Ladies Who Punch

by Ramin Setoodeh

  The View suddenly became a media magnet as the tabloids trailed the contenders and TV critics ranked their favorites. The roster included two Real World alumnae (Rachel Campos-Duffy and Lindsay Brien), one of Colin Powell’s daughters (Annemarie Powell), a local anchor from Omaha, Nebraska (Jill Cordes), and a Fox Sports reporter (Lauren Sánchez). By February, a New York Post story—with the headline “Star Search Without End”—noted that The View’s ratings had jumped to 2.8 million viewers, up from 2.3 million. The contest was extended indefinitely, which didn’t thrill the regular cohosts. “For us, it was a little weird,” Meredith admitted. “It threw off the rhythm of the show.”

  Joy was even less of a fan. “Those civilians,” she sighed. “It was a gimmick. My recollection is, when people come on this kind of show who have not done it, it’s not an easy thing to do. You have to have a certain amount of timing. You have to be succinct. You have to be informed. You have to get along with your siblings.”

  Cordes, twenty-nine at the time, made the cut after her agent secretly submitted a reel. She arrived in New York bewildered to join The View for forty-eight hours. Meredith, congenial even when the cameras weren’t on, offered a heartfelt welcome. The other ladies weren’t so warm. “I remember being terrified of Joy,” said Cordes, who received a warning from a makeup artist not to step on Joy’s punch lines, a particular pet peeve of hers. During a commercial break, when Cordes waved to a friend in the audience, Star told her, “We should be bonding.” Cordes apologized. “I didn’t mean to offend you by waving to my friend,” she said, as the thought: “I have no fucking idea why I’m here.” Worst of all, a legend lectured her on TV for interrupting the other cohosts, a common mistake on panel shows. “I was chastised on air by Barbara Walters.”

  Cordes got into some personal trouble, too. During a Hot Topics debate about letting kids sleep in your bed—Cordes didn’t have any—she tried to keep up by revealing how she and her boyfriend, Phil, cuddled with their cats. “I indicated that we were sharing a bed,” she recalled. After the show ended, Cordes heard an irritated voice on the phone. “We have to have a major conversation,” grumbled Phil. His religious family didn’t know they’d been living together. (“My church ladies are appalled!” he gasped.) A big fight ensued. Cordes was relieved when she learned that she wasn’t advancing. “It’s the best job I never got,” she said. “There was so much drama.”

  As a producer at ABC, Annemarie, who was Powell’s daughter, knew Walters. By testing her, The View started the trend of courting the offspring of politicians for TV news—a trajectory later followed by Chelsea Clinton and Meghan McCain. “My impression was they were trying to find a conservative voice and maybe falsely assumed I might be because of my father,” said Powell, who struggled to get a word in at the table. “I’m not particularly aggressive by nature. I didn’t have much to say.” She was horrified when she watched her first appearance. She didn’t look like herself; she’d worn a fuzzy pink sweater. The next day, she changed into a jacket and tried to speak up more. “I decided if I’m going back on TV, I’ll look like myself and not Colin Powell’s sweet daughter.”

  Two front-runners emerged. Rachel Campos-Duffy was the first true conservative to vie for a seat at The View. She checked a lot of boxes—as a Latina Republican who riled up Hot Topics with her pro-life stances. “I think conservatives have an idea that the women of The View are mean to conservatives,” Campos-Duffy said. “But I was always treated very well.” She saw a clear opening, suggesting ideas in the meeting that would allow her right-wing ideologies to shine. “I would always remind myself that fifty percent of the audience believed what I believed, and they weren’t going to be at the table or in the Manhattan audience. I could not tailor my point of view to get applause from this group because my group was somewhere in red-state America.”

  Until then, through the Clinton impeachment, conservative personalities were usually white men preaching to other men—from Rush Limbaugh on the radio to Bill O’Reilly on Fox News. By simply considering Campos-Duffy, The View tapped into a population that had never before been represented on daytime. “There was a lot of buzz in the industry that I was going to get it because it was going to be groundbreaking,” Campos-Duffy said.

