"I think the show is really on a roll now," said Conan O'Brien, as he sucked the marrow out of a goat's leg.
Ever-helpful talk-show host Conan O'Brien has graciously suggested this intro to his own story. Needs work, but not bad for a beginner--he's clearly fluent in celebrity magazine-speak. If this night job doesn't work out...
"The important thing is to take it to the next level," he continued, as he sipped on his chicken and stabbed furtively at his Pellegrino.
Again, nice try; O'Brien is actually nibbling delicately on a barbecued-chicken sandwich. But point taken: The former critical punching bag known as NBC's Late Night With Conan O'Brien is, in fact, heading to the next level.
Enough with David Letterman's jaded '80s irony. Enough with Jay Leno's predictable, ripped-from-the-headlines monologue jokes. Conan--just like South Park and There's Something About Mary--looms large in the current cultural craze for blissful absurdity and cartoonishness.
He's brought us such groundbreaking characters as the Shirtless Moron and the Masturbating Bear, and we've rewarded him with an impressive 37 percent jump over his first-year ratings. Indeed, the cerebrally silly orange-haired late-night host has become a dorm favorite to rival Ayn Rand and Monet posters. And come Sept. 16, O'Brien will host a fifth-anniversary show in prime time, of all mainstream places.
"We've learned to make people laugh; now we have to make them think," said O'Brien, as he tinkered furiously with his space robot.
Finally, the guy's getting the hang of it.
In a shabby writing room on the ninth floor of New York's 30 Rockefeller Center, the Harvard-schooled O'Brien gathers with some of the nation's sharpest comedic minds to hash out the next day's show. What sophisticated secrets of the writing craft can a visitor learn?
"Show him the Farting Wolf!" pipes up one scribe.
O'Brien, 35, lets out a sheepish sigh. Too late. The visitor is already getting treated to the venerable Late Night ritual: Whenever one of the writers has to pass gas, he (and it usually is a he) dons a flimsy paper wolf mask, climbs onto a coffee table, arches his back, locks eyes with one of the other staffers, then lets one rip.
That's the gust of new comedy you're smelling. A surprisingly fresh blast of puppets, goofy accents, and high-concept flatulence. It's spawned such Conan trademarks as Triumph the Insult Comic Dog--a Don Rickles-like canine puppet who threatens to poop on guests ("If anyone in comedy says they're not a fan of bathroom humor, they're lying," insists O'Brien). And then there's the famous "lips" routine--a still photo of, say, President Clinton with an absurdly phony mouth that bellows hillbilly-ese. "Nee-haw!"
Such seemingly random comedy is far from it. When O'Brien--a little-known former Simpsons and Saturday Night Live writer--got the surprise nod to replace his treasured David Letterman at 12:35, he set a goal: Become the un-Dave. None of the "found comedy"--the smirking banter with deli owners, the phone calls to real-life shlubs across the street. Instead, O'Brien returned to the sillier sketch comedy of Johnny Carson, but Carson filtered through Andy Kaufman. "There's this trend in comedy the last 15 years that people want to be more cool than funny," O'Brien says. "At the beginning of Carson's show there was a montage of him in ridiculous outfits, wearing a wig or a giant Carnac hat." And like Carson, neither 6'4", freckle-skinned O'Brien nor gruff, stout sidekick Andy Richter is afraid to look foolish. "Conan always used to say, he loves that we can turn the sound off and the show can still be entertaining," says Conan writer-performer Robert Smigel.
Back in the writers' room, time to hone a new visual gag about Monica's stained dress. An earnest debate is under way: Which looks more like the President's bodily fluid--pancake batter or egg whites? Batter takes the cake.
"I can't believe these are jokes we can make," says head writer Jonathan Groff. "I can't keep up with how strange the world is getting."
"I have people on the street saying 'Oh, man, you must be loving this,'" O'Brien says of Zippergate. "But the truth is, it's tough. It's like trying to do a parody of the Enquirer. When I do my monologue, people are laughing at the straight line."
The brainstorm momentarily dies down, and O'Brien fills the void with a character called Office Supply Hitler--a yellow Post-it stuck to his upper lip. Meanwhile, the writers--mostly male, mostly early 30s, mostly clad in the comedy uniform (T-shirt, shorts, and beat-up sneakers)--discuss a major injustice: NBC censors will allow the words douche bag, but not scumbag.
Groff, glancing at a visitor, has a moment of self-consciousness, or at least curiosity. "Was Saturday Night Live this filthy?" he asks O'Brien. "With SNL, you didn't have as many writers in the room because they were all trying to destroy each other," O'Brien replies, before deciding that SNL was just as dirty--but there, actions spoke louder than words. One time, O'Brien recounts, Adam Sandler swung by his office. For no apparent reason, the future Wedding Singer star had his pants and underpants at his ankles--and a pencil sticking out of his butt. Says O'Brien, "I knew then I was in the right business."
