Impresario: The Life and Times of Ed Sullivan (71 page)

Few Sullivan critics had been as harsh as
The New York Times’
Jack Gould. In the early 1950s he provided a running lambaste of Sullivan’s foibles. Gould’s attitude had softened in the late 1950s as Ed’s focus grew international. Now, in 1965–66 season, the
Times
critic reversed himself altogether. Sullivan “
is unquestionably one of the medium’s great intuitive showmen,” he wrote. And while Sullivan on camera “may be about as animated as an untipped cab driver,” his success had allowed him “the enviable position of being a world unto himself amid the competitive scramble.” The critic, however, bemoaned the show’s greater emphasis on rock ’n’ roll, referring
to it as a “compromise” that sacrificed the program’s well-rounded quality for ratings. “Mr. Sullivan shouldn’t go unsung; with all due deference to the noisy disc jockeys of radio, he’s really one of the fathers of rock ’n’ roll.”

Indeed, “If the lay sociologist wants firm evidence that the younger generation has taken command of the home dial, Mr. Sullivan is their case in point,” Gould wrote. The critic voiced an opinion held by many: “Mr. Sullivan undoubtedly has an obligation to keep the teenagers in mind when he plans his show, but perhaps he will also see the wisdom of not disenfranchising other members of the family too regularly, if only because they are the ones who have somewhat larger allowances to spend with advertisers.”

Behind the scenes, Ed was not solely responsible for many of these bookings. More and more, his son-in-law Bob Precht was handling not just production chores but actually choosing the acts. The move toward rock was certainly made with Ed’s blessing—Bob never made a move without conferring with Ed. As many staffers recalled, Bob always handled his father-in-law with great deference. But where their partnership had once been master to mentor, it was now far closer to equal. Ed no longer decided, or much less frequently decided, to cancel an act during dress rehearsal. If he opted to change the running order after rehearsal it was not a complete scrambling. And the 1950s-era Sullivan practice of changing the running order during the broadcast was now nearly impossible; his son-in-law put together too complex a production for such a maneuver. Precht, in fact, was becoming the man behind the curtain, keeping the Sullivan formula spinning like one of the show’s many plate spinners.

The gradual shift in power between the two men was resisted by many of the talent agents who dealt with the show. “Because Ed had gone so many years of doing it on his own, many of the agents and managers continued to go directly to him, to try to get him to okay something,” Precht said. Some performers, too, grumbled about Precht, as they realized that a second gatekeeper stood between them and the lucrative exposure of a Sullivan booking.

Agents and performers weren’t alone in resisting this power shift. Surrendering control didn’t come naturally to Ed, and he sparred with Bob on a regular basis, chiefly over the direction of the show’s bookings. At one point they argued over a puppet act from Italy, which Ed enjoyed and wanted to dedicate an entire hour to. Bob felt the act was mediocre. “
I did everything I could to persuade Ed not to do this.… But this was another example of his will, persevering and dominating, so we shot the hour.” When Ed introduced it, he told the audience that if they liked it, they should write in to say so. “Now, of course,
tons
of mail came in,” Precht recalled, with a laugh. “People loved Ed and loved the show, it was like he could do no wrong, so he had a lot of people saying how wonderful these puppets were, and how wonderful this hour was. So now I’m gritting my teeth.” The evening, however, wasn’t a ratings success—yet Ed still wanted to prove his point to Bob. “Finally, after all this mail had accumulated, bags and bags and bags, he had all the mail put on the stage floor, in a big pile. And he said to the audience, ‘
Bob Precht
and I want to thank you for this great response.’ Talk about having your nose rubbed in it—he really did it.”

Among the bookings Precht and Sullivan argued about were those of older performers. Ed was a soft touch for old vaudevillians and aging athletes. His sentimental
fondness for both meant that he booked boxers or baseball players far past their prime, or ancient Palace veterans, regardless of their audience appeal. He had done this since the show’s inception and would continue to do so. As talent coordinator Vince Calandra recalled, Ed booked old vaudevillians because he wanted to ensure they got the minimum yearly salary required by the actors union to maintain their retirement benefits. (Not that his patience with vaudevillians was limitless. After he cut Sophie Tucker from two numbers to one and she started to get upset, he said, “
Shut your mouth and get back up onstage and do one number, or you’re off the show.”)

As late as 1970, Ed introduced Jack Dempsey from the audience, and Dempsey had lost the heavyweight title in 1927. (Ed often went to the boxer’s Broadway restaurant for lunch, talking with Jack for hours about old times.) But as the show increased its emphasis on acts aimed at younger viewers, and set designer Bill Bohnert’s sleek, geometric sets started sporting the bright paisley flowers that typified the 1960s, these 1930s-era guests felt increasingly out of place. It was Precht who kept this urge of his father-in-law’s in check, always pushing the show toward the contemporary.

In 1966 Ed appeared in a movie with Sister Luc-Gabrielle, a musical performer whose Sullivan show appearance helped vault her to stardom. Starring Debbie Reynolds and Ricardo Montalban,
The Singing Nun
told the story of the Belgian nun’s rise to fame, fueled by her real-life 1963 number one hit “Dominique,” a lilting folk song which earned her a Grammy and a 1964 booking on the Sullivan show. As in
Bye Bye Birdie
, this Warner Bros. release used a Sullivan show appearance to signify the pinnacle of success.

