronts from the opposite coast. No one said becoming on-air “talent” would be easy.

The first sign that my life has temporarily changed: When I arrive at a Studio City soundstage to embark on a couple of days of promotional duties (interviews, photo shoots), there’s a parking space with my name taped to an orange traffic cone. In all the years of driving onto studio lots, that’s a first. I must actually exist.

And here’s where things get really strange. I suddenly realize I’m in the eye of a reality-TV hurricane. Alongside signs for America’s Next Producer are signs pointing to America’s Got Talent, which is holding auditions in the same building. (I glimpse Jerry Springer, but we’ve been told not to approach. OK by me. I do not lay eyes on The Hoff.) The Next Producer staff is keeping us judges away from the contestants — we’re not supposed to make contact until the eliminations begin — but the hallway outside the room where I’m cooling my heels (hiding out) is littered with oddly dressed eccentrics who no doubt are harboring some secret talent for Talent. Then I get in an elevator alongside a guy with a clipboard labeled "On the Lot." Is everyone in this town working on a reality show? It sure looks that way.

And later on, as I’m posing for production stills (they actually let me climb onto the TV tower at one point!) with our show’s gorgeous host, Ananda Lewis, and my gregarious fellow judge, David Hill of Fox Sports, I notice that one of the guys fussing over our hair and clothes is none other than Dr. Boogie! (For non-reality watchers, he was one of the more colorful contestants on Bravo’s haircutting competition, Shear Genius, which was still airing in early May.)

When reality worlds collide, indeed! Boogie is as chatty and charming in person as on TV. He’s complimentary to me, so I tell him I’m a big fan. Which I am. (I was sorry later when he was eliminated.) But when people ask Dr. Boogie what’s going to happen next on his show, he clams up. I empathize, having also signed a confidentiality agreement that felt as long and detailed as my condo closing papers.

The surreality of this reality adventure continues as I do several interviews, talking about a show that I haven’t yet seen and that hasn’t even really started yet. One of my interrogators: longtime TV Guide colleague and friend Mary Murphy (another bizarre first, to be on the other side of her questions). She, like many others, asks if I was planning on being the next Simon Cowell. I joke that if lucky, I’d be the next Nina Garcia (with a far less flashy wardrobe).

Seriously, though, I’m approaching my role as a judge as I do my job as a critic. To be fair and an enthusiastic champion of good work, but also to not be afraid to call ’em as I see ’em. I figure the contestants will have to sell themselves as well as whatever they produce, and I’m looking forward to being in the middle of the pitch.

My anticipation grows as I leave Studio City and head back across town to check out the small studio stage where the show’s eliminations will be shot. Line producer Gary Snoonian tells me this unassuming stage is where George Reeves’ Superman series was once filmed (cool!), and legend says some of the classic Our Gang shorts may have taken place here as well (cooler!). I definitely get an Old Hollywood vibe as I tour the upstairs production offices and spot the notches in the walls through which film used to be projected.

As I leave the stage, I see crew members acting as extras, sitting in the chairs behind the judging table where we’ll be deciding the fate of the contestants the next day. I actually get a little chill.

Let the games begin. (Final note: I’ll be weighing in after each episode through the run of the show, offering a judges’-eye-view perspective on what happened in our search for America’s next producer. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as we did.)