COMMENTARY : Dennis Miller--Thinking Man’s Comic

Johnny Carson survived nearly 30 years of late-night talk wars. Dennis Miller couldn’t make it to 30 weeks.

Carson cracked jokes about eight different vice presidents. The current veep could well be around long after Miller again becomes just another beer on tap.

Carson’s departure evoked zillions of love letters in just about every publication in the land. And the stars, the really big stars, turned up to kiss him goodby. The cancellation of Miller’s show took up a few sentences in some newspapers. Richard Simmons, Catherine Crier and fellow TV failures Mark & Brian were among the luminaries on hand this week to see him off.

To quote Pete Townshend, one of Miller’s eclectic cast of personal icons, it’s like the viewing public and the entire show-biz industry teamed up to say, “Dennis, why don’t you just f-f-f-fade away?”

And it makes me sad.

Because the first 10 minutes of Miller’s show beats anything else on late-night television.

Sure, Leno’s political jokes are polished and on target night after night, and every now and then Arsenio’s tirades about the state of things earn a “must-see” rave. But with them, you know what you’re going to get. The jokes may change, but the delivery, the attitude, the whole atmosphere of their shows remains the same.

Which is exactly why they thrive. They make us comfortable.

Miller’s version of the late-night monologue hasn’t been anything like bungee jumping, but it has felt a bit more dangerous than the others--like he was out there doing his shtick while standing on one leg atop a balance beam. Part of the fun has been watching to see if he is going to hit his triple-twisting dismount and land with his arms thrust triumphantly in the air or fall flat on his temperamental hairdo.

He told funny one-liners like the other guys. On President Bush appearing on talk shows: “In a related story, Dan Quayle is considering getting his message out by appearing on cartoons.” And: “Bush today answered critics who said he was not supportive of the Rio Earth Summit. He announced that he would donate two tons of Styrofoam coffee cups to the summit as a symbol of our contribution.”

But over his six-month run that culminates tonight, Miller was smarter--spontaneously referencing everything from lines in Who songs to incidents in the life of Gertrude Stein to characters in “thirtysomething.” While the other guys played to the masses, he unabashedly played to the “cultural elite,” to all those infidels out there who like rock, like TV and actually read books too.

While his rivals were always warm and professional, Miller wasn’t afraid to be a lunatic, giggling wildly at his jokes and at his failures, wearing rumpled coats and T-shirts when the slick-suit, clean-shaven thing wore thin. After the Violent Femmes performed their song “American Music,” Miller, a cappella and way off key, sang the chorus into his microphone. It sounded terrible, but Miller didn’t care. This was his chance to fulfill that age-old dream of being a rock star and he was going to grab the opportunity no matter the risk.

But what Miller gained in sheer gall and unpredictability, he lost in his inability to play the appreciative host to his celebrity guests. There was little of the joshing and fawning that are de rigueur on the other shows. Miller often looked stiff and uncomfortable. His guests came off stiff and uncomfortable. And the audience, even fans like me, felt uncomfortable, worse yet bored, and flipped to Jay or Arsenio or “Australian Rules Football.”

I came back for the next night’s monologue, though. And without that nightly fix of acerbity, I’ll now have plenty of time to read Paul Tsongas’ “Economic Call to Arms.”