good feelings about late night was short-lived—as all the executives involved knew it would be. The peace achieved by hanging on to O’Brien for four more years couldn’t last, because the fundamental equation had not changed: Two still did not go into one. At some point the issue of when Conan would get his shot at The Tonight Show —or wouldn’t—had to be faced.
Still, there was time to find some solution, and everyone at NBC knew that they could not afford a replay of the events of the nineties. The message was clear: Keep the consistently winning Jay as long as possible while also preventing Conan from taking his increasingly impressive talent elsewhere. Rick Ludwin, NBCʹs top late-night executive for more than two decades, had no doubts about these marching orders, or where they originated: “down from the top.” In numerous meetings early in the 2000s, Bob Wright, CEO of NBC, had asked the question directly: “How do we keep Conan O’Brien at this network?”
Everyone knew where Wright stood with regard to Conan: He loved the guy. Bob had jumped on the Conan train early, at a time when other NBC executives still saw more awkwardness than brilliance in the young comedian, and he had never wavered. He had established a relationship with Conan that some NBC colleagues saw as a kind of professional paternity. “Bob would do that with certain people—become a father figure,” said one of Wright’s closest associates at the network. “He certainly did with Conan.”
Suzanne Wright, who also embraced the role of matriarch of the network, adored Conan and Liza. Conan had had his ups and downs with various sections of NBC’s management over the years, but of Bob Wright he said, “I would walk over broken glass for that man.”
But neither that warm relationship nor his long history with Zucker was going to be enough to keep O’Brien at NBC indefinitely. The earlier late-night slot of 11:35 beckoned, as Conan began freely to acknowledge. “I think it’s natural to at some point want to move earlier,” he said. “I think I’ve proved I can do a show that I don’t think has to exist at twelve thirty.”
Starting in late 2003, Zucker and Ludwin, along with Marc Graboff, who as the executive in charge of business affairs dealt with the issues of money and deal making, held a series of discussions about what they saw as “the next cycle”—the coming choice between Leno and O’Brien, if they were going to be forced to make one. Zucker would often report on calls he had started receiving from Ari Emanuel about Conan. It was hardly unusual for Emanuel to phone Zucker—or any of the other major players in television—with ideas for his clients. That was his job, after all. He spoke more often with Zucker, though, because he genuinely liked the NBC boss, their relationship consisting of good-natured hostility. Ari, then in his early forties, steely eyed, built like a middleweight and rising fast up the power-agent rankings to a point where he was able to slug with anyone in Hollywood, would make demands, or promises. Jeff would resist or insist. They would yell a bit, tell each other to go fuck themselves, and then hang up laughing (usually). A couple of days later they would repeat the process.
Ari had decided he would keep Zucker in the loop constantly about the precise nature of the danger Jeff faced regarding the future of Conan O’Brien. As Ari saw the process, he was “making sure he knew he would lose Conan if he didn’t get the Tonight slot.ʺ If Bob Iger checked in about Conan, Ari let Zucker know about it. “If we set a Peter Chernin meeting or a Les Moonves meeting,” Emanuel filled Zucker in on the time and place. (Moonves had cast out a little fishing line on behalf of CBS during his squabble with Letterman over the ABC approach in 2002, which Conan had instantly rejected out of respect for Dave. But Emanuel still counted Les—who everyone knew drove Zucker crazier than anyone else
Still, there was time to find some solution, and everyone at NBC knew that they could not afford a replay of the events of the nineties. The message was clear: Keep the consistently winning Jay as long as possible while also preventing Conan from taking his increasingly impressive talent elsewhere. Rick Ludwin, NBCʹs top late-night executive for more than two decades, had no doubts about these marching orders, or where they originated: “down from the top.” In numerous meetings early in the 2000s, Bob Wright, CEO of NBC, had asked the question directly: “How do we keep Conan O’Brien at this network?”
Everyone knew where Wright stood with regard to Conan: He loved the guy. Bob had jumped on the Conan train early, at a time when other NBC executives still saw more awkwardness than brilliance in the young comedian, and he had never wavered. He had established a relationship with Conan that some NBC colleagues saw as a kind of professional paternity. “Bob would do that with certain people—become a father figure,” said one of Wright’s closest associates at the network. “He certainly did with Conan.”
Suzanne Wright, who also embraced the role of matriarch of the network, adored Conan and Liza. Conan had had his ups and downs with various sections of NBC’s management over the years, but of Bob Wright he said, “I would walk over broken glass for that man.”
But neither that warm relationship nor his long history with Zucker was going to be enough to keep O’Brien at NBC indefinitely. The earlier late-night slot of 11:35 beckoned, as Conan began freely to acknowledge. “I think it’s natural to at some point want to move earlier,” he said. “I think I’ve proved I can do a show that I don’t think has to exist at twelve thirty.”
Starting in late 2003, Zucker and Ludwin, along with Marc Graboff, who as the executive in charge of business affairs dealt with the issues of money and deal making, held a series of discussions about what they saw as “the next cycle”—the coming choice between Leno and O’Brien, if they were going to be forced to make one. Zucker would often report on calls he had started receiving from Ari Emanuel about Conan. It was hardly unusual for Emanuel to phone Zucker—or any of the other major players in television—with ideas for his clients. That was his job, after all. He spoke more often with Zucker, though, because he genuinely liked the NBC boss, their relationship consisting of good-natured hostility. Ari, then in his early forties, steely eyed, built like a middleweight and rising fast up the power-agent rankings to a point where he was able to slug with anyone in Hollywood, would make demands, or promises. Jeff would resist or insist. They would yell a bit, tell each other to go fuck themselves, and then hang up laughing (usually). A couple of days later they would repeat the process.
Ari had decided he would keep Zucker in the loop constantly about the precise nature of the danger Jeff faced regarding the future of Conan O’Brien. As Ari saw the process, he was “making sure he knew he would lose Conan if he didn’t get the Tonight slot.ʺ If Bob Iger checked in about Conan, Ari let Zucker know about it. “If we set a Peter Chernin meeting or a Les Moonves meeting,” Emanuel filled Zucker in on the time and place. (Moonves had cast out a little fishing line on behalf of CBS during his squabble with Letterman over the ABC approach in 2002, which Conan had instantly rejected out of respect for Dave. But Emanuel still counted Les—who everyone knew drove Zucker crazier than anyone else
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