The War for Late Night

by Carter, Bill

  Having just ignited the fire that morning, Conan OʹBrien walked down the hall from the Tonight Show conference room, stepped into his office, and shut the door behind him. In the center of the sunny office was the same old battered wooden desk he had had back in his Late Night days, shipped all the way out to California—the desk that seemed to Conan to have been tossed out by some crappy insurance company in the 1930s. It had been in his office in New York when he arrived in 1993.

  Feeling not too different than he had at his low point during his first year on the air, when Tom Shales in The Washington Post had so wittily dismissed his chances for survival, Conan approached the desk. This time, however, he didn’t drop to his knees and crawl beneath it; he simply lay down and stretched out on the floor next to it, staring at the ceiling in silence, waiting for the statement to go out—and his fate to be sealed.

  The television world began to read it just after noon:People of Earth:

  In the last few days, I’ve been getting a lot of sympathy calls, and I want to start by making it clear that no one should waste a second feeling sorry for me. For 17 years, I’ve been getting paid to do what I love most and, in a world with real problems, I’ve been absurdly lucky. That said, I’ve been suddenly put in a very public predicament and my bosses are demanding an immediate decision.

  Six years ago, I signed a contract with NBC to take over The Tonight Show in June of 2009. Like a lot of us, I grew up watching Johnny Carson every night and the chance to one day sit in that chair has meant everything to me. I worked long and hard to get that opportunity, passed up far more lucrative offers, and since 2004 I have spent literally hundreds of hours thinking of ways to extend the franchise long into the future. It was my mistaken belief that, like my predecessor, I would have the benefit of some time and, just as important, some degree of ratings support from the prime-time schedule. Building a lasting audience at 11:30 is impossible without both.

  But sadly, we were never given that chance. After only seven months, with my Tonight Show in its infancy, NBC has decided to react to their terrible difficulties in prime-time by making a change in their long-established late night schedule.

  Last Thursday, NBC executives told me they intended to move the Tonight Show to 12:05 to accommodate the Jay Leno Show at 11:35. For 60 years the Tonight Show has aired immediately following the late local news. I sincerely believe that delaying the Tonight Show into the next day to accommodate another comedy program will seriously damage what I consider to be the greatest franchise in the history of broadcasting. The Tonight Show at 12:05 simply isn’t the Tonight Show. Also, if I accept this move I will be knocking the Late Night show, which I inherited from David Letterman and passed on to Jimmy Fallon, out of its long-held time slot. That would hurt the other NBC franchise that I love, and it would be unfair to Jimmy.

  So it has come to this: I cannot express in words how much I enjoy hosting this program and what an enormous personal disappointment it is for me to consider losing it. My staff and I have worked unbelievably hard and we are very proud of our contribution to the legacy of The Tonight Show. But I cannot participate in what I honestly believe is its destruction. Some people will make the argument that with DVRs and the Internet a time slot doesn’t matter. But with the Tonight Show, I believe nothing could matter more.

  There has been speculation about my going to another network but, to set the record straight, I currently have no other offer and honestly have no idea what happens next. My hope is that NBC and I can resolve this quickly so that my staff, crew, and I can do a show we can be proud of, for a company that values our work.

  Have a great day and, for the record, I am truly sorry about my hair; it’s always been that way.

  Yours,

  Conan

  Rick Ludwin and Nick Bernstein saw the statement just before they arrived at the Tonight offices for their desperation pitch to Conan. After reading it they turned around and returned to Burbank.

  Right at noon, as the statement hit the official release time, Rick Rosen called Jeff Zucker. “I just want to let you know Conan’s releasing a statement now, and we believe you are in breach of your contract. We’re sending an e-mail to Marc requesting a meeting and—”

  Zucker interrupted. “What does he want?”

  “What he wants is The Tonight Show at eleven thirty.”

  “Well, that’s not fucking going to happen,” Zucker said, not really fractious so much as irritated at how rushed—and public—this affair had suddenly become. “So what does he really want? Money? He wants money.”