  The other favorite was Lauren Sánchez, who would also have carried the mantle of the first Latina cohost. At twenty-nine, she’d had the most airtime, with a previous stint on Extra. She proved she could be good TV when she boldly declared that Hillary Clinton “knew she married a dog,” a line that got picked up in the papers. “I was proud of that moment,” Sánchez said. “It was what everyone was thinking.” Backstage, her looks were scrutinized, as the wardrobe department gave her a stern warning to cover up her cleavage. (“You’re talking to mom. Button up!”) But Barbara, to her credit, opposed a makeover: “If you’re going to get it, get it being you,” she advised. After a few more practice rounds, Barbara was charmed. She leaned over one day and told Sánchez, “You pretty much got this.” Sánchez was thrilled at the prospect of starting a new career on daytime.

  There was only one problem: “I had a really big conflict with Star,” Sánchez said. “She did not want me on the show—period.” Star didn’t hold back her venom. After one appearance, Sánchez recalled how Star pulled her aside and told her, “Don’t think you belong here.” Joy tried to calm the situation. “Don’t you worry about Star,” she told Sánchez. “You’re going to be fine.” It wasn’t that Sánchez had necessarily done anything wrong. Star was determined to ice her out over something else—Sánchez was dating an African-American man. Star, single at the time, objected to interracial relationships, which she voiced to Newsweek in a March 2003 cover story. “There is a brother who is a popular actor who is marrying outside his race,” Jones said, referring to another couple. “He was on the show, and so was the woman. I received hundreds of letters about this. Most were African-American women, and the point they made was ‘Damn, we lost another brother.’”

  * * *

  As these temporary squatters passed through, The View got a face-lift. The Question of the Day was dropped, and the interviews with the celebrities took place with all the cohosts, a concept that came to define the show. Joy permanently joined the cast. “They put me on five days,” she said. The latest research revealed that viewers were confused about why she and Barbara couldn’t appear on TV at the same time, and they missed Joy’s humor when she was off.

  The rest of the segments were built around the hosts to help reinforce their different personas. Meredith’s Guilt Trip had Meredith quizzing experts for parenting tips. Joy’s Comedy Corner allowed Joy to invite over her stand-up pals for short sets—such as Mario Cantone, who cracked audiences up with his uncanny impersonation of Joan Rivers. Star Treatment featured Star as Miss Manners on etiquette and lifestyle. Barbara’s Mailbag provided an excuse to solicit questions from Middle America.

  Then in March 1999, The View received a late Christmas gift. At the age of sixty-nine, Barbara landed the greatest exclusive of her career—with a certain ex-intern that she’d been courting for months. “The interview to end all interviews,” as Meredith later called it, was scheduled to air as a two-hour prime-time special on 20/20. But since it wasn’t on tape yet, Barbara had to tread carefully. “You should only know what it took to get Monica,” Barbara told me. “I would call and call and leave messages.” Barbara even managed to arrange for an off-the-record conversation with Lewinsky to convince her that she’d be fair and compassionate, the best interviewer to tell Monica’s story. “We met in 1998, at my dad’s house with my attorney at the time,” Lewinsky told me. “She showed a lot of compassion for the situation I was in, which felt authentic. She also said something really funny. My dad said I’d always been this good kid and never got into any trouble growing up—that I didn’t do drugs or shoplift. Without missing a beat, Barbara quipped, ‘Next time, shoplift.’”

  Lewinsky felt a closeness to Barbara, the only reporter she personally talked to ab
out telling her story. “Humor has always been very important to me and how I connect with people,” Lewinsky recalled. “It’s one of the ways we all got through 1998. I was twenty-four when I met her, and had grown up knowing Barbara Walters was one of the best. Barbara was one of the most respected voices in news at the time. It felt appropriate to sit down with her. I hoped that her being a woman meant there would be more nuance and different angles to the conversation.” She also hoped that by talking to Barbara, she could get her old life back. All the while, Barbara fretted that her rowdy girlfriends would derail these sensitive negotiations. If Hot Topics veered bitchy on the days without Barbara, she’d call up the control room in a panic. “Move on!” she’d huff at the producers. “Don’t kill the interview!”