The film’s theme is the struggle between the sanctity of a religious life and the temptations of the secular world. Sister Luc-Gabrielle, called Sister Ann in the film, experiences budding fame as a singer—a record pressing is an unintentional hit—after which she faces the new challenges of worldly success. As her burgeoning celebrity calls into question her commitment to her religious vocation, she wonders which path she’ll take: will she remain committed to her spiritual calling? At one point, looking out at the secular life, Sister Ann visits a local rock ’n’ roll club, a trip she finds distressing—the fast music and the dancing teens are deeply unpleasant for her. Still, her direction in life remains unclear.

Ed, playing himself, portrays a character whose meaning is twofold. No one could be more respectful toward the nuns, yet he still represents worldly success. He travels to Belgium to request that Sister Ann perform on his show, but first he must face the stern Mother Superior, who disdains the secular life. Although Ed’s assistant assures her his program is a “very clean, family-type show,” she denies his request. Ed, wallowing in piousness, requests just one thing: could he at least meet Sister Ann before he goes home?

Upon meeting the young nun, who’s still scrubbing floors while her record climbs the charts, Ed repeats his offer directly to her: would she come to New York to perform?

Sister Ann:
New York …?

Mother Superior:
Of course I told him no.

Ed:
I regret that Mother, because our Cardinal in New York has proposed perhaps we’d get something for your order that is badly needed.

Priest:
We could have used a jeep, Mr. Sullivan, particularly when we reopen in Africa.

Ed:
I was thinking of several jeeps, Father.

Priest:
Several jeeps!

Mother Superior:
One is all we will need, Mr. Sullivan.

And with that, Ed, having used material goods to prompt change at the nunnery, presents Sister Ann to America. (In real life, the Mother Superior requested two jeeps after hearing of the size of Sullivan’s audience.) Sister Ann’s performance on the Sullivan show becomes the movie’s fulcrum point. She has now bitten the apple, and is thrown into a period of extreme moral doubt. In the end, however, she is seen in Africa ministering to the needy, having reaffirmed her commitment to her religious choice.

While critics panned the film as cloying and saccharine it did well at the box office, and also inspired the TV sitcom
The Flying Nun
, which ran for three years. (Ironically, the real singing nun faced similar choices. She decided to leave the convent after the film’s release, yet despite a sustained publicity blitz never had another hit. In 1985, after years of battling Belgian authorities over back taxes, she committed suicide with her lesbian companion.)

Ed didn’t invite the Singing Nun back on the show to promote the film, as he had Dick Van Dyke after the 1963 release of
Bye Bye Birdie.
Sullivan and Precht had other priorities as they launched the 1966–67 season: namely, keeping the show fresh while continuing to appeal to older viewers. Opening the season was the Rolling Stones performing “Paint It Black,” on a bill in which Louis Armstrong blew through “Cabaret” and Joan Rivers did stand-up. For Rivers, the Sullivan show was a major opportunity, though the thirty-three-year-old comic was booked only after a Sullivan gaff.

The week before, as the showman was listing the following week’s lineup, he had meant to say
Johnny
Rivers, the pop singer, yet he slipped and said
Joanie
Rivers. Once Ed had announced that she would appear he felt obligated. “
I was booked for the next Sunday,” Rivers remembered. Ed so enjoyed her performance that over the next few years he invited her nineteen more times, a series of appearances that Rivers relished. She particularly enjoyed Sullivan’s ritual around wardrobe. “They always took you and got you your clothes at Bergdorf’s or Bonwit Teller, and they were always fitted to you. After the performance—it was like a little ritual—either Bob Precht would come in, or the wardrobe lady, and say ‘Mr. Sullivan would like you to have your dress.’ Then you would send a thank-you note. It was one way that you knew he liked you.”

On the day of her debut appearance, Ed made a special demand on that evening’s rock ’n’ roll headliner. “I was in the dressing room next to the Rolling Stones, and I remember he insisted they get their hair washed—and he was right. And they got their hair washed.”

Additional shampoo was the least of what confronted the Stones for their Sullivan guest shots, recalled production assistant Jim Russek. For one of their appearances, simply getting the group into the theater proved dangerous. The band had been warned not to leave the theater between dress rehearsal and showtime, but
they disregarded this advice. As they returned, such a huge crowd of fans awaited them at the stage door that the band’s limousine hurriedly drove around the block toward an alternate entrance—which unfortunately had a glass door. The band jumped out to try to make it into the theater, “
but the fans figured it out, so they got there at the same time,” Russek said. “There was such a crush that the window broke and they squeezed themselves through. Three of the guys got in pretty quickly, but [guitarist] Brian Jones was last, and I had to help pull him through.”

The Stones, undaunted by hair washing requests or crazed fans, returned in January for a set that included both sides of their new single, “Let’s Spend the Night Together” and “Ruby Tuesday.” Many radio stations were refusing to play what they saw as the overtly sexual “Let’s Spend the Night Together,” so they aired only the B side, making “Ruby Tuesday” a number one hit by March. Ed, wanting the ratings boost from both new songs, demanded that the Stones alter the lyric to the controversial song to “Let’s spend
some time
together.”