  “He wants what he bargained for, which is The Tonight Show at eleven thirty,” Rosen repeated.

  “Not going to happen,” Zucker said again. “This is not what he wants. This is what Patty Glaser is telling you to say.”

  The conversation got nowhere. Rosen said he’d wait for NBC to set up a meeting to discuss the details.

  When Marc Graboff heard Zucker’s version of the conversation, it still seemed to him that Zucker made Rosen sound reluctant about this news. Not that it mattered. In the light of Conan’s statement, the die seemed cast.

  That was certainly Jeff Gaspin’s view as well. The letter read like a shot across NBCʹs bow and Conan was making NBC look like the bad guys and total idiots. The game had changed. Gaspin had continued to hope for another private meeting with Conan, where the star might have been able to say the things he had in the letter and let them all think about it calmly. He had been prepared to tell Conan: “Look—let’s forget about what’s going on in the press. Let’s just keep going. Just stay the course; do your show. Nothing changes until March 1. We have between now and then to figure this out, and if you don’t want to do it, we can negotiate a settlement. But find a nice way to do it, a way to leave that you are comfortable with. Let’s find something together.”

  But the “People of Earth” letter—the manifesto, as NBC came to call it—changed the tone. This wasn’t just Conan saying no; it was Conan saying no, and you’re wrong, and, by the way, go fuck yourselves.

  Both Graboff and Gaspin read the statement to mean that Conan was out and out quitting, especially the part about getting the situation resolved and doing a show for a company that “values our work.” When he called Rosen to set up a meeting, Graboff shared with Rick his perception that the letter indicated Conan was quitting. Rosen adamantly denied it.

  At about three p.m., with Graboff, Gaspin, and NBC’s West Coast lawyer Andrea Hartman waiting, the Conan team—Rosen, Glaser, Polone, and Brecheen—showed up at NBC. Brecheen started the meeting off by saying, “We believe you’re in material breach of the contract.”

  Gaspin responded with complete politeness, saying NBC did not believe that was the case, that it was unfortunate the dispute had gone public in this way, but that the network honestly wanted Conan to agree to its proposal.

  Polone challenged that immediately, insisting it was NBC’s bullshit way of pushing Conan out. He spoke with emotion, but without obvious anger, about how this treatment of his client was intolerable, and how he had known Conan for twenty years and never seen such commitment from him.

  It still seemed to Graboff that Conan’s agents might not have been totally on board with the manifesto, but he pressed one point. This letter Conan sent out said he was quitting, and NBC needed to know if he was going to perform, because his contract said nothing at all about a time slot.

  The lawyers made it clear that Conan would do the show at 12:05; he would come to work and perform as a professional. But, they added, we’re going to sue you. And Polone, who never minded playing the role of bad cop, made it clear that the process would be ugly. They would drag NBC through the mud in every way they could. And they would win.

  “We will never back down,” Polone said, matter-of-factly. “I will never allow you guys to do this, because of my relationship with Conan. And, believe me, his wife is 100 percent behind him, too. We will go all the way and we will take you down.”

  Rosen adde
d, “We all know how crazy Gavin can be about these things, but you know me. I’m not crazy. I’ve got to tell you, I have known Conan for thirteen years, and he is so resolute and will not give in.”

  The NBC group dismissed all of this as total bluster, having been assured by the corporate legal team in New York of its 100 percent confidence that NBC was not in breach of Conan’s contract. Andrea Hartman asserted the network’s position that it was not in breach and asked to be shown where it could be considered to be so.

  Patty Glaser said they could have that conversation outside or in a court of law, adding, “We’re very confident of our position.”

  As for what Conan might take to resolve this matter, Polone and the others began to toss around figures like $50 million and $100 million. NBC cut the first figure more than in half as a starting point for a settlement.

  During a break, Graboff told his NBC colleagues that the promise from Team Conan that he would in fact do a show at 12:05 seemed halfhearted at best. They were not giving NBC the assurances the network was entitled to have, and as such it could be interpreted that he was defaulting on his contract. The network could enforce its exclusivity, keep Conan idle, and pay him nothing.

