Merv (13 page)

It was against this backdrop that I’d been quietly talking with a man named Al Krivin, the president of Metromedia Broadcasting, who I knew from my days with Westinghouse. Back then Al was the person responsible for bringing
The Merv Griffin Show
to the influential Metromedia group of stations. Our strong showing on Channel 5, Metromedia’s flagship station in New York City, had been enormously helpful in building momentum for our national roll-out.

Unbeknownst to CBS, Al Krivin had given me a firm commitment that if I were ever to leave the network,
The Merv Griffin Show
could go back into syndication with Metromedia immediately.

As the renewal date approached, I didn’t know what CBS intended to do. If they elected to renew me, I was going to quit. There was no way that I could do another six months on that network. Life is too precious ever to be spent with the Freddy Silvermans of the world.

By keeping quiet and continuing to do my show as if I had no thought of leaving, there was a good chance that CBS simply wouldn’t pick up my option. I’d be free to go back into syndication, which I loved, and they’d have to send me on my way with a handsome check.

If, on the other hand, word somehow got back to the network about my discussions with Metromedia (which, while entirely legal, would embarrass CBS publicly for having been outmaneuvered), it was quite likely that they would renew my show just for spite, not to mention $250,000.

December 3 fell on a Friday. Of course, there had been no word from the network all week. Late that afternoon, Bob Wood, accompanied by an entourage of CBS executives, arrived at my studio. Freddy Silverman was conspicuously missing from the group.

It was hard to know what his absence meant, although if I
wasn’t
being renewed, I’d have thought that Freddy would have wanted the pleasure of delivering that news in person. I’d find out soon enough.

“How are you, Bob?”

“Fine, Merv. Just fine. How are Julann and Tony?”

“They’re great, Bob. Thanks. I’ll give Julann your best.”

“Please do that, Merv.”

There was a brief pause. This was clearly it.

“Merv, I stopped by because, as I’m sure you know, it’s time for us to renew your option. We love working with you, Merv. You’re a helluva broadcaster.”

My heart sank. Damn, they were going to do it. Six more months.

“That’s why I wanted to see you in person, Merv. I wanted to wish you well, because I know you’ve got great things ahead of you in this business.”

Wish me well? Great things? My God, he was letting me go!

I looked down at my shoes, as if totally dejected. In truth, I was afraid that if I looked directly at Wood I’d start grinning, which wouldn’t have been very smart right then.

“Bob, you’ve been very supportive of me from the beginning and I know that. I’ve been in show business a long time and I know the ropes. This goes with the territory. I’m just sorry that our crew here,” I waved my hand at all the production people who were standing around the studio, pretending not to listen, “will all lose their jobs. That’s the tough part.”

Everyone nodded somberly and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw several crew members looking stricken.

I extended my hand. “Thank you, Bob. I really appreciate your coming here in person.”

As soon as Wood and his traveling party exited the studio, I called my attorney in New York. “Roy, they didn’t renew. I want you to send them the letter about payment of the penalty clause and then call Al Krivin. Tell him I said that I’ll see him Monday. He’ll understand.”

I made one more call, to the publicist who handled all my dealings with the media. I told him to arrange a Sunday press conference at my house so that I could announce the deal with Metromedia. (My favorite question would come from a reporter who asked if I had any plans for my final show on CBS. “We’ll be doing one last theme show,” I said, as she scribbled earnestly in her notebook. “We’re calling it “A Salute to Freddy Silverman—Ninety Minutes of Silence.”)

The headline in Monday’s
Hollywood Reporter
blared the news: “Merv Moves to Metromedia.”

Had I written it, it would have read, “The Eye Blinked.”

As soon as the news broke, I felt like a great weight had been removed from my shoulders. (Unfortunately, it needed to come off in a few other places as well. Two years of stress had taken their toll—I’d gained more than thirty pounds.)

Despite everything, I have a lot of warm memories from those CBS years. Most of them involve the new talent that we were able to introduce to a national audience—a young Diane Keaton, who giggled and blushed no matter what question I asked her; an opera singer named Madeline Kahn who also happened to be a very funny comedienne; Sonny & Cher, who did so well guest-hosting my show that CBS gave them their own prime-time variety hour, after initially declaring that I was crazy for letting “two old rock and roll singers” fill in for me.

Jerry Stiller and Anne Meara guested frequently with me on CBS (they actually got their first break on my NBC show), and they used to bring their little five-year-old son, Ben, along with them. Standing in the wings, he’d watch, wide-eyed, as his parents did their stand-up routines and the audience laughed hysterically. I guess I was cheaper than a baby-sitter…

Obviously, CBS no longer wanted me as a tenant at Television City (although they did make me serve out my contract to its final day, February 15), so we took over the venerable Hollywood Palace Theater on Vine Street, just steps away from its famed intersection with Hollywood Boulevard. It was a seamless transition from CBS; all of my nervous production staff made the move along with me.

As we depart the story of
The Merv Griffin Show
on CBS, let me make one observation about the network today. The Silverman years are now only a dim memory. He went on the become programming chief at the other two networks and nearly sank NBC with
Super-train
, described by one critic as an “atomic-powered
Love Boat
on rails.” CBS is now run by Les Moonves. Even before coming to the network, Les was responsible for developing terrific shows like
Friends
and
E.R
. And he’s taken CBS back into ratings contention with quality programs like
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
and
Everybody Loves Raymond
. It’s nice to see the “Tiffany Network” finally back in the hands of someone who appreciates it.

