TV SHOW OF THE DAY: "THE TONIGHT SHOW" (AUGUST 29, 1962)

 In the six months between Jack Paar's departure and Johnny Carson's takeover of The Tonight Show in 1962, NBC filled the gap with guest hosts. Some, like Joey Bishop and Groucho Marx, were a good fit. Others, such as Art Linkletter, were questionable. Meaning bad.

Then there was Jerry Lewis, who, despite floundering on TV since his break-up with Dean Martin, won huzzahs as a lively, engaging interviewer. With Paar's former sidekick/ announcer/pitchman Hugh Downs playing straightman for two weeks, it seemed that Jerry had at last found his coaxial calling: late-night talk show host. 

One of Jerry's episodes, from August 29, 1962, is unique for a couple of reasons. It appears to be the oldest surviving Tonight Show, as well as the only complete print from its original 11:15 p.m.-1:00 a.m. timeslot. And with only three guests, that leaves a lot of time for Jerry to be Jerry. Sound good to you?

As if to prove preparation was unnecessary at this hour of the night, Jerry abstains from a monologue and instead spends the first seven minutes riffing with Hugh Downs and bandleader Skitch Henderson, rarely finishing a sentence without launching into his rocket launch-loud nasal squawk or doing some slapstick. He's like AI comedy software, spewing out every joke, gag, and stunt ever created, without a programmer to edit 90% of the material. It's a relief when he introduces Nancy Dussault, his favorite kind of singer: pretty, young in age but old in personality, and not rock & roll. Never seen again on the episode, she was probably grateful enough that Jerry let her finish "Make Someone Happy" without him yelling, "Hey laaaaaaaaaady, that's what I'm dooooooin'!"

A quick break promoting NBC's crack news team follows, and Jerry returns when, for the first time, you notice just how blindingly white his fingernails are -- like, did he dip them in a can of paint before airtime? After a brief parody of "Try a Little Tenderness", some sleight of hand with a matchbook, smoking the first of several cigarettes, and more incessant braying, Jerry spends at least 30 minutes engaging in memory tests with Hugh Downs, which begins tediously and goes downhill from there. It's astonishing that as late as 1962, viewers at home were still so fascinated by late-night TV that they actually stayed up late for this kind of thing. And to remind you this was a more innocent time, Jerry recites Hugh's Social Security number from memory not once but twice on live television. 

It's only when approaching the end of the first hour(!) that the second guest
(after Nancy Dussault) is introduced with the respect Jerry accorded the greats of mankind: Jack Carter. For the next five minutes they tap dance, shoot cap guns, roll up their pants, yell, run around the set, juggle, and generally behave like 5 year-olds when their parents' backs are turned. Then they sit down and spend the next 40 minutes cracking each other up the way only two self-absorbed comedians can, never letting the other finish a story without interrupting with their own purportedly brilliant remarks, while Jerry punctuates the "interview" with further "outrageous" behavior. Going by the audience's reaction, you'd think they're witnessing an historic moment in comedy, egging them on until you're ready for one of these guys to keel over with a coronary -- which the other would have made fun of.

By now, it's 12:45 a.m. and this thing still has 15 minutes to go. So thank God and the talent bookers that a pre-Laugh In Henry Gibson closes the show. Shy and charming, Gibson recites his off-kilter poetry in a soft Southern accent so sincerely that viewers probably accepted him as the real deal rather than the stand-up comedian he was. (He was born James Bateman in Philadelphia; Henry Gibson was, like Andrew "Dice" Clay, a character its creator eventually morphed into full-time.) Although Jerry's over-the-top reactions distract from Gibson's engaging performance, his obvious appreciation for him is one of the show's few sincere moments.

Mixed into this show biz salmagundi are the legendarily dopey Tonight Show bumpers, along with network commercials, promos and PSAs (Ocean Spray Cranberry, L&M Cigarettes, a Smokey the Bear spot that I somehow remember). This being the network feed, there are no local commercials; instead, we see a black screen while hearing Skitch Henderson's band, which is actually kind of interesting.

But people weren't tuning in for L&M jingles and "We'll Be Right Back" slides. Of all the Tonight substitute hosts that year, Jerry Lewis got the most attention, all of it positive, even from TV critics who had cooled toward him as a solo act. Just what was it that created such a turn-around?

Watching over 60 years later, it's difficult to say. Jerry's anything-for-a-laugh style is no different from what he had been doing since becoming part of the most popular comedy team of the 20th century. Perhaps his unrelenting "zaniness" was a 180-degree change from the lowkey Jack Paar (and all the subs). Seen today, though, it demonstrates how badly he needed Dean Martin to rein him in with the occasional glare of disapproval, a well-placed slap to the face, and adept ad-libbed wisecrack -- none of which Hugh Downs was capable of or allowed to offer. 

But in 1962, Jerry's two week Tonight duties made enough of a splash for ABC to offer him a live, two-hour Saturday night talk show. Debuting the following year, enough time had passed for viewers and critics alike to decide that maybe they had been overly generous with their earlier praise. Thirteen weeks later, The Jerry Lewis Show Live was over, and his Tonight Show stint forgotten. It was fun while it lasted, depending on your tolerance level.

And if you're interested, Hugh Downs' Social Security number was 290-07-2129. Memorize it and recite it back a week from now. Jerry would be proud of you.

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