  When they tried out that scenario back in the conference room, it drew a swift response. Graboff read it as: “Fuck you. We’ll see you in court.”

  Rick Rosen, who had already concluded that this was the most tumultuous week of his career, had the added pressure of impending duties as one of the leaders of the William Morris Endeavor corporate retreat, which started up that same Tuesday afternoon in Palm Springs.

  As he left for the desert, Rick couldn’t help thinking that, back on the Universal lot, with NBC pondering its next move, Conan and Jeff Ross had to go put on a show.

  By the time Rosen arrived in Palm Springs, messages had all but clogged his BlackBerry, but among the rules of the retreat was that all phones be turned off. Ari Emanuel was there as well, of course, and Rosen brought him up to speed on the Conan developments—which came down to: We may be in for a long, ugly, litigious ride.

  Ari hardly had to be clued in, for though he had not attended the meetings, frequent contact with Rick, Zucker, and others had kept him informed of the state of play. That night as he sorted it out, Emanuel concluded the whole thing was headed downhill toward a precipice. Zucker, whom he still talked to (and tweaked) regularly, was directly in the middle of it and had become too emotional to work through it rationally, Ari thought. He decided to solicit other help.

  Ron Meyer had been the top executive at Universal Pictures since 1995, long before GE and NBC emerged on the scene. Along with the now eclipsed Michael Ovitz, Meyer had earlier founded Creative Artists Agency. So he knew talent and he knew NBC; he had connective tissue to both sides of this dispute. Even more than that, Meyer commanded wide respect throughout Hollywood, not just for his experience and acumen, but also because of his sterling reputation as an all-around mensch.

  Emanuel put in a discreet call to Meyer that Tuesday night. “Ronnie,” Emanuel said, “if you don’t get involved in this fucking thing, this thing is a fucking disaster.”

  Meyer told Emanuel that it was not really his place to do something like this. He worked for GE and NBC. If they asked him to become involved, he might be able to do it, but he couldn’t just volunteer. And besides, he had nothing to do with television.

  Even that degree of willingness was enough for Ari, who put in another call, this one to Zucker. “You should let Ronnie take the lead here,” Ari urged him. Zucker liked the idea.

  Zucker had Gaspin set up a breakfast with Meyer for the next morning. In addition to all the other advantages Meyer enjoyed as an intermediary, he had an excellent relationship with Conan, having thrown a party in his honor at his Malibu house, and an even better one with Jeff Ross, whom he had befriended when Jeff had arrived in LA, bringing him in as his houseguest.

  Ross had quietly conferred with Meyer throughout the upheaval of the previous week, so it was not surprising that Meyer checked in with Ross about this invitation to intercede. Ross also was intrigued by the idea, thinking at that point that it had come from the NBC side—he was unaware of Ari’s initial call—and decided it was the one smart move the network had made during the whole process. But when Meyer asked Ross for some advice before he began to try to mediate the dispute, Jeff pulled back. “I can’t talk to you about it,” he told Meyer. “My guys will kill me.”

  At breakfast with Gaspin, Meyer let him know that he had at least made contact with Ross. His main point to Gaspin was that a deal could be made, but NBC’s number was not realistic, just as Team Conan’s number was not realistic. Meyer believed there was always a way to negotiate without each side being stupid and trying to sue the other.

  After breakfast Meyer reached out to Rosen, who was still incommunicado in Palm Springs. Rick, leading his retreat sessions, finally broke to check his BlackBerry, which had been going nuts. He had a mass of messages, but several had come from the office marked urgent. When Rosen called in, his assistant told him Ron Meyer had called repeatedly and was on the line again.

  Meyer began by telling Rick that he found the treatment of Conan egregious, but added, “Having said that, one guy I don’t think is a bad guy here is Gaspin. I just had breakfast with him this morning, and he asked me to reach out to you to see if you and I can be the reasonable heads and maybe find an amicable solution.”

