Would-Be Johnnys : A Host-by-Host Walk Through the Talk-Show Ruins

It’s not easy being a television talk-show host. Ask some of the people who have tried.

Almost from the first announcement, the expectations begin, the spotlight glares. Industry observers scramble for an early seat on the sidelines, all the while snickering at the “need” for another talk show. The critics arrive to mete out the life-or-death verdict--often on the basis of one or two shows. The ratings stall, sponsors drop out, the production company and/or network panics, and a hundred cooks rush in to stir the soup. Futility sets in. Two months later you’re off the air, an official failure.

Why would anyone set himself up for that kind of humiliation?

To be sure, the potential rewards are enormous. In 1989, Arsenio Hall zoomed from relative obscurity to major stardom by connecting with a young, hip, obviously untapped late-night audience. Yet at the same time on CBS, Pat Sajak flopped by offering (what was perceived as) a same-set, same-style, same-format alternative to Johnny Carson. A year later, Rick Dees tried a short-lived run at late-night on ABC. Ron Reagan appeared in 1991--and promptly disappeared. Dennis Miller’s syndicated effort hung on for six months in 1992.

Both Sajak and Miller declined to speak for this article, and it’s clear that--even for the sturdiest of TV veterans--the sting of conspicuous defeat isn’t easily forgotten. In recent times, the most spectacularly ballyhooed talk-show failure (perhaps because it was the first) surely belongs to Alan Thicke, whose syndicated “Thicke of the Night” bowed in 1983 following a huge media blitz promoting him as the man who would knock Johnny Carson off his late-night throne.

“I was built up--and set up--for a fall,” says Thicke, who had previously hosted a very successful TV talk show in his native Canada. “I never had any intention of taking on Johnny Carson, and I said that then. But no one’s ever had such an audacious advertising campaign. People have come on the air with less bravado, more humility. Still, the critics don’t help. They grouse about there being nothing new on TV, then they destroy a show in the public eye before it even has a chance to grow, hone or change.”

The actor does take solace from the “horrible, miserable experience” because it led to his 1985-92 stint on the hit series “Growing Pains.” It also offered a glaring public education, he believes, on how not to do a talk-show.

“Everyone learned something from my failure,” Thicke says genially. “One lesson is that in late-night, derivative is better. I think people want something comfortable, not to be challenged. And we were different: an unknown host, a repertory company doing sketch comedy. The set was radically different, obnoxiously so. And we did 90 minutes.” He paused. “I don’t apologize for trying to be dramatically different. Although having said that, I’m happy to admit the show was lousy.”

Today, substance often takes an unabashed back seat to personality and style; the low-key format of the ‘60s and ‘70s--personified by Dinah Shore, Mike Douglas and Merv Griffin--has evolved into a mounting free-for-all that simultaneously (and inexplicably) embraces such diverse entities as Oprah Winfrey, Rush Limbaugh, Faith Daniels, Bob Costas, Joan Rivers, Geraldo Rivera and Whoopi Goldberg. And in this celebrity culture, the hosts are often bigger stars than their guests.

That wasn’t what Ron Reagan wanted. When his syndicated late-night program debuted in August, 1991, Reagan made it clear that he was not about celebrity fluff. He aspired to be newsy, topical, issue-oriented. Most critics were impressed. The Times’ Howard Rosenberg wrote a bona fide rave. It didn’t help.

“Clearly, there’s a large segment of the population that wants to lie back in bed as a parade of celebrities files past,” allows Reagan. “But I wanted to get issues on the air, voices that are not normally heard. If I’d had a magic wand, I would’ve done something even more extreme: gotten rid of the band--and the audience. An audience changes the focus of a discussion; it suddenly becomes about display. Not that they don’t come up with good questions every once in awhile. But it does tend to divert the discussion, slow it down.”

Reagan (now at work on a documentary about censorship for E! Entertainment Television, set to air Jan. 20) taped 65 shows during his three-month late-night tenure, and notes that demographics were certainly a factor: The program did well in big cities but never caught on in the middle of the country.

“I’ve been around TV long enough to know a good show--as opposed to a successful show--is really irrelevant to the people putting it on,” says Reagan, who felt that Dennis Miller was “miscast” as a host, and regards the prospect of Chevy Chase’s upcoming talk-show foray as “baffling.” In his own case, he says, there was a choice: “We knew after three weeks the show was going to go off; there was no support. And we had options--we could’ve changed the format. But we decided to go down with our heads up.”