Go to nearly any college campus, and you'll get more proof that O'Brien is in the right business. Within our halls of higher learning you can play Conan drinking games ("Take a swig every time Conan grrrrrrowls") or go to an occasional campus speech by Richter on the art of sidekicking. Why such a college mania? "The kids want to find something that's theirs," Richter says. "David Letterman was my show, and I remember my mother saying 'I don't get it. Why's he so grumpy?' We have the luck of being the new thing for kids." New and different. As Warren Littlefield, president of NBC Entertainment, puts it: "Conan wanted to be as innovative and daring as Letterman was in his Late Night years. There's a sense of reckless abandon, a siege mentality."
It's Monday, O'Brien's day off, and the choirboy-faced host has chosen to enjoy some culture at the museum: the avant-garde formalism of Batman, the abstract expressionism of Police Squad, the dadaism of Green Acres. We're at New York's Museum of Television & Radio, and O'Brien reluctantly settles in for the dreaded piece de resistance: a screening of the first episode of Late Night With Conan O'Brien.
Roll tape: A skinnier, more pompadoured, higher-amped O'Brien bounds on stage.
"Look at that set!" cringes the older, wiser version. "It's garbage. Makeup, terrible. My hair was crazy--good Lord, it's like a solid shell!... The band looks ragged. [Bandleader Max Weinberg] looks evil.... I don't really like to watch myself. How about we watch it with the sound down?"
And yet, for all O'Brien's squirming--and for all the media's recent Most Improved Talk Show stories--here's the weird part: The show really wasn't all that bad.
Okay, some of it was bad. O'Brien's interviews often looked like awkward first dates, filled with pauses and nervous tics. Now his chats approach Carson's style--playing the masterful host of his own party. He mock-flirts with women: raising his eyebrows, licking hands--he literally charmed the pants off Law & Order's Jill Hennessy. O'Brien can even make a deadly dull celeb seem okay, though at times not without heroic effort. (With some self-important guests, "I'd rather be retrofitting steam pipes on a really hot day," says O'Brien.)
But the core of the show--the cleverly inane comedy--was there from day one. "It's always bugged me a little when people say, 'Wow, the show's really getting good,'" huffs Richter. "I just kind of feel like, Screw you! The show's always been good. It wasn't us that came around. It's you."
Now the question is, Will you stay around? Conan currently snags 2.6 million viewers on an average night, up from 1.9 million at the start. But this January, the show will face the toughest challenger yet to its dorm-dwelling demographic: Snide Daily Show host Craig Kilborn will ditch Comedy Central and replace white-haired Tom Snyder on CBS' Late Late Show. How will O'Brien battle that other tall, well-coiffed frat idol? "We're going to become all information, all the time. News, tips on dieting," O'Brien cracked at a recent press conference.
The brainstorm momentarily dies down, and O'Brien fills the void with a character called Office Supply Hitler--a yellow Post-it stuck to his upper lip. Meanwhile, the writers--mostly male, mostly early 30s, mostly clad in the comedy uniform (T-shirt, shorts, and beat-up sneakers)--discuss a major injustice: NBC censors will allow the words douche bag, but not scumbag.
Groff, glancing at a visitor, has a moment of self-consciousness, or at least curiosity. "Was Saturday Night Live this filthy?" he asks O'Brien. "With SNL, you didn't have as many writers in the room because they were all trying to destroy each other," O'Brien replies, before deciding that SNL was just as dirty--but there, actions spoke louder than words. One time, O'Brien recounts, Adam Sandler swung by his office. For no apparent reason, the future Wedding Singer star had his pants and underpants at his ankles--and a pencil sticking out of his butt. Says O'Brien, "I knew then I was in the right business."
Go to nearly any college campus, and you'll get more proof that O'Brien is in the right business. Within our halls of higher learning you can play Conan drinking games ("Take a swig every time Conan grrrrrrowls") or go to an occasional campus speech by Richter on the art of sidekicking. Why such a college mania? "The kids want to find something that's theirs," Richter says. "David Letterman was my show, and I remember my mother saying 'I don't get it. Why's he so grumpy?' We have the luck of being the new thing for kids." New and different. As Warren Littlefield, president of NBC Entertainment, puts it: "Conan wanted to be as innovative and daring as Letterman was in his Late Night years. There's a sense of reckless abandon, a siege mentality."
It's Monday, O'Brien's day off, and the choirboy-faced host has chosen to enjoy some culture at the museum: the avant-garde formalism of Batman, the abstract expressionism of Police Squad, the dadaism of Green Acres. We're at New York's Museum of Television & Radio, and O'Brien reluctantly settles in for the dreaded piece de resistance: a screening of the first episode of Late Night With Conan O'Brien.
Roll tape: A skinnier, more pompadoured, higher-amped O'Brien bounds on stage.
"Look at that set!" cringes the older, wiser version. "It's garbage. Makeup, terrible. My hair was crazy--good Lord, it's like a solid shell!... The band looks ragged. [Bandleader Max Weinberg] looks evil.... I don't really like to watch myself. How about we watch it with the sound down?"
