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The beginning
of the end of late night excellence
By JEFF CEBULSKI
Photos courtesy of NBC
The recent death of one of America's greatest entertainers,
Johnny Carson, shined a dim light on the current state of late
night national network programming, a fact more than ironically
implied by David Letterman, whose whimsical, not-quite-touching
eulogy on his January 31 program made clear that no one sitting
in a host's chair could lay any claim to equality to Carson's
rich and storied career.
Of the current hosts, Letterman comes closest to that grand
master, albeit more lately than formerly, and it is not that
surprising to hear jokes in his monologue that came from the
pen of the late Carson. When one thinks of the tribute shows
presented after Johnny's death, the difference between Letterman
and his counterpart Jay Leno was striking. Leno's program seemed
to be almost a hurried afterthought that featured three of Carson's
old guests (Don Rickles, Bob Newhart, and a bedraggled Drew
Carey) while old tapes provided by Carson Productions were played
for fond remembrance—and bigger laughs. But Letterman's
program, a week later, evinced not only more thoughtfulness
but also his actual closeness to Carson and his performing world.
As we saw on the tapes, Letterman was the only talk show host
who could get Carson to make a cameo appearance, which he did
several times through 1994. With typical self-effacement, Letterman
refused to even compare himself to the master, from whom he
gained his first national exposure as a comedian…and never
forgot the gesture. And, as a more than ironic tribute, Letterman's
entire monologue that night contained jokes written by Carson.
Dave had convinced Carson's former producer Peter Lassally to
sit and share insider anecdotes and then listened as former
band leader Doc Severinsen, joined by a favorite Carson foil,
saxophonist Tommy Newsome, and drummer Ed Shoughnessy, conducted
and played a classy, string-laden rendition of "Here Comes
That Rainy Day," one of Carson's favorite songs.
You would never see such a connection to Carson's world on Leno's
show. What NBC execs had decided to do when Johnny left was
to excise most traces of the old show from the appearance and
approach of the new one. Carson was reportedly hurt and upset
by the move, and not even a sincere (but very formal) commentary
by Jay could make one forget the clamorous behind-the-scenes
politics that led to the bitter transfer of Letterman to CBS.
Before he was tabbed by NBC to be Carson's permanent replacement
on "The Tonight Show," Jay Leno was the funniest comedian
in the world. His lovably acerbic delivery, concentrating on
consumer irritations and frustrations with old-school parents
in a new technological world, was the perfect fit for an audience
that was moving from older baby boomers to new age suburban
get-goers and soccer moms.
And the place to see Leno was on David Letterman's show following
Carson, as Dave was slowly emerging as the likely successor
to Carson's late night throne. Letterman, now known to have
been the late Carson's favorite for the position, was certainly
gearing his career to be a modern replacement for the Great
Carsoni, introducing America to the new generation of cutting
edge comics. For example, how many of us would have even cared
about Richard Lewis without Dave?
At the same time, Letterman maintained nuances of the old school
talk show schtick, whether it was hamming it up with Tony Randall
and Regis Philbin, featuring the Peace Through Dramatization
Players (his version of the Mighty Carson Art Players), or,
like an obvious influence, Steve Allen, taking the camera outdoors
to create humor with common people or attempt some sort of crazy
stunt. Even animals occasionally showed up, and it was Dave
who became Velcro Man for a short time.
Essentially, Letterman tailored his career to extend the tradition
of avuncular, sometimes wacky, NBC talk show hosts who entertained
the American late night public for 40 years.
Yet, it was Leno who was hired to host "The Tonight Show,"
and television has never been the same. While Letterman continues
to grind away at Leno's audience figures, somewhat gained (one
suspects) from the preponderance and accessibility of NBC's
local stations and their news shows, the four-decade momentum
of excellence that began with Allen, extended by Jack Paar,
and perfected by Carson is, for all intents and purposes, over.
And, as a tragic extension of its original decision, when NBC
and Leno curiously decided to announce their intention to replace
Leno in five years with ex-Letterman writer Conan O'Brien, the
travesty of corporate television was at its zenith. Afraid of
losing O'Brien, whose manic, Nervous Nelly presence makes Letterman
look smooth, the network unintentionally reminded us of their
previous decision that ostracized the superior talent and opened
the door for another network's challenge to a form of programming
NBC had owned and dominated since televisions became mass produced
and network programming accessible to most of the country.
One could almost claim that the omnipresent glut of talk shows
available these days received its greatest boost when Carson
left and no one nearly worthy of his desk seat was allowed to
take his place: if Leno could walk in with only replacement
host credentials, then even John McEnroe could have a show!
END OF AN ERA
The bottom line is that American audiences will never, ever,
again experience the progression of excellence provided by the
first three hosts of what became The Tonight Show. What made
Allen, Paar, and Carson unique was the depth of their interests,
their comic sense, and their particular genius for connecting
with the audience while crafting a singular television persona.
While it is true that every talk show takes on the personality
of its host, audiences of the current group are much more aware
of these hosts' limitations – almost painfully so at times.
Letterman remains a very stiff and self-centered conversationalist
who needs someone creative like Steve Martin to come out of
his shell. Leno's joke delivery changed radically when he had
to produce a nightly monologue, and his material began to gravitate
toward cheap laughs initiated by the tawdry Hollywood scene.
O'Brien's antsy stage presence relies more on his ability to
find ways to reveal himself on camera (although his producers
have solved that problem in an ironic old school fashion by
keeping the camera still); his edgy, cynical material that,
eventually, will placate a goodly portion of middle America,
is more at home with Generation Y-types who will, some day,
grow old and demand more maturity from its host.
