The Counter-deception Blog

Two excellent essays on America's favorite amateur magician, noted
fortune-teller, and our quintessential host.

January 25, 2005 The New York Times
APPRECIATIONS Carson, Night by Night

By VERLYN KLINKENBORG

"I'm playing me." That's how Johnny Carson once described the difference
between himself and Robert Redford. The actor got to vanish into a part, but
the host of the "Tonight" show did not - or so Mr. Carson seemed to be
saying. And yet what could be harder than playing oneself?

In a way, Johnny Carson, who died Sunday at 79, was as much an apostle of
self-invention as anyone who has ever lived in this self-invented country.
Night after night he portrayed the version of himself that was defined by
the hour and the guests and the cameras - and by his consciousness of an
audience, somewhere out there, that was happy to close its day with his
voice and his jokes.

Mr. Carson kept up the illusion that he was playing himself all along, even
though it was always an illusion. We like to believe that we are very
sophisticated viewers nowadays - thanks to satellite and cable and TiVo and
our understanding of the artifices of the medium. But there was something
extraordinarily sophisticated - and we always knew it - in watching Carson
do Carson. It seemed to surprise many people that he could retire as
completely as he did after the final broadcast in 1992. But it was
surprising only if you believed in the character of the host you saw him
playing on the show. He offered just enough of himself to let the audience
become comfortable with him. In the end, he shared as much with us as we did
with him. He was a performer - always a performer - who let us believe that
he was our friend, an illusion that audiences cherish. No matter how
sophisticated we are, we always love to surrender our defenses and believe
what we see.

Johnny Carson nearly invented his corner of the business, and, in a certain
sense, he also helped reinvent Los Angeles - or Burbank, at the very least -
for much of middle America. He is said to have welcomed some 22,000 guests
onto the show. No matter how relaxed he seemed, there was always a tightness
around the eyes, a sense that - on an off night or with a dull guest - he
might look off into the middle distance. If he had been more candid, more
personal, more himself, America would have devoured him quickly. It's a
testament to how well he played Johnny Carson that we have not tired of him.


January 25, 2005 The New York Times OP-ED CONTRIBUTOR

The Man in Front of the Curtain

By STEVE MARTIN
Los Angeles

DEAR JOHNNY,

This letter comes a little late.

I remember seeing the tape of my first appearance on your show, on a home
recording, a reel-to-reel Sony prototype video recorder, probably around
1972. What my friends and I ended up watching was not me, but you. It's
almost impossible to look away from oneself onscreen, but you made it
possible, because there were lessons in what you did. You and Jack Benny
taught me about generosity toward other comedians, about the appreciation of
the plight of the pro, as valuable as any lessons I ever learned.

Your gift - though I'm sure you wouldn't have called it a gift - was, as I
see it, a blend of modesty and confidence. You wanted to do the job and do
it well. You allowed the spirit of your idols, Stan Laurel and Jonathan
Winters among them, to creep into you, and you found a way to twist their
inspiration and make it new. In you I saw simplicity, joy, politeness,
sympathy. Your death reminds me of the loss of America's innocence, the
distance we have come from your sly, boyish leers to our flagrant,
overstated embarrassments for parents and children.

If I could wake you up for a minute, I would ask you to tell me how good you
thought you were. "Between you and me," I think you would whisper, "I know I
was great in a subtle, secret way." I think you would also say: "I enjoyed
and understood the delights of split-second timing, of watching a comedian
squirm and then rescue himself, of the surprises that arise from the
fractional seconds of desperation when the comedian senses that the end of
his sentence might fall to silence."

Your Nebraskan pragmatism - and knowledge of the magician's tricks - tilted
you toward the sciences, especially astronomy. (Maybe this is why the
occultists, future predictors, spoon-benders or mind readers on your show
never left without having been challenged.) You knew how to treat everyone,
from the pompous actor to the nervous actress, and which to give the
appropriate kindness. You enjoyed the unflappable grannies who knitted
log-cabin quilts, as well as the Vegas pros who machine-gunned the audience
into hysterical fits. You were host to writers, children, intellectuals and
nitwits and served them all well, and served the audience by your curiosity
and tolerance. You gave each guest the benefit of the doubt, and in this way
you exemplified an American ideal: you're nuts but you're welcome here.

We loved watching baby tigers paw you and koalas relieve themselves on you
and seeing you in your swami hat or Tarzan loincloth, and we loved hearing
Ed's ripostes and watching you glare at him as though you were going to fire
him, but we knew you weren't.

We, the millions whom you affected, will weep inside when we see the reruns,
the clips of you walking out from behind the curtain, the moment in the
monologue when a joke bombed; we'll recall your deep appreciation of both
genuine and struggling talent.

Because you retreated into retirement so completely, let me thank you, in
death, for the things I couldn't quite say to you in life. Thank you for the
opportunity you gave me and others, and thank you - despite divisive wars
and undulating political strife - for the one hour a night across 30 years
of American life when we were entertained purely, delightfully and wisely.

Steve Martin is the author of "The Pleasure of My Company."