And yet, for all O'Brien's squirming--and for all the media's recent Most Improved Talk Show stories--here's the weird part: The show really wasn't all that bad.
Okay, some of it was bad. O'Brien's interviews often looked like awkward first dates, filled with pauses and nervous tics. Now his chats approach Carson's style--playing the masterful host of his own party. He mock-flirts with women: raising his eyebrows, licking hands--he literally charmed the pants off Law & Order's Jill Hennessy. O'Brien can even make a deadly dull celeb seem okay, though at times not without heroic effort. (With some self-important guests, "I'd rather be retrofitting steam pipes on a really hot day," says O'Brien.)
But the core of the show--the cleverly inane comedy--was there from day one. "It's always bugged me a little when people say, 'Wow, the show's really getting good,'" huffs Richter. "I just kind of feel like, Screw you! The show's always been good. It wasn't us that came around. It's you."
Now the question is, Will you stay around? Conan currently snags 2.6 million viewers on an average night, up from 1.9 million at the start. But this January, the show will face the toughest challenger yet to its dorm-dwelling demographic: Snide Daily Show host Craig Kilborn will ditch Comedy Central and replace white-haired Tom Snyder on CBS' Late Late Show. How will O'Brien battle that other tall, well-coiffed frat idol? "We're going to become all information, all the time. News, tips on dieting," O'Brien cracked at a recent press conference.
Just joshing. The Conan folks don't plan to change a thing. Their thinking: Kilborn's the one who's going to have to prove that his smug, Dennis Millerish brand of comedy can lure away Conan's fans. "If it was our second year, I would be scared s---less," admits Robert Smigel. Adds producer Jeff Ross, "So many shows have come and gone since we've been on the air [The Magic Hour, Vibe, and The Jon Stewart Show, among others], I've learned to not really focus on it."
Walking down a mid-town Manhattan street, O'Brien is apologizing for his outfit, the classic celebrity disguise: sunglasses and baseball cap pulled low. "I know it's cliche," he sighs. But what can he do? When O'Brien does eventually take off the shades, fans swarm. One tank-topped twentysomething poses for a photo with him and starts enthusiastically rubbing his stomach. "I like your body," she coos. Later, a burly man half-jokingly offers to sit on his lap.
As a "horribly repressed Catholic" from Boston, O'Brien's a bit flustered by the blatant come-ons. But such is the weirdness of instant fame. Another strange perk: No matter what he says, he gets braying, kiss-ass laughter in reply. "Sometimes people recognize me, and I'll be in the airport in kind of a hurry, and they're like 'Hey, Conan! How's the show?' And I'll say some nonsense like 'Squiddle-dee-doo,' and they go, 'Hah! I don't know how he does it.'"
Like the reclusive Letterman, O'Brien shuns the A-list party circuit. He shuttles between work, his home on Manhattan's Upper West Side, and a house in Connecticut--where he escapes on weekends with his girlfriend, former Conan booker Lynn Kaplan. "I don't have a lot of celebrity friends, because it gives me more latitude.... Otherwise, it's 'Hey, we got this great joke about Debbie Harry!' 'No, I'm gonna see her Saturday at the cancer benefit.'"
In fine comic tradition, O'Brien--self-effacing, friendly, jokey on the outside--says he's actually tortured, anguished, intense, self-critical. "I thought I was a worrier," says producer Ross, "and I'm the Jew in the bunch." O'Brien worries about the crowd, about ratings, about last night's show. "Don Rickles said to me, What's your problem?" says O'Brien. "You got the best job in the world, and you look so depressed."
He worries if the show goes badly, but also if it goes too well. "I'm saddened when the audience is happy," he says in all seriousness. "I'm amused when we take a happy audience and do something weird that upsets them or confuses them."
He had plenty of well-founded worries in the low-rated, critically bashed early years. One day after enduring a particularly harsh series of press interviews, O'Brien got so morose, he crawled under the desk and stayed there. "My assistant looked in and saw me under my desk and said, 'You all right?' and I went 'I'm fine. I'm just going to be under my desk for a little bit.'"
Or consider the time when he gave his office some unneeded renovation. "I have a bad temper when things are screwed up," he says. "When the network was really dicking me around on my contract, I went into my dressing room and put my hands up through the soft-foam tile and pulled the cooling system out of the wall.... [Then] I said to an NBC page, 'We're having a little trouble with the cooling system in here.'" Whether because of his vandalism or comedy, the network eventually gave him an estimated $2 million a year through 2002.
Right now, as the check for lunch arrives, O'Brien is offering to part with a small percentage of that wealth. No thanks, Mr. Moneybags. But we will let you have a go at scripting the end to this story:
"Love the show, Mr. O'Brien," the waiter said.
"This is what it's really all about," O'Brien beamed, as he shook the man's hand and gave him a solid gold statue of himself.
copyright: Entertainment Weekly
