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Why Some Comics Aren't Laughing at Jay Leno (Essay) WSJ

By Nathan Rabin

Many professional comics consider Jay Leno one of the best stand-up comedians of his generation. In his prime, Leno was a brilliant craftsman with sharp material, impeccable delivery, fantastic timing and an affable everyman persona. Even future enemy David Letterman had enormous respect for him as a stand-up comic in the beginning.

So why has seemingly the sum of the comedy world turned on Leno with shocking viciousness? Why has he raced past the reviled likes of Dane Cook and Carlos Mencia on the list of popular stand-ups comedians love to hate? What is behind the widespread sense that Leno sold his soul when he took over "The Tonight Show"? Why do Leno's peers in the comedy world, like Howard Stern, view him as a stand-up version of scheming "What Makes Sammy Run?" anti-hero Sammy Glick, a sentient ball of runaway ambition willing to destroy anyone who gets in his way?

In this current late-night melodrama Conan O'Brien, a beloved figure among comedy geeks for his generosity towards comedians, eagerness to explore uncharted comic terrain and deep respect for the art, craft and history of comedy, has emerged as the wronged party and Leno as the villain.

Late night television quickly turned into "Everybody Hates Jay." The response was quick, vitriolic and widespread. In an audacious move, ABC's Jimmy Kimmel donned a gray wig, affixed putty to his chin and performed an entire episode of "Jimmy Kimmel Live!" in the guise of Leno.

In his finest hour, Kimmel nailed everything that people hate about Leno: the cheap, pandering jokes, the maddening way Leno's whole head shakes with delight when he's particularly amused by one of his quips and the nauseatingly sycophantic banter between Leno and band leader/sidekick Kevin Eubanks.

Kimmel followed this up by going on "The Jay Leno Show" as a guest on its "10@10″ segment and making pointed remarks about Leno's treatment of O'Brien. "Conan and I have children," said Kimmel. "All you have to take care of is cars. We have lives to lead here. You've got $800 million for God's sake. Leave our shows alone." Leno had achieved the seemingly impossible: he single-handedly made a late-night also-ran like Kimmel seem hip, edgy, relevant and borderline dangerous.

Not to be outdone, Letterman, Leno's old arch-nemesis and competitor for "The Tonight Show" slot following Johnny Carson's retirement, has fired shots at Leno as well, deriding him brattily but amusingly as "Big Jaw", taking great delight in his current woes and proposing a "Law & Order" spin off called "Leno Victims Unit" featuring all the people Leno has hurt in his mad grab for power, money and ratings: O'Brien, Jimmy Fallon and Carson Daly, all of whom would have much worse time slots if Leno's show begins after the nightly news.

The normally mild-mannered O'Brien has done little to conceal his contempt for Leno. He appears visibly upset when he discusses his long-time lead-in. His jokes about Leno and NBC betray a newfound nastiness. Letterman and O'Brien have both indulged in cruel impersonations of Leno as an asinine chatterbox with a high-pitched nasal whine of a voice. The gloves are off. Everyone is suddenly gunning for Leno.

As a kid, I used to look forward to Leno's appearances as a guest on "The Tonight Show With Johnny Carson." He was an ideal talk show guest: quick, funny and enormously likeable. For proof, check out some of the comedian's 1980s appearances on "Late Night With David Letterman" and experience cognitive dissonance watching a loose and lively Leno crack Letterman up as they pal around like old college buddies. In his '80s heyday, Leno had few peers in the realm of observational comedy.

After taking over "The Tonight Show" everything changed. In the words of comedy guru Patton Oswalt, it was as if a switch had been flipped. Leno stopped evolving and began devolving rapidly. Leno no longer seemed interested in the art of comedy. He pandered to the lowest common denominator with material that didn't even attempt to hide his contempt for his audience.

To me, the quintessential Jay Leno bit is Jaywalking, a sourly misanthropic endeavor where Leno derives cheap laughs from the abject stupidity of everyday folk. Leno asks these dullards easy questions, then luxuriates in a smug sense of superiority when they come up with "comically" idiotic answers. What makes this enterprise so abhorrent, beyond the overwhelming air of snide condescension, is that these easily amused half-wits double as Leno's core audience.

