Star 69

The pursuit of fame on “The Masked Singer” and “The Other Two.”

- Emily Nussbaum

“Enter the Pineapple!” Nick Cannon, Mariah Carey’s ex-husband, shouts. As Salt-N-Pepa’s “Whatta Man” thumps over the loudspeakers, the mystery contestant struts onto the stage, his head concealed by a bulbous pineapple mask. His Hawaiian shirt hangs open, revealing fake abs. A plastic parrot bobs on his shoulder. Two mock bodyguards strut behind him. A chyron pops up, reading “Pineapple. Weakness: Ripens Quickly.”

Ripening quickly also happens to be the weakness of a lot of reality competitions, particularly those based on gimmicks as extreme as that of “The Masked Singer,” a Gaga-glittery pageant on Fox that has become a surprise hit. But just because something is dumb fun doesn’t mean it’s not fun. Based on the South Korean series “King of Mask Singer,” “The Masked Singer” is a reality show in which contestants disguise themselves in Comic Con-style costumes, then compete for—well, mostly, to be recognized as worthy of their fame. The competitors are all C-level celebrities (or A- or B-level ones—it’s impossible to say, although I doubt that Beyoncé is lurking inside the Alien). It’s a bit like “What’s My Line?” merged with Pokémon Go.

Each participant gets a moniker— the Monster, the Lion, the Poodle— and a voice-distortion algorithm. There’s the Unicorn, who speaks in a tinny voice, like a broken Siri. There’s the Raven, with a glorious span of slick black wings, whose “strength” is being “empathetic,” and who is almost certainly the former talk-show host Ricki Lake, or perhaps Sherri Shepherd. There’s a genuinely impressive Bee; based on the clues, she seems to be Gladys Knight, an icon who probably didn’t expect to be competing with the Pineapple, who, it turns out, is the stoner comic Tommy Chong.