Foster Home

Take my boys, please: David Foster, his two step-sons and his wife, Linda, star in the reality series Princes of Malibu. Courtesy Global TV.

Victoria-born producer and 14-time Grammy winner David Foster and his wife, songwriter Linda Thompson, are vacationing in some anonymously exotic resort arguing about their sons, Brandon and Brody. Foster is complaining about the fact that despite being 21 and 23, respectively, they’re still living at home. Thompson observes that in many societies, families continue functioning under the same roof even as the children become adults.

“We're not living in China, we're living in Malibu,” grumbles the producer-songwriter, spoiling for a fight. Next scene, he gets it.

The couple returns home to Casablanca, their 22-acre, $40-million California estate, crashing a Brandon-Brody birthday bash. A hundred or so kids are twisting by the pool, most of them 19-year-old girls in eye-patch bikinis. Hollering mad, Foster throws everyone out and next day cancels Brandon and Brody’s credit cards, ordering them to get jobs.

And there you have the hook for Fox's new reality show, Princes of Malibu (which debuted last night on Global), a rich-kid send-up of one of those AM hits from yesteryear about oppressed teenagers – songs like Get a Job and Summertime Blues. Youth-baiting is big on TV this week, it seems; on Wednesday, CTV launches Brat Camp, a reality series about teen terrors tossed into the woods by their resentful parents.

But let’s get back to the overwhelming questions prompted by Princes of Malibu. For instance: Why would a cagey showbiz pro like Foster cast himself as a Mr. Weatherbee sourpuss? Why would any father want to discipline problem children on national television? And who would name their house “Casablanca”?

Rich schlub: Foster, working his Rolodex. Courtesy Global TV.

The short answer to all of the above is ego. The longer explanation to the first two questions is that summer TV has become a venue for second-string celebrities to turn their lives into prime-time reality. In June, Nicky and Paris Hilton’s socialite mom, Kathy, gets her own reality series, as does R&B singer-slash-perpetual defendant Bobby Brown. Later this summer, both Mick Jagger’s ex, Jerry Hall, and former Mötley Crüe drummer Tommy Lee get real. Now, it’s David Foster’s turn to show and tell.

One thing’s for sure: Princes of Malibu isn’t about the title princes, who greet Fox cameras as if a substitute teacher just wandered to the front of the class. Instead of a reality-show take on youthful defiance however, we get a bitter comedy about middle-age futility.

“When I was 16, I was making my own money,” Foster tells his step-sons in the kitchen the morning after he’s lowered the boom. “When I was 21 I was helping my parents buy a house.”

Brandon and Brody – children from Linda Thompson’s previous marriage to Olympian Bruce Jenner – stare down at a kitchen floor they’ve memorized from previous lectures. Later, they sulk into action, turning Casablanca into a giant outdoor car wash in an effort to come up with the $1,500 a month rent that Foster now insists they both pay. A dozen girls return from the blowout party, wearing what look like the same bikinis. Scores of cars peel into the estate, wrecking the lawn. The girls accept $20 tips in their thong bikinis and rub down the cars, then Brandon and Brody, with soapy sponges. Hundreds of dollars later, Foster shows up, furious.

“What the hell is going on here?” he screams. Moments later, one of the girls douses him with a hose. Everybody laughs.

And the award for sappiest ballad goes to...: Celine Dion and David Foster, winning big at the 1997 Grammy Awards. Photo Timothy Clary/AFP/Getty Images.

David Foster deserves better than this. Even a song snob who would rather walk a flight of stairs than share an elevator with one of Foster’s industrial-strength pop ballads (The Power of Love, I Will Always Love You) would acknowledge that the music producer has been phenomenally successful on his own terms. As a teenage piano player, he backed Chuck Berry on a European tour; he put together the Vancouver band Skylark, which scored a hit in 1973 with Wildflower; since moving to L.A. in the ’70s, he’s worked with John Lennon, Earth, Wind and Fire and divas like Céline Dion, Whitney Houston, Barbra Streisand and Madonna. He’s crafted Oscar-nominated songs with his wife, Linda, recorded an album with the Vancouver Symphony and organized the 1986 Canadian charity recording Tears Are Not Enough with Bryan Adams.

And he did it all his way. Now, for some reason, he’s doing it Fox’s way. Foster finally moves from behind the mixing board into the spotlight. And maybe all he wanted was a chance to bellow at the world. He’s been stuck on 14 Grammies now for a while; it’s possible he’s concerned that the famous singers who once lined up outside his studio door are now courting the new kid in town. Famous singers tend to change producers the way big corporations do ad agencies. And for the same reason: they want to remain fresh and appeal to a younger demographic.

At age 55, Foster might be mad at that demographic. Maybe that’s why he storms about his mansion like the ghost of Norma Desmond, braying at his boys and bragging about everything he accomplished at their age. How sad.

That said, it’s unlikely Princes of Malibu will do any lasting damage to Foster’s career. He’s a musician. If the show bombs, it’ll be a TV bomb. Frank Sinatra had two TV series flop in the ’50s. He survived. And so will Foster.

Perhaps what’s most disappointing about Princes of Malibu is that the show’s producers ignored the most interesting cast member: Linda Thompson, formerly Miss Tennessee and Elvis’s last girlfriend. Princes of Malibu shoots around her, probably because there’s not enough conflict in her relationship with Foster or the boys. But Thompson, a natural, sympathetic performer, is the wife-mom who makes this family work. The boys melt into real human beings around her. And Thompson is the only soul who can draw the thorn out of Foster’s paw.

When Foster and Thompson arrive home from their vacation early to find their children staging Malibu-Satyricon, Foster barges through the crowd, sniffing for alcohol and complaining about all the happy faces. One step behind, Thompson repairs all of her husband’s discourtesies, smiling hello, shaking hands. Arriving at the front door, he sees one of the boys’ cars parked in his spot and complains, “Great; in my parking spot – again.”

Thompson looks up at her grand home and breaks into a radiant smile. “Doesn’t this house look amazing?” she announces. “We need to have a party here.” She’s right. This is Malibu. They’re on holidays. We’re on holidays. Who wants to spend a half hour every Sunday with the Grinch Who Stole Summer? David Foster is smart enough to have his wife write the lyrics for his songs. Too bad he didn’t trust her with the storyline for his reality TV show.

Stephen Cole writes about television for CBC.ca.