The fifth and final incarnation of
The Merv Griffin Show
had its premiere broadcast on March 13, 1972. My guests were Dinah Shore, Dionne Warwick, Milton Berle, Angie Dickinson, Steve Lawrence, and Dom DeLuise.

What I recall most about that first night was watching the tape afterward and noticing that I’d stopped blinking.

In my last few months at CBS, my staff had become aware that I’d started blinking quite a bit during many of my interviews. They also said that it was happening even while I was singing. When I reviewed the show tapes, I saw that they were right. And I knew why.

Throughout my career as a host and interviewer, I’ve observed that whenever my guests blinked too much, it meant that they were either lying or, at a minimum, deeply uncomfortable. All of my efforts to appear cheerful on camera during those difficult times at CBS had apparently been pointless. I wasn’t “delighted to be here tonight,” and it showed.

But now that I was back on my own turf again, I didn’t have to pretend anymore. I honestly
was
delighted to be just exactly where I was.

Over more than two decades on the air, there were many “firsts” on
The Merv Griffin Show
, many of which I’ve already told you about. Inevitably, there were also a number of poignant “lasts” as well. One of these was the final television appearance of Groucho Marx. It never should have happened.

We were doing a tribute to the late comic genius Ernie Kovacs. His widow, Edie Adams, had invited Groucho to participate, along with Milton Berle and Mickey Rooney. This was one of the few times where I regretted my rule about not spending any time with a guest prior to the taping. Had I talked with Groucho earlier, I would have gently tried to persuade him not to do the show that night. Unfortunately, the first time I saw him was when he shuffled slowly out onstage.

At eighty-five, Groucho was a fragile shell of his once vibrant self. A series of small strokes had dulled his razor-sharp intelligence, and the caustic wit that had skewered so many victims was now gone. There was also a sadness in his eyes I’d never seen before.

Although he was sporting his trademark beret and brandishing an unlit cigar, Groucho seemed dazed, as if he wasn’t quite certain where he was (although he still knew enough to ogle Edie). Every time I tried to direct a question to him, he deflected it by rolling his eyes and waving his cigar in the air. I quickly realized that there wasn’t going to be any “interview” with Groucho, so I focused on my other guests until, mercifully, the clock ran out.

He died the following year. Ironically, it wasn’t until after he was gone that Groucho’s magnificent wit had its final encore. When his children went through his papers, they found a letter from their father with mock “instructions” for his funeral and interment. His last request was that he be “buried on top of Marilyn Monroe.”

In the mid-seventies, Rosalind Russell also made one of her final public appearances on my show, as part of a salute to Josh Logan, the man who directed her in
Picnic
. For some time, Roz had been fighting bravely against breast cancer and crippling arthritis, so it wasn’t until the last minute that we knew for sure if she’d even show up.

Although I wasn’t in the Green Room to witness it personally, Paul Solomon, who booked Roz on the show, told me later that she’d arrived early that day, ahead of the other guests. Paul said that she regaled the staff with stories about what a “miserable son of a bitch” Josh Logan
really
was.

While she was talking, Jimmy Stewart, one of the other participants in the Logan tribute, walked into the Green Room. Roz, who had trouble getting up, waited as he came over and bent down to kiss her on the cheek.

“Jimmy, you look so good!” she enthused. “What work have you had done?”

Stewart straightened up and looked at Roz with a befuddled look, not unlike Elwood P. Dowd studying a six-foot-tall invisible rabbit.

“Well, ah, Roz…” said Jimmy slowly, in his famous drawl. “Ya know that I…that is, I
haven’t
…it’s just
me
, Roz.”

“Oh come on, Jimmy, don’t try and kid me. Look at your face. Look at your hair. You
know
you’ve had work done. Don’t get me wrong, sweetie, it looks
great
.”

The timely arrival of the makeup girl saved Jimmy from further embarrassment.

Moments later, Josh Logan walked in.

“Josh,” gushed Roz, as my staff tried not to laugh, “what have you had
done?
He did a fabulous job! You
must
give me his name.”

Of course, I knew none of this during the taping. But I do remember thinking to myself, Gee, Roz must be feeling better because she’s really
on
tonight. The funny thing is that both Jimmy and Josh seem a little uncomfortable whenever she’s speaking. I wonder why that is?

Unquestionably, the saddest “last” for me was the final interview I ever did with one of my favorite guests—and very dear friend—Totie Fields. To this day, people stop me on the street or write me letters about Totie. She was so loved.

It was the summer of 1978. Totie’s diabetic condition had worsened dramatically. Having already lost a leg to amputation, she’d just spent several weeks in the hospital, where the doctors had made a final valiant effort to save her life. In the end, they were only able to buy her a little more time.

When I talked to her in the hospital, Totie made me promise to have her on my show as soon as she was released. She wanted to bring her doctors on the show too, as a way of expressing her appreciation for all they’d tried to do. Of course I agreed. It was the hardest show I’ve ever done. We finished taping and everybody had tears in their eyes. Still, I’d never been more grateful for having my job than I was that day. We’ve all said to someone, “Is there
anything
I can do for you?” when there really wasn’t. I was able to give my sweet friend a last gift that she truly wanted. How lucky is that?

Less than two weeks later, before the show had a chance to air, Totie was gone. I taped a new opening, informing the audience that it had been Totie’s final wish to do this program. Because of that, I explained, it was only appropriate for us to go ahead and air it. And we did.

There’s one more “last” I need to tell you about. And it was very nearly mine.

When we first moved the show to California, I’d made an arrangement to tape at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas for eight weeks out of the year. We started doing this while I was still on CBS, and continued the practice after coming over to Metromedia.