It's almost as though these current hosts (I refuse to call
them "performers") are stuck in one gear and struggle
day in and day out to create new humor through one conduit.
What made Allen, Paar, and Carson superior was that their consistency
was developed through their versatility. The structure of their
shows, with the desk as the centerpiece and focal point, remained
static but never grew old because the person manning the desk
was capable of so much more.
Steve Allen was the progenitor of late night wackiness, a sometimes
Bizarro version of Dave Garroway's quietly erudite "Today
Show." Interested in hundreds of things, Allen was comfortably
introducing his audience to the studio itself, the art of word
play for laughs, new music, and the ability to laugh at himself.
Through Allen, a young person interested in the trade could
get a feel for studio production as the host often left his
desk to prance about the cameramen, sound people, and audience.
It was as though the audience-removed was allowed into a very
special fun house.
Paar brought a cerebral ambiance and urbanity to the proceedings,
not only by his thoughtful and wry monologues and travelogues,
but also by allowing people more talented and singular to share
the spotlight and the lines. One cannot think of Paar without
thinking of the eccentric Oscar Levant, the mildly loony Jonathon
Winters, the mousy Wally Cox, and the wickedly witty Dame Edith,
people who would never be comfortable with either Leno or Letterman,
and certainly not O'Brien.
It is impossible to understate the importance and contribution
of Johnny Carson, whose quiet sophistication, balanced with
Midwestern good sense, provided an underpinning to his comic
genius. This was a guy who could talk seriously with noted scientists
while at the same time sponsor the wedding of Tiny Tim to Miss
Vicki without the country wondering if he had smoked some of
that new weed prevalent on the West Coast. While not a complete
original in the sense both Allen and Paar were, Carson was a
great student of comedians. He parlayed his own performing sensibilities
and finely crafted joke telling into the finest, most consistently
excellent performance in television history. Anything and anybody
could become a victim of Carson's supreme wit, making him the
ultimate spokesperson for the Silent Majority that wanted, once
in a while, to see those in power, notoriety, or popular fame
go down in flames, but in a humane way.
THE CURRENT CREW
When Leno began his NBC run, his popularity, not hurt by several
stand-in appearances during the last two years of Carson's run,
helped generate interest in the new show. But Leno, frankly,
seemed a bit ill at ease for someone who was a veteran of the
comedy stage, stumbling over lines and fidgeting with his hands.
He fortunately maintained a bit he had developed, showing ill-worded
ads, headlines, and captions printed in small town newspapers,
attaching incredulous comments along the way. Combining it with
his version of Allen's Everyman, "Jaywalking," Leno
was able to maintain vestiges of his familiar persona as he
reacted to the incredible ignorance of southern California folk.
As for Letterman, over the past two years as he was increasingly
fed material from Carson, he began to hone a monologue presence
that showed more and more of Johnny's influence, from the oddball
"How hot is it?" schtick to an increasing propensity
to put his hands in his pockets. But one of the weaknesses of
his program is that one joke will be recycled numerous times
over the course of one, maybe two, weeks. The studio audience
may get a kick out of it, but loyal viewers can get tired in
a hurry, something a Carson fan could never experience.
For his part, Leno works hard at providing fresh material, but
his constant appearances without break suggest two coexisting
forces: hard work and insecurity. When Carson developed his
cadre of substitute hosts, it was out of a sense of security.
When one thinks of the outstanding list of subs, including Joan
Rivers, David Brenner, Gary Shandling, Bill Cosby, and both
Letterman and Leno, the high quality of "The Tonight Show"
was never threatened.
Neither Letterman nor Leno has been able to conquer an insularity
that evolved since the late night wars commenced. While his
heart surgery and 9/11 clearly have softened him, Letterman
shares his throne only a few times. Meanwhile, Leno doesn't,
and the recent declaration of his coming retirement only stokes
the fires for more Jay, more often.
As for O'Brien, there is no sign that his christening has changed
anything. He'll still tote out Nascar-driving Jesus and Frankenstein
Who Wastes A Minute of Your Time, wildly cynical and obtuse
humor that continues to play well on the college scene and in
Blue States. But he fills gaps in humor and his own mania with
physical shenanigans that hearken back to local television kid
shows – quaint in an odd way, but when one translates
that approach to the mass market of late night prime time, one
can only wonder what will happen to the man who was Mel Brooks
to Letterman's Sid Caesar.
THE FUTURE
The future of contemporary television comic entertainment seems,
at this point, problematic. Some have seen a light at the end
of the picture tube in people like Jon Stewart and Ellen DeGeneres,
whose TV-woven personalities have attracted increasingly loyal
fan bases. Stewart can deliver lines and smirks with the best
of them, and his solid rhetorical battle with the CNN talk people
during the last presidential campaign drew people looking for
a critical edge from an entertainer who is steeped in satire.
DeGeneres has risen above her self-proclaimed lesbianism to
become a beloved, sensitive, extremely witty, dancing everywoman
who offends almost no one.
One comedian who could rise to attract Common America is Ray
Romano, who is a much better stand-up comedian than an actor
and whose appearances on talk shows evince an ability to be
relaxed, open, spontaneous, and articulate in front of millions
of people. Comments by on-air partner Patricia Heaton have suggested
that Ray has a very clear concept of humor and its timing. I
have no proof that anyone is thinking about Romano in a talk
show role, but the idea becomes more attractive when you consider
alternatives.
Sadly though, it seems at this point that a generation of TV
viewers will never experience the depth of the true American
phenomenon, a host with depth, as the networks have chosen to
devote their time and money to generally mini-dimensional talents.
Perhaps that is a reflection of what passes as entertainment
in today's United States, but, compared to what we once had,
what a pity it is. |
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