Here was The Chief's analysis of Farrah at the time (we had just done a
reaction list to TVLand, which I'll get to in another post):
LATE SHOW NEWS #163
July 29, 1997
by Aaron Barnhart
Andy Kaufman didn't believe in traditional standup
comedy; that was his gift and his burden. An accomplished
standup from the age of 9, Kaufman as an adult became
fascinated with getting more out of his audiences than
reactions to punchlines.
He began to perform as his own warmup act, creating separate
alter egos and playing them to the hilt. One was Tony
Clifton, a malevolent lounge singer who verbally abused
his audience and often refused to do his act. Kaufman
treated Clifton as a separate person and would go ballistic
any time someone suggested that the two were the same
man. He even arranged for Clifton to have his own guest
appearance on ``Taxi,'' the sitcom that made Kaufman famous.
The shows never got taped because Clifton made an ass of
himself on the set and was finally dragged off by studio
guards, cursing and yelling at the director, ``You'll
never work in Vegas again!''
TV didn't know what to do with Kaufman. Eventually he
would be asked not to return to ``SNL.'' And in 1981, on
the live late-night program ``Fridays'' on ABC, Kaufman
systematically sabotaged every sketch by forgetting his
lines, uttering new lines, or behaving erratically. No
one on the show was expecting this, except for a couple
of producers, and certainly no one was amused by it. Toward
the end of the show, a fight broke out on national TV
when few frustrated cast members lunged at Kaufman in
mid-sketch.
Meanwhile off the screen, Kaufman was establishing himself
as the world's premier ``inter-gender wrestler.'' From
1979 to 1983 he took on hundreds of women in the ring.
As was his wont, Kaufman specialized in alienating crowds
before and during the fight, ensuring that they would be
completely behind for the woman, whom Kaufman would then
proceed to beat handily.
A feud broke out between Kaufman and a male wrestling
champion named Jerry Lawler that resulted in a grudge match,
which Lawler won easily. Kaufman wound up in traction.
Thus set the stage for what transpired on ``Late Night
with David Letterman'' on July 28, 1982.
Letterman hadn't been on the air six months in late night,
but had hosted dozens of ``Tonight Show'' broadcasts
and, briefly, his own morning show on NBC. Like Kaufman,
he was already beginning to tire of the conventional format
that entertainers in his line of work were expected to
follow -- in Letterman's case, that meant the talk show
format modeled by ``Tonight.'' The two men also led
intensely private lives off-stage, which may explain why
Letterman had an affinity for Kaufman and seemed to know
what frequency he operated on.
So when he invited Kaufman and Lawler to discuss their
feud on the show, Letterman was well aware what might
happen. Like Kaufman, he was conducting experiments on
his audience for their own sake. Professional wrestling
fans are used to seeing grown men pull each other's hair
out on stage, but not on NBC, before a hip studio audience
and a mild-mannered TV host.
Sure enough, the segment quickly broke down into insults.
Kaufman taunted Lawler relentlessly, raising the big
man's blood pressure by the minute. As Letterman tried
to cut to a commercial, Lawler rose from his chair and
clocked Kaufman on the head, sending him sprawling.
After the break, an enraged Kaufman swore a blue streak
at Lawler (which, of course, was bleeped) and tossed hot
coffee in his face. Lawler bounded out of his seat and
chased Kaufman from the studio.
A satisfied Letterman simply shook his head and ad-libbed,
``You can use *some* of those words, but I've said it
time and time again, you can't throw coffee.''
After it was over, NBC considered banning Kaufman from
appearing on any of its shows; Kaufman responded with an
impossible, $200 million lawsuit against the network. In
less than two years Kaufman would be dead of a rare strain
of lung cancer, despite the fact that he reportedly
never smoked. It was the kind of demise so bizarre that
some thought it to be concocted -- Kaufman's latest ruse.
Some even thought that Kaufman, like Elvis Presley, had
not really died.
Alas, there have been no new Andy Kaufman sightings
since.
***
By 1987, Letterman's anti-show had become *the*
show. Interviews became sparring matches, and guests who
couldn't roll with the punches were flattened by a Letterman
put-down, or had their segment abruptly TKOed. But even
this ritual wasn't immune from self-effacement: One of
the show's writers, Chris Elliott, routinely barged in
during the broadcast to make Letterman's life, as Elliott
liked to put it, ``a living hell.''
Although the best moments of Letterman's shows are often
unprepared, the host demands that each broadcast be
elaborately mapped out in advance. Those now-famous blue
index cards Letterman uses contain not only vital
information gleaned from the ``pre-interviews'' done
with the show's producers, they even include ad libs
suitable to the topics host and guest plan to discuss.
Of course, Letterman is free to use or ignore this material
however he pleases once the cameras start rolling, and
that is the significant difference between a Letterman
show and that of his onetime guest, now archrival, Jay
Leno. Letterman's mood plays a surprisingly large role
in determining a show's outcome. If he feels the audience
isn't in the palm of his hand, he broods for the entire
program. If the jokes resonate with the audience, the
show can feel lighter than air and even become a classic,
even after multiple replays.