KIIS-FM deejay Rick Dees claims that if he ever got the chance to do another “Into the Night,” there would be a lot of changes.

“I dream about going back in time, knowing what I know now,” he says. “I love an audience, but I’d keep it intimate. And no music. You don’t need a bandleader, but somebody to bounce things off. I’d hire a woman to be line producer--but no executive producer. If they’re gonna blame everything on Rick Dees, then let me do it. The network intimidates you into thinking you’re not responsible; you’re just the performer. The name of the game in entertainment is that you’re a blob to step on, vaporize. Then it’s on to the next blob.”

Dees, who regards the current late-night talk-show climate as a booking war (“Who gets the best guests is the best host”) doesn’t understand the media’s “preoccupation” with late-night TV: “Look, no one’s awake, no one cares. There are only 10 million people out there, probably 4 million awake.” And although he was on the air almost 18 months, Dees feels he wasn’t given enough time to establish himself.

“It’s a shame that TV’s become such a fast-food industry,” he says wearily. “You’re on, then you’re off. And we were just starting to catch on.” Dees--who swears he’s not bitter--also blames his time-slot, which had him playing in some regional markets as late as 2 a.m. “Then the (Gulf) War broke out,” he says, “and you’ve got Ted Koppel on as long as he wants. The second the ratings come out, you’re ‘the struggling Rick Dees.’ Anytime in the animal kingdom, they go after the struggling fish.”

Because late-night has become such a cutthroat, visible arena--as evidenced by the ongoing fascination with David Letterman’s future at NBC and the much-hyped feud of Jay Leno and Arsenio Hall--daytime talk shows have often been perceived as a gentler playing field. Not so. Among the many casualties from recent years: Regis Philbin (before he hooked up with Kathie Lee Gifford), Tom Snyder, Marsha Warfield, Morton Downey and Cristina Saralegui, KCBS’ major misfire of 1992.

“Love Connection” host Chuck Woolery allows that his 1991 six-month “blip on the radar screen” as a daytime talk-show host was not a pleasant experience. Shuttled between Warner Bros., Westinghouse and the failing Orion Pictures, Woolery was informed that the plug had been pulled after just three months on the air; he then had to quietly go on taping for another three. “It was painful to lose the show and the opportunity,” he says. “But you do what you have to do. The show must go on.”

Woolery (who will host “Scrabble” daytime on NBC starting next month), admits he watches other talk shows with a twinge of envy.

“I always wanted to do the Carson show--from his seat,” he says wistfully. “It’s a great job, especially for someone like me, who has a feeling for talk, who likes to do it.” Woolery also considers “Love Connection” a talk show: “Regular people open up to you quicker. Celebrities are more protective, rightly so. But the kind of sensational material they’re doing on these tabloid talk shows--like transvestite nuns--I just don’t have the personality for that.”

Steve Edwards, who modestly dismisses talk-show skills as “something anybody can do”--made the transition from TV talk to radio talk after “A.M. Los Angeles” was canceled in 1991. Although the program was doing well in the ratings, KABC reportedly decided to cut costs by replacing the long-running local talk show in its 9 a.m. weekday time slot with the New York-originated syndication hit “Live with Regis & Kathie Lee.”

Since then, Edwards has hosted an afternoon talk show on KABC-AM. “Doing a television show, you’re surrounded by staff, co-hosts, everyone second-guessing,” he notes. “In radio, I have one person I talk with before the show. Every day I look at five newspapers, then decide what I want to talk about on the air. If I’m good or bad, it’s all my fault. Also, in radio I get exposed to what you think. In TV, people become caricatures.”

Although he doesn’t rule out a return to TV, Edwards makes no bones about its limitations.

“It’s a constant battle for those of us who live and die in public expression,” he said. “Let’s not forget, this industry is about getting ratings. And television is not the best forum for examining issues. On ‘A.M.,’ my role was to be snappy, funny, talk about popular issues. Yes, I’ve done a few things over the years that embarrassed me--addressing issues so superficially.”

When he began doing radio, Edwards adds with a laugh, “One comment I heard a lot was, ‘Gee, Steve, you’re so much brighter than we thought you were.’ ”