The profile went on to call Paar one of the most fresh and original young comics in quite some time. The write-up landed him a Hollywood contract with RKO. However, the studio was only looking to profit from the sudden attention, and Paar’s time in B-movies didn’t amount to much. But the write-up also brought Paar to the attention of comedian Jack Benny. It seemed like Paar hit the big time when he was hired as the summer of 1947 replacement for The Jack Benny Program.
The Jack Paar Show opened with a topical monologue followed by satirical sketches based on the same topic. After its first few episodes it was criticized for being “patterned too closely after Henry Morgan.” If Morgan influenced Paar, he was not flattered. Morgan said of Paar: “I hope he is as funny as he thinks he is.”
Morgan was not alone in his contempt. “I won’t dwell on the daily difficulties of Mr. Paar,” said comedy writer Milt Josefsberg. “He hired and fired more writers during his first few weeks than Jack Benny used in his entire lifetime.” When Benny returned in the fall Paar returned to scraps. He joined the showbiz purgatory of daytime quiz programs and lamented, “Did you ever have one of those days where everything seems to go wrong? I had several years like that.”
One of his more notable gigs was the CBS Morning Show, which he hosted three hours at a time, five days a week, from 1954 through 1955. “The program that CBS wanted me to do was a tough one, I think perhaps the most difficult of any television show on the air,” said Paar. “Three hours a day, five days a week, practically all ad-lib. This was before the perfection of tape, and so the first two hours, from seven to nine, were sent to the East and Midwest, and then at nine we had to do an extra hour for the West Coast.” When Paar took a vacation in the spring of 1955, his substitute was a barely known Johnny Carson.
In June 1956, after Steve Allen abandoned Monday and Tuesday Tonight Show broadcasts, Paar filled in. He shone and was hired as sole guest host from July through September, setting the stage for his assuming the chair the following year.
The network frequently altered the name of The Tonight Show. It made TV Guide listings and the program’s historical record incredibly confusing. At different times it was known as Tonight!, The Tonight Show, The Steve Allen Show and The Jack Paar Show. Allen and Paar hosted other programs with similar—and sometimes identical—titles, muddling things further.
On July 29, 1957, the first official episode of Jack Paar’s Tonight Show aired, taking over for the crippled Tonight! America After Dark. Variety wrote, “This looks like the last stand, the make-or-break outing for Tonight. Jack Paar [has] the near-Herculean task of restoring it to its former prestige. Paar’s got a chance to make it—a slim one, but a chance.”
NBC had ideas for restoring The Tonight Show after the America After Dark debacle, but had little credibility when it made suggestions to Paar. Paar said, “Their main thought was to split the program into three separate half hours and to have a different game show in each thirty-minute segment.” Paar resisted. He fought to turn it into an actual talk show—and won.
Paar was an unsanitized personality, veering in unscripted directions. He thought nothing of crying on air or throwing a tantrum. “He was uniquely neurotic in a way that made him special to me and those who got addicted to watching him,” says Dick Cavett, a Paar writer. Frequent guest Orson Bean says, “He was a very odd guy, very complicated, strange and moody.” The press treated him with resistance. He wasn’t amiable like other 1950s hosts like Ralph Edwards or Garry Moore, and initially his ratings were poor. Of 131 different programs on the air, both the Crossley and Nielsen ratings placed Jack Paar at 131st. Boston, Cleveland, Houston and Pittsburgh all refused to carry Paar when he first started.
Paar conducted interviews in a casual manner and altered the norm of booking practices. The common approach, then as now, was to have a several-month space between appearances. But Paar brought back successful guests multiple times a month, from the ditzy Dody Goodman to the cynical Oscar Levant to the free-spirited Jonathan Winters. Author Alexander King became a regular guest, talking humorously about his addictions, and Paar dubbed him the “Junkie Mark Twain.” By bringing these characters on air time and again, he turned them into stars, and the show became a hit.
Paar’s fights were many. He endorsed Fidel Castro, which brought condemnation from the Hearst press. Mickey Rooney, full of liquor, told Paar he couldn’t understand why people watched him and that Ava Gardner was “more woman than you will ever know.” Paar bickered with catty columnist Dorothy Kilgallen. He engaged in a booking war with Ed Sullivan. And he missed no opportunity to attack his predecessor, Steve Allen. “He is the most self-promoted thing,” said Paar. “Steve is the greatest living nonauthority on comedy. Whenever there is a scholarly discussion of humor, Steve raises his hand. I wish he’d just leave the room.”