  As a master of self-promotion, Barbara used The View to tease her upcoming exclusive, and she soaked up the larger-than-usual spotlight on her to advertise The View. She asked her daytime audience to submit questions—they wanted to hear how Monica felt about Chelsea and Hillary, which made the final list. “Nobody knew anything about her,” Barbara said. “They had no idea what she was like.” Barbara secretly taped the big exclusive on a Sunday in the 20/20 studios. The space was packed with network suits and handlers. “It was terrifying for me,” Lewinsky remembered. “I’d never done an interview with a reporter, much less on television and with such high stakes. The only interviews I’d done at that point were job interviews and interviews with the independent counsel’s office. I remember very kindly she acquiesced to my request of the room being cold, because when I get nervous, I often flop sweat. It was freezing.”

  Lewinsky spent four and a half hours with Barbara that day. “Barbara did a really wonderful job of putting me at ease as much as she could,” Lewinsky said. “In some ways, I think what she’s most famous for in interviews is not only her intellect, but her ability to create a space which is filled with so much empathy and compassion that people feel really comfortable to be vulnerable. And that’s where she finds the humanity in these moments with the people she interviews.”

  Bryant Renfroe, Barbara’s hairdresser, said, “I just knew I was watching history. It was such a big deal.”

  As soon as the interview wrapped, Barbara headed for the editing room to assemble a cut. “It was leaking and we couldn’t take a chance,” she said.

  Barbara still managed to clock a visit to The View on March 3. “Forget about D-day. This is M-day,” Meredith said, winking, as the screen filled with the words Countdown to Monica. Barbara was all too happy to squeeze in one last plug. “This is a very smart, very articulate girl who is in a lot of pain,” Barbara said, as she introduced a clip. The guest that day—poor Ryan Phillippe, starring in Cruel Intentions—had to take a backseat to all the hype. (His girlfriend, Reese Witherspoon, who wasn’t yet a huge star, stayed in the greenroom, briefly waving to America.) Barbara revealed that she’d just gotten off the phone with Lewinsky, who wished her interviewer luck and to “break a leg.” In fact, Barbara told all the women at home, Lewinsky was watching The View right along with them. Barbara later had Meredith toss softball questions at her about the interview.

  “Is it safe to say that a secret will be revealed?” Meredith asked.

  “Yes,” Barbara responded.

  A few hours later, at 8:00 p.m., a pretaped Barbara introduced her opus with a triumphant glow. Watching the conversation back today, it still plays like a master class in journalism. No male broadcaster could have coaxed such raw answers out of Lewinsky, and Barbara covered a lot of ground. She meticulously sketched out details of the affair, asking about the first time Lewinsky kissed the president, if she was ever in love, and—in a carefully worded question—if Clinton had pleasured her back. Barbara even had Lewinsky define phone sex, for the few clueless viewers who couldn’t follow along. Barbara saw the final cut as it aired live. “I remember my friends saying, ‘I wonder who is going to watch this?’” she said. For years after, she loved to tell the story about how, during a commercial break, she’d peered over to the edge of her apartment. “I looked out my window, and there wasn’t a car moving.” The hyperbole was justified—a record 74 million Americans tuned in for at least a few minutes, the most ever for a news event.

  The next morning, Barbara was back on The View, with her favorite clips and fresh commentary. “Y’all did not clap loud enough,” Star told the audience before presenting Barbara with a diamond-encrusted crown on a purple pillow. “All hail to the queen!”

  “I think she came across as quite bright,” Barbara said, noting that Lewinksy’s approval ratings had gone up by 11 percent, while the president’s had gone down by the same amount—all because of Barbara.

  “Only you can find a demure and nice, ladylike way to ask, ‘Did you get off, too?’” Star said.

  Joy poked fun at the euphemisms Barbara had employed. “She ‘serviced’ him. I thought she was working at Exxon.”