To comedy writers, Leno's massive success represents the triumph of mediocrity. It's the tragedy of a prodigiously talented stand-up making a conscious decision to dumb down his material to reach the widest possible audience. He won over the masses while alienating comedy geeks. He came to symbolize everything crass and mercenary about comedy. As the years went on, Leno became synonymous with Monica Lewinsky and O.J. jokes. His name became shorthand for lazy, dumb and obvious comedy. To comedy snobs, "The Tonight Show" under his nightmare realm was one long Dancing Itos sketch.

Comedy writers had an antithetical response to O'Brien. He was one of their own, literally. He graduated from Harvard and wrote for "Saturday Night Live" and "The Simpsons" during some of their glory years before making an exquisitely unexpected transformation to on-camera performer as host of "Late Night With Conan O'Brien." More than that, they responded to his sensibility; gleefully absurd, quirky, caffeinated, jazzy, smartass and just plain smart. He had a weakness for the kind of weird, conceptual sketches comedy writers love. If the Dancing Itos represents Leno's signature bit, characters like Triumph the Insult Comic Dog and the Masturbating Bear epitomize O'Brien's warped sensibility.

Like Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, O'Brien numbers among Letterman's creative progeny. Letterman is the beloved cranky uncle who brandishes irony, sarcasm and world-weary cynicism like swords of righteousness. Moreover, Letterman has the personality and disposition of a comedy writer. He embodies the essence of black comedy; the belief that you have to be able to laugh at the darkness and stupidity of the world or it will destroy you.

Comedy writers are, on the whole, a troubled lot. Funny people drink too much. They squander their money. They use drugs. They're prone to depression, insomnia and mental illness, to tumultuous relationships and serial divorces. So when Letterman recently confessed that he'd slept with members of his staff and was the subject of a blackmail attempt it only made comedy writers love him more.

The lives of comedy greats are supposed to be messy: think Richard Pryor or Peter Sellers. We're addicted to the archetype of the sad clown, laughing on the outside, weeping uncontrollably on the inside.

Yet Leno never seems to have wrestled with drugs or alcohol problems.

He's been married to the same woman for decades. He has amassed a vast fortune working nonstop yet never spends his money on anything other than his overflowing collection of sports cars. He seems devoid of angst.

He suffers from a terrible dearth of personal demons. Leno is so normal and functional that he's practically a freak. That creeps out comedy writers who would rather have their heroes stagger into the gutter, penniless and filled with contempt for a world that has shunned them, than play yet another Indian casino to pay for that 32nd Maserati.

Bitterness is an almost universal trait among funny people. They hate it when their friends become successful. They grow positively apoplectic when success comes to someone they consider unworthy. The bigger the success, the bigger the resentment and Leno has attained a level of fame most comics can only dream about. Even more unforgivably, that success came at the expense of more worthy souls: first Letterman and now O'Brien.

I cringed during the part in the very last "Late Night With Conan O'Brien" where its eternally gracious host thanked Leno for all he'd done for his career. I wanted to scream at the television, "No! Jay Leno is not your friend! I don't care how good he's been to you, he's nobody's friend! He's the enemy!" So it's been strangely exciting seeing O'Brien fire verbal darts in the direction of his longtime lead-in.

Comedy writers have enjoyed a highly concentrated blast of Schadenfreude since Leno's show was cancelled but it comes tainted with the knowledge that Leno is dragging O'Brien, Fallon and even poor Carson Daly down with him. This scuffle has transformed O'Brien from a cult figure on the brink of conquering the mainstream to a contemporary folk hero. The Internet has raced to O'Brien's defense in his battle against this preeminent monster of banality. Mike Mitchell's popular "I'm With Coco" mock campaign poster and T-shirt featuring an unusually serious-looking Conan (Coco is one of O'Brien's many affectionate nicknames) in front of an American flag has become both a rallying point for fans and the late-night comedy equivalent of Shepherd Fairey's iconic image of President Obama.

It remains to be seen whether NBC will back down or if O'Brien will leave the network acrimoniously, possibly for a spot on Fox. It seems certain, however, that Leno's once-vaunted reputation among his peers has sunk well beyond the point of rehabilitation or redemption.

Nathan Rabin is the head writer of the A.V Club, the entertainment section of the Onion, and the author of "The Big Rewind: A Memoir Brought to You by Pop Culture" (Scribner).