Paar took a vacation at the end of May 1958 and Johnny Carson filled in, hosting The Tonight Show for the very first time. It was a historical moment that at the time was dismissed. “With Carson navigating, it was wholesome, intelligent and mostly dull,” wrote Variety. “The experience of his helmship will never go down as memorable either for a Carson appearance or for an edition of the show.”
The American public adjusted to Paar’s bizarre personality and soon embraced it. Fortunately, NBC did not concede to dissatisfied affiliates, and by the summer of 1958 Paar’s ratings had doubled. A merchandising blitz followed. RCA released novelty singles like “Blue Wiggle”—a slow rockabilly jam with Paar muttering, “Blue. Wiggle. Blue. Wiggle.” He published his first of four memoirs, and George Jessel optioned the rights for a Jack Paar motion picture, which was described as “a mystery comedy using Paar stalwarts Charlie Weaver, Genevieve and others.” Jack Benny did an impression of Paar on The Jack Benny Program and comedy duo Bob & Ray did the same on a promotional LP. By the end of the year, Paar averaged thirty-five million viewers each night, the most successful late night host in history. It set the stage for his power as a starmaker. With the eyes of the nation on his show, he introduced Jonathan Winters, Nichols & May and the Smothers Brothers to a massive audience for the first time. All three acts embodied comedy’s new coffeehouse style. All pressed comedy LPs with excellent sales, thanks to the Paar promotion.
Regardless of popularity, a five-night-a-week grind was exhausting and Paar told the press he would quit in July 1959. Paar said if NBC denied his wish he would “get a doctor’s certificate in order to quit.” He also made a number of demands. His biggest peeve was the length of the show; it varied from affiliate to affiliate, airing anywhere from 90 to 105 minutes. Paar asked for a manageable 60 minutes, but affiliates were beholden to their advertisers and presold airtime. In protest Paar vacationed more and more—giving guest host Johnny Carson more and more experience. Finally, NBC and Paar negotiated a new deal. For a substantial raise Paar would continue hosting The Tonight Show Mondays through Thursdays, with a rerun airing every Friday. He had the most profitable show on NBC, reaping sponsor dollars with his no-budget setup, allowing him to whine, complain and act like an ass with impunity.
Jack Douglas and Earle Doud were the comedy writers crafting Paar’s opening monologues, in which he stood center stage and talked to the audience about whatever was going on in the world. It became a Tonight Show template. On February 11, 1960, he used his opening monologue to criticize NBC. His beef was about the previous night’s monologue, which had been cut by network censors. Paar made reference to a “WC,” an old British slang term for the bathroom. It was considered profane by network suits, the piece was cut and rumors spread that Paar had told “an obscene story,” the collective imagination assuming he said something much worse than “WC.”
Paar explained, “I felt the implication that I had told an objectionable story was harmful to me and the show. When I learned that the network had cut it out of the show without even telling me, I was angry. It was a tacky story, I must admit, and it was told at midnight. Inno
cent story. And somebody made the mistake of cutting it. And I objected to it. They had admitted it was a mistake.” NBC tried to placate its star by conceding he was right. Paar said great—let’s air it. “They said, ‘No, no. If you do that, Jack, it will look like you’re running the company and it’s a corporate decision.’ And I said, ‘No, my reputation is more important. You say it was not obscene? Show it—or I will walk off.’” The following night, in place of his opening monologue, he delivered a rambling speech that attacked his detractors in the press:
“I have been wrestling with my conscience all day . . . Now I have made a decision about what I’m going to do. Only one person knows about this. It’s [Tonight Show sidekick] Hugh Downs. I’m leaving The Tonight Show. There must be . . . a better way . . . of making a living than this.” Paar shook the hand of Downs and walked off the show. Talk about a drama queen.
