Conan comes of age

The audience laughs, the woman dances. Then everyone realizes that the host -- singing, jiving, leering at the object of his pre-show affection -- is not about to let up. By the second verse, there are a few nervous titters throughout the crowd. The woman, winding down to an awkward, slow-motion twist, glances back at her husband. Wisely, he has not left his seat.

O'Brien doesn't stop because, while it may not be comedy or rock 'n' roll, it is certainly entertaining. "Just-a-hunka hunka," he howls in the final section, ending with a long, high-pitched scream. The woman retreats without a word.

"So were you frightened by that or sexually attracted?" O'Brien asks, not even breathing hard. "Be honest."

She's getting back to her seat and doesn't hear him. A friend nudges her to turn back, which she does, asking the host, "What did you say?"

"Exactly. Thanks very much," he says, sliding into sarcastic self-depreciation. "I'm John Davidson."

O'Brien doesn't always do a song before the show, but when he does, he does it all the way.

"When I commit to something, that's it," he says afterward. "If you go halfway with something like that, you're fucked."

O'Brien's attitude cuts to the heart of Late Night and the reason, after a rough start three years ago, it's become the latest hit in NBC's decade-plus of dominance at 12:30 a.m. "Committing," whether to a premise for a sketch or a style of comedy, means sticking with a joke that's bombing and remembering, through all the bad reviews, that things can only get better.

This is a show that stages staring contests on network time, has a man in an ostrich costume lay a gooey egg containing the list of upcoming guests, and features a 75-year-old sketch player limber enough to flashdance.

What makes Late Night funny is a mix of fresh improv, over-the-top visual bits, and a firm grasp of pop culture (Saturday-morning cartoons, Ozzy Osbourne, and Ouija boards, for example). Most nights, it seems like a group of grammar-school pranksters and their slightly unbalanced history teacher have taken over Studio 6A.

"You just have to do your kind of show and hope they don't cancel you before you get into the `zone,' " says Nick Bakay, the sidekick on Dennis Miller's short-lived Fox show. "The writing was always strong on Late Night, but they've just got enough reps in at this point. They're willing to be abstract and strange and intelligent. They're willing to go out there with a bit even if it dogs."

Late Night has found its place. More than the bits, many of which were there from the start ("Talking Lips," "If They Mated"), the show's success is about the emergence of its star. O'Brien, who had no on-air experience when he got the job, at first looked like he was massaging his palms raw during the uncomfortable monologues. He seemed to confirm the suspicions of many critics, who couldn't believe that NBC execs had lost Dave Letterman for Jay Leno. The most vocal critic had to be Tom Shales of the Washington Post, who wrote: "Hey you, Conan O'Brien! Get the heck off TV."

Shales is also an essential voice when discussing the turnaround. Sometime last year, he flipped on the show and immediately noticed a dramatic transformation. O'Brien was comfortable. His sidekick, Andy Richter, was funny. And the bits were imaginative, more experimental than anything else on late-night TV.

"Conan's the most ingratiating performer. He's the most charming," says Shales. "Leno is unpleasant and loud. Letterman is bouncing off the wall like Woody Woodpecker on speed. At that hour, when you don't really want television jumping down your throat, Conan is just perfect."

Two million people watch Late Night regularly, about half of what Letterman pulled at NBC during his peak, but nearly 20 percent more than the audience for O'Brien's first season. The best news for Late Night is that a higher percentage of the viewers are younger -- ideal for advertisers -- than those tuning in to Letterman at CBS or Leno's Tonight Show.

This winter, NBC signed on through the end of 1996 after stringing Late Night along with a series of 12-week contracts.

"I feel like somebody's played a practical joke on my behalf," Richter says about his network gig, "and I'm still curious as to how far I can push it."

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