  They broke off the last part of the show so that Barbara—playing up her inner Phil Donahue—could take questions from the audience. One woman wanted to know, Was The View serious about hiring Monica? Barbara had spent the last day suggesting that Lewinsky could audition for the fifth seat. “Anybody who wants to apply for a cohost has to send a tape to Bill Geddie,” Barbara said on March 4. “And Linda Tripp has a lot of tapes of Monica that she could send in.” But Lewinsky, already worn-out by the invasive flashbulbs that had been stalking her every move, didn’t take the bait.

  They still stayed in touch and became friends. “She’s always wanted to see my life move on, as many others have,” Lewinsky said. “Barbara would joke about how she’d dance at my wedding. And every time I see her, she will say, ‘Well, anybody I need to get my dancing shoes on for?’ The last time I had lunch at her house, Icodel had brought us tea in these china teacups. I kept remarking how beautiful they were. Barbara scooted off in one moment and she had one wrapped up for me. I left her house with a teacup, which was so sweet.”

  * * *

  The seasons changed. Campos-Duffy got married that spring to her boyfriend, fellow Real World-er and future pro-Trump Wisconsin Republican congressman Sean Duffy, and announced that she was pregnant. Yet The View contest kept trudging along, like a never-ending job interview. Geddie wasn’t sure it ever needed to stop—maybe they could just indefinitely sift through new talent—but he finally caved to his impatient cohosts. The eighth candidate would be the last one: on March 25, Lisa Ling took a stab at The View.

  The daughter of immigrants from China and Taiwan, Lisa, twenty-five, had grown up in a small town outside Sacramento, California, worshipping at the altar of Barbara. She had spent seven years as a correspondent covering breaking news at Channel One, a program that aired in middle and high schools. “Frankly, I had never watched The View because I was working all the time,” Lisa told me. “I found out about the position kind of late.” She was content with her life, but she agreed to throw her hat in the ring based on the pedigree of one name. “If Barbara Walters is attached, I’d love to try,” she told her agent.

  Lisa’s debut was relaxed, which worked in her favor. She wore a jean jacket with chunky red heels, projecting a laid-back California vibe. Meredith introduced her with a grand gesture that was meant to encapsulate all her reporting abroad: “You have been to the Balkans and back again, baby.”

  “I actually have never been to the Balkans,” Lisa, the studious reporter, corrected her.

  “You’re calling me a liar already!”

  “I’ve been to some very contentious parts of the world, like Afghanistan and Algeria and Colombia.”

  “I have a better question,” Meredith replied. “Are you a virgin? Let’s get to what’s important for The View.”

  “I’d rather go to Kosovo than answer that question.”

  Joy couldn’t let her off the hook so easily: “How many times have you been a virgin? This is part of the initiation.” Three minutes into her audition, Lisa was already at a loss for words, knowing tha
t her dad was watching.

  “I was completely stumped by that,” Lisa recalled. “I sat at that table, thinking, ‘What do I do?’ I have a conservative Asian family.” Despite all her hours in the field, the prospect of trading barbs with these women intimidated Lisa. “Sitting in front of that live audience and trying to generate a reaction was super challenging,” she said. “It was a realm I was unfamiliar with.”

  Her knowledge ultimately won out, and she advanced to the last round. The View narrowed down the contenders to three finalists: Campos-Duffy, Sánchez, and Ling, in a knife fight to the finish line. Real news events shaped each of their performances. On the morning after the Columbine High School massacre, April 21, Meredith confessed her terror: “I didn’t think that the places where my kids go to school are dangerous.” Lisa, who’d been booked that day, kept the conversation moving with a story about how she was bullied by jocks in high school and the animosity that comes from that. When Star complained about the ease with which the killers could look up instructions online to build bombs, Lisa took a hard stance. “I don’t think we should blame it all on the internet,” she pushed back, sounding like a sensible young person.

  Barbara and Bill needed to make sure that Lisa could also showcase a lighter side. “Growing up in an Asian family, I was always told to keep my private life private,” Lisa said. “These women had a forum to talk about everything, including their personal lives.” On one of the last competition shows, Lisa volunteered to get her belly button pierced, which The View advertised as a big spectacle. “It was something I wanted anyway,” Lisa said. “I said, ‘Why not do it on national TV?’”