  “Ronnie, I appreciate your help,” Rosen said, but he pointed out he couldn’t do anything without consulting with Polone or Glaser.

  “I know, I know,” Meyer said. “Believe me, I got a lot of people to talk to, but maybe we can find some common ground.”

  Meyer had his work cut out for him. In his first efforts to find that common ground, Meyer discovered two sides with heels cemented into position, each feeling entirely righteous about it. In each case their arguments sounded valid, Meyer concluded. Whether this was their own version of the Rashomon effect—named after the classic Kurosawa film in which four characters produce entirely different but plausible accounts of the same event—or whether they both actually had valid positions, Meyer couldn’t really tell. And it didn’t really matter—they both believed they were right, and that was the problem.

  Mainly he observed that the issue had become unnecessarily rancorous, far too smothered in emotion and accusations of who was right, who was wrong, who was smart, who was dumb. He had a lot of mediating to do.

  Conan called a staff meeting after his letter was posted. They gathered in the studio: writers and producers, bookers and graphic artists, the band, the interns, Jeff and Andy—everybody. Conan struggled through a full read of the manifesto, though by then most of his listeners had read it for themselves. When he finished, the whole staff stood and applauded. Conan couldn’t say any more. He quietly left with Andy, one big arm of his sidekick around his shoulders.

  Back in his office, Conan felt suddenly enlivened. It was done, and now he had no more fear—or doubt. The decision felt totally right to him. He could not be with these people anymore. He thought again of his addiction, the same one that had so tormented David Letterman (and apparently still did, almost twenty years later). Conan had put Liza and his two children through a lot, in the cause of NBC and his pursuit of The Tonight Show. Now, in just a few days, NBC had forced him to go cold turkey, and as of that moment, he felt free of it. If NBC didn’t value the show, how could he? It seemed to Conan that Jay had been perfectly happy to see the show he had hosted for seventeen years relegated to second-class status. Conan was not.

  Several hours later Conan walked onstage to another extended ovation. Then, in what had to be a message in reply to all those network notes, he slid right into the string dance, before he let fly:

  “When I was a little boy, I remember watching The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson and thinking, ‘Someday, I’m going to host that show—for seven months.ʹ

  “NBC says they’re planning to have the late-night s
ituation worked out before the Winter Olympics start. And trust me, when NBC says something—you can take that to the bank!”

  Later Conan brought on Howie Mandel, host of NBC’s game show Deal or No Deal, who did a little parody, with Conan picking his career options from the silver briefcases held by gorgeous models. Conan wound up with “two tickets to see Jay Leno perform at the Luxor casino in Las Vegas”—prompting a ludicrously excited reaction from Conan.

  That was hardly the night’s biggest shot at Jay, however. Over on ABC, Jimmy Kimmel went all in on mocking Jay. Dressed in a bouffant gray wig and a fake chin that looked more like the goatee on Colonel Sanders, he did a full-on Leno, from the high-pitched semi-lisp of Jay’s delivery to the high fives with the front row of the audience to the constant running commentary from his bandleader (here Kimmel’s Cleto Escobedo played the Kevin Eubanks role). The jokes were also clearly composed to be almost funny but ultimately kind of lame—which was exactly the way many unfriendly comedians tended to see Jay’s humor.

  “My name is Jay Leno and let it hereby be known that I am taking over all the shows in late night,” Kimmel announced, punctuated with a rim shot. “It’s good to be here on ABC,ʺ Kimmel as Jay said. “Hey, Cleto, you know what ABC stands for? Always Bump Conan.” Late-night aficionados knew, of course, Jay’s oft-repeated line about NBC standing for “Never Believe your Contract.” Then Kimmel referred to the manifesto, and how Conan had said he would not participate in the destruction of The Tonight Show. After a little pause to let the setup sink in, Kimmel as Leno added, “Fortunately, though, I will!” During the laugh, he added, “I’ll burn it down if I have to.”