That evening’s guests included comedians Orson Bean and Shelley Berman. “When Paar walked off the show I was in my dressing room,” says Berman. “I thought, ‘What should I do?’ I did not know how to side. I [went] on that show instead of walking out [in solidarity]. He never forgot it. He would make unpleasant remarks about me from then on.” Bean took Paar’s side and criticized NBC, but found himself on Paar’s shit list anyway—just like Berman. “I stuck up for Paar and I heard there was a suit that was pissed off at me for badmouthing NBC. Paar did not appreciate my sticking up for him. I couldn’t understand it.”
The suits conferred about whether to air Paar’s walk-off or not. “It was seriously discussed to run a movie and not to run that tape,” said Hugh Downs. Not wanting to take heat for censoring Paar on consecutive nights, NBC allowed his tantrum to air. The media circus was instantaneous. “For days my home was surrounded by press cars, television crews, and police to protect the property,” said Paar. “Bob Hope and Jack Benny called and said it was the damnedest publicity stunt ever in show business. This really hurt, as there was no thought of publicity. The truth was that I became quite ill. My wife knew we had to get away somehow, but for two days we could not open our front door.”
One month later, at the urging of his wife, Paar returned. He’d achieved his objective of humiliating NBC and received a loud ovation as he walked back through the Tonight Show curtain. As the applause calmed, he spoke—and got an enormous laugh. “As I was saying before I was interrupted . . .”
Paar’s return did not last long. NBC was preparing a replacement, with Johnny Carson a top candidate. Paar soon moved to an hour-long Friday night prime-time show called The Jack Paar Program, where he introduced new stand-up comedians like Dick Gregory and Woody Allen. While Paar is now little known in comparison to Steve Allen and Johnny Carson, he invented most of the conventions associated with late night talk shows during his run. Pretty impressive for a guy who hosted The Tonight Show for only five years.
CHAPTER SIX
The Emergence of Las Vegas
Throughout the 1950s Senator Kefauver tried hard to influence America, but he couldn’t hold a candle to the power of a television personality like Jack Paar. When Kefauver first took on the Mob he seemed like the most influential man in America, but Democratic Party power brokers, furious at him for sabotaging his own party, ended his chances of achieving greater influence. Party members were told not to cooperate with Kefauver’s investigation, and few of his recommendations were implemented. “Of the first twenty-two contempt cases arising from the crime hearings, not one was upheld,” wrote scholar Joseph Bruce Gorman. “By 1953, forty-five citations had been disposed of; the results showed three convictions, twenty-two acquittals, ten dismissals and five convictions reversed on appeal.”
Kefauver’s biggest achievement was unintentional. During the height of the Kefauver hearings, local officials were harassing nightclubs, and the Mob spent a fortune fighting back. Tired of the harassment, Mob outfits from Cleveland to Miami Beach moved their operations to the safe haven of Nevada. Thanks to Kefauver, Las Vegas as we came to know it was created.
Vegas had been a sleepy hamlet. Alan King was one of its earliest comedians. “Those were the Ben [Bugsy] Siegel days. The days when everybody I worked for got killed. When I arrived in Las Vegas, it was a small town in the desert.” Comedian Woody Woodbury was also there. “There was no Strip at all. It was called the L.A. Highway. Beldon [Katleman] had a place called El Rancho with Joe E. Lewis and Ted Fio Rito’s orchestra and that was it. The Strip was two lanes, and after four miles it was a dirt road.”
The Mob was running things, but the names on leases were intentionally vague. Wilbur Clark started building the Desert Inn in 1947, but ran out of money. The Cleveland Mob came to the rescue and hired Clark as its front man. “Wilbur was strictly showcase dressing for the [mobster Moe] Dalitz group,” said Vegas columnist Ralph Pearl. “He had absolutely no voice in the operation of the Desert Inn—even though the huge neon sign, the menus, the bedding, the gaming chips and the promotional matter all advertised it as Wilbur Clark’s Desert Inn. He couldn’t get his nephew a job at the Desert Inn even as a busboy unless he asked.
Stan Irwin had been doing impressions for a couple years when he accepted a gig at the Club Bingo. “I was playing [Los Angeles] at Billy Gray’s Band Box around 1948. Some vocal group got booked and said I should be playing the Club Bingo in Las Vegas. I said, ‘Where is Las Vegas?’ There was Las Vegas, New Mexico, and Las Vegas, Nevada. At that time most mail addressed to Vegas ended up in New Mexico.”
