The War for Late Night_ When Leno Went Early and Television Went Crazy - Bill Carter [47]
“Are you OK?” Jeff asked, masking the concern with a little touch of playful rue.
“I’m gonna be fine,” the voice from under the desk said. “I just need to be under here for a little bit and just lie here.”
For the most part, all of them—Michaels, Polone, Ross—tried to shield Conan. Not from the press; that was impossible. What they worried about was his getting wind of the building dissatisfaction at the network. The numbers weren’t very good—not awful yet, but clearly a concern. Worse was the network’s assessment of the show. The executives wasted few chances in ripping it in private conversations; Conan was getting no better. The comedy was more weird than funny. He didn’t listen to the guests in the interviews. And Andy . . . He was like an affront to the concept of entertainment. Polone got a call from Warren Littlefield excoriating the show and Conan. “And get that fat, fucking dildo off the couch!” he demanded. Most everybody on the show loved Andy; so, apparently, did the studio audiences. But Polone had little ammunition to fire back. The ratings showed no growth, and the critics were annihilating Conan.
For that, OʹBrien could not fully blame them. He could feel the show coming together in little ways, but he knew it wasn’t there yet—or even close. How could he blame anyone, viewers or critics, who had been accustomed to seeing someone like Letterman at that hour? It struck him that the comparison might be one his dad would have made about the great Red Sox star of his generation: “Ted Williams has departed the field. But here to replace him, ladies and gentlemen, number seventeen and a half, Chip Whitley!” Conan pictured a kid running out onto the field in a diaper and saying in a high-pitched voice: “Hi, everybody! Gee, I’m gonna miss Mr. Williams too, but don’t you worry!” And then the kid would pop out.
The flaws were everywhere. The comedy might miss, and then the distraction would spill over into the guest interviews. About four months in, his old Chicago pal Jeff Garlin called with some advice. “I don’t know what anybody is telling you. You’re doing a great job. You’re funny. But in the interviews you’re just not listening to a word anybody says. You really need to get into listening.”
It was midway through the first year that Ross heard the serious rumblings begin. Affiliates were unhappy; what if they started to preempt? NBC had already hired a young hotshot named Greg Kinnear to succeed Costas as host of Later. Word was filtering out about how much the network loved the guy—and why the hell hadn’t they given him the 12:35 show in the first place?
In the spring of 1994 Conan was due for a twenty-six-week pickup—Conan had a one-year deal but the show had an original commitment of only twenty-six weeks. Polone dutifully called John Agoglia, the deal guy for NBC, who told him they were picking up Conan for the next six months. Polone said that was great, but the contract required he get the extension in writing.
“I can’t give it to you in writing right now,” Agoglia told him. “We’re having some affiliate problems. But don’t worry about it; you’re picked up.” He said he merely needed another month before committing the deal to writing.
“Well, if we’re picked up, what’s the difference?” Polone said. “You’re just giving me a piece of paper. I’m not sending it to The New York Times.”
Agoglia hedged again, assuring Polone that he needn’t worry about it. But Polone did, becoming suspicious that everything with NBC was not what it seemed. The Kinnear talk only made him more uncomfortable, but he had no juice to use against the network. They would simply have to wait for the paperwork.
As spring turned to early summer, Conan remained on the air, but without a document that made his renewal official. Polone went off to Cancun on vacation, but on Friday of his week away he decided to call in to NBC; the time on the extension was up, and all was still quiet