Letterman was entering that stage of his career that
devotees would later admiringly call his ``fat and sour
period.'' He put on a good 30 pounds and had broken up
with his longtime girlfriend, and the show's onetime
head writer, Merrill Markoe. Women in particular seemed
to catch him in a foul mood. He tore Parade magazine
know-it-all Marilyn vos Savant to shreds, and Shirley
MacLaine and Cher both called him an unprintable name during
their segments.
But was Letterman truly unhappy, or was this a new character
he was trying out? As was the case with Kaufman, it was
hard to say for sure.
At the time of his guest appearance, Crispin Glover was
best known as Michael J. Fox's father in ``Back to the
Future.'' He had been booked on ``Late Night'' to promote
his new film, ``River's Edge.'' Already Glover was known
as an odd bird, although he lacked the self-destructive
gene found in young rebels like Sean Penn and Robert Downey
Jr.
After he was introduced, Glover stepped out, but instead
of facing the audience, had his back turned and arms
extended, as if bickering with someone backstage. That
night he had on funky trousers with stripes of varying
width, enormous platform shoes and a short-sleeved
button-down shirt. He was carrying a briefcase, whose
purpose was never fully explained. His hair was disheveled.
And he was extremely nervous.
From the start, the audience could not control itself
over the sight of Glover.
``Nice shoes!'' yelled women in the audience, as the
show's director, Hal Gurnee, zoomed in for a close-up
shot of Glover's cloppers.
Things went downhill fast from there. Glover produced a
wad of newspaper clippings about himself and began reading
incoherent fragments from them.
``They said, `Crispin Glover was pinstriped and greased
up for the occasion, impressing the girl thangs who were
trying to get next to him. Guess some people are turned
on by Brylcreem,' '' Glover stammered.
``You seem to be distraught,'' said Letterman, not really
knowing -- or caring -- why.
``People seem to make me seem a lot weird,'' Glover whined.
``And I'm just -- I'm strong, you know.'' He flexed his
right bicep manfully. ``I'm strong. I can arm wrestle.
Do you want to arm wrestle?''
Letterman declined. Glover stood up.
``I've been taking... These are mine... I can kick!''
And with that he hi-karated straight at Letterman.
Whether the kick came near his head is in dispute, but
to the viewers that night, it looked like an awfully
close shave. Without missing a beat, Letterman excused
himself and began to head for the exit. Glover reached
across the desk and grabbed weakly at the hem of Letterman's
blazer. But he got away, and as the show went to commercial,
the camera closed in on a bereft Glover.
When the break ended, Letterman was back in his desk and
the guest was gone.
``I think that's the first time since we've been doing
the show that a guest actually tried to kick me,'' Letterman
said. ``He came very close to denting my head with those
giant shoes. So I thought, I don't need that. I'm 40. I
went to college. That is not how I want my life ended,
some goofball, some dork from wherever'' --
The audience began to boo Letterman.
``Oh, stop it!'' he shouted. ``Do you want to have dinner
with the guy?''
The audience burst into cheers and applause.
***
In the decade that has transpired since the
``Glover boot,'' Letterman's act has supplanted Johnny
Carson's as the convention by which all shows -- not least of
all ``The Tonight Show,'' the show Letterman was not allowed
to inherit -- are now measured. After spending the 1980s
mucking around at the boundary that separates reality
from illusion, Letterman has pulled back, and the boundaries
have contracted once more.
For most of his four seasons on CBS, Letterman has
cultivated a game-show atmosphere: volume on high, crowds on
screaming and guests way too pepped up for the 10:30
hour. In his old NBC digs, awkward silence was part of
the schtick; but in the vaster Ed Sullivan Theater, it's
an embarrassing hole the audience feels compelled to
fill with laughter or, worse, applause.
In recent years, a few celebrities have conspired to
look unhinged on Letterman's program more or less on
purpose, including Sharon Stone, James Caan and, most
recently, Farrah Fawcett, who at one point in the program
stared dreamily at the skyline behind Letterman's desk,
thinking (or pretending to think) it was an actual
50th-story view over Manhattan.
But in general there is less aberrant behavior on
Letterman's show because so much is at risk. Unlike in
1982 or 1987, dozens of alternatives are just a
channel-change away should a given segment go awry. A failed
segment can be grist for Letterman's lightning-fast mind
-- but then again, it can simply be a failure.
Glover is now a successful character actor. His
much-acclaimed part in David Lynch's ``Wild at Heart''
was instrumental in the film's victory at the 1990 Cannes
Film Festival. Glover also speaks on the college lecture
circuit and fields the inevitable questions from kids
too young to remember that night in July when he took
one small step for man, one giant leap for classic TV.
And somewhere, no doubt, Andy Kaufman's in a wrestling
match.
Entire contents remain Copyright 1997 by Aaron Barnhart. All
rights reserved.
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