The manager of Club Bingo liked Irwin and asked him to stay permanently, not as house comic, but as the face of the operation. Irwin says, “In the years after the war there were restrictions and in order to get steel you could only do so if you were enlarging an already existing building. The Club Bingo was the existing building that was enlarged into the Sahara.” Irwin became the entertainment director of the Sahara Hotel, producing stage shows for Abbott & Costello and Mae West. He was the first person to place performers in the lounge, furthering the legends of Louis Prima, Keely Smith and Don Rickles.
“In those days Jack Entratter was the head man of the Sands Hotel,” says Irwin. “He had been the main man at the Copacabana. For me to compete with Jack was ludicrous. I was just a comic. I suggested we talk to a man named Bill Miller who had the Riviera in New Jersey. He brought in Marlene Dietrich with what was known as the peekaboo dress: skin-colored lining with rhinestones, so it looked as if she was nude.”
By 1952 Joey Bishop was opening at El Rancho, Buddy Lester was headlining the Last Frontier and Joe E. Lewis toasted the Sands. Mid-decade marked the opening of new hotel-casinos: the Riviera, the Dunes and the Royal Nevada. If you became a star on television, you now knew where to go. Comedian Danny Thomas, star of a hit sitcom, was paid ten thousand dollars for one week in the new Las Vegas.
Joe E. Lewis was essential to early Vegas. He was a regular at El Rancho, the oldest club of them all, dating back to 1941. His persona was that of the track-addicted boozer, “The Aristotle of the Bottle,” and it made him a favorite of Nevada hedonists. Columnist Ralph Pearl wrote, “I’d watch Lewis come staggering out of the wings. He’d be clutching at a tall glass of his favorite mouthwash, Ambassador Scotch, and wobbling in a manner that threatened to drop him into the laps of the ringsiders.” Lewis would raise his glass to the crowd and say, “Forgive me for drinking onstage, but it’s something I like to do while getting drunk.”
For several comedians the Vegas combination of high pay and high stakes was disastrous. Comedy team Norman & Dean was playing El Rancho in 1952. “We were making seventy-five hundred a week,” says Stanley Dean. “Around the second week I went to withdraw some and they told me, ‘Sorry. There’s no money left.’ We were booked there for a month! That’s close to thirty grand! There wasn’t a dime. Harvey Norman, the fucking idiot, went and blew the whole thing gambling. I wanted to kill him!”
Norman was an average straight man until he was introduced to the tables. “We d
id sensational for the first two or three years, did all the Sullivan shows, but he turned out to be one of the most voracious gamblers on earth. We worked with a trio: two sisters and a guy. Harvey went and forged this girl’s signature on checks and took everything she had, cleaned her out. One day I got a call that he was in jail. The cops stopped him, searched his car and found a sawed-off shotgun in his golf bag. I went and bailed him out. I said, ‘What were you doing with a sawed-off shotgun in your golf bag?’ He said, ‘I was thinking of holding up a bank.’”
While Vegas boomed, the bomb was doing the same a few miles away. A 1952 wire story asked, “What would you do if you were in the middle of telling a joke and the atomic bomb went off? Comedian Jack Carter, who faced such an awesome interruption, conceded today that it’s just about impossible to ad-lib your way past that.”
The U.S. government was conducting experiments with atomic and hydrogen bombs in the desert and the detonations were felt in Vegas. It disrupted shows, paralyzed comics and turned the town on its head. According to United Press International: “When the first two blasts went off, Carter and a roomful of impressed clients just froze, while the tables danced in the after-blast. The veteran comic didn’t have a crack to deliver until a third test misfired. Everyone got deathly quiet as the clock ticked off the last few seconds, then something went wrong and there wasn’t a sound. He stood on the stage quivering for ten seconds, then brought down the house by suddenly asking, ‘What was that?’” Carter recalls, “Customers used to stay up all night before a test explosion, so the clubs just ran continuous shows. It started a locust plague. The atomic blast loosened them and they headed into Vegas. They crawled all over the stage and were on the highway. They were everywhere. You went into a dining room and they were on your table, they were in your food; there were bugs all over. I was working the Desert Inn and one crawled onstage. A guy stood up, ‘God-day-yam,’ pulled his gun out, sent a bullet right beneath me and blew a hole in the floor.”
The Comedians Page 17