Dick Clark Celebrates One More Night
by Thomas Conner
DECEMBER 29, 2010 TAGS:
New Year’s Eve, and the bubbly’s bubbling. TV’s on, the Times Square ball is beginning its strangely symbolic descent. Dick Clark and Ryan Seacrest — America’s personifications of Father Time and Baby New Year, respectively — are weary from another annual hour of extemporaneous banter and are understandably eager to count this thing down and sign off.
Seacrest admitted last year that the final 10 seconds of every year legally belong to Clark. Seacrest can count from 20 to 11 but has to surrender the rest to the man who’s been ticking backwards on live television nearly every New Year’s Eve since 1972.
“It’s in his deal, it’s in his contract,” Seacrest told ABC News. “He gets ‘Ten, nine, eight …’”
Tonight, though, Dec. 31, 2009, Clark jumps in early. “Let’s count it down,” he says. “20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15, 14, 12, 10, 11, uh, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 2, 2, 1. Happy new year!”
Decades of doing this, he was bound to flub one. But we all know what’s really at play: Clark suffered a stroke six years ago, yet has continued to appear as the figurehead of the Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve special, handing one year to the next on live TV. He missed the 2004 show immediately after his stroke weeks before (Regis Philbin filled in), but was back on Dec. 31, 2005, in a limited capacity, interjecting less frequently from behind a desk, and with Seacrest now added as co-host.
Each New Year’s Eve since, there he is again, slurring his words, botching the countdown and fumbling his cues. “My speech is not perfect, but I’m getting there,” he said on-air in 2005. Therapy has shown results, though his few short remarks during the American Bandstand tribute at last June’s Daytime Emmys were still largely unintelligible.
Seacrest that night did his usual able job of treating his boss gracefully. “If I lived to be 300, I could never fill your shoes,” he said as he crouched next to Clark’s front-row seat, perhaps acknowledging the secret fountain of youth they both seem to have discovered. For decades, the perennially boyish Clark was given nicknames like America’s Oldest Teenager or the Boy Who Wouldn’t Age. But the stroke effectively stabbed his own Dorian Gray portrait, aging him suddenly and completely.
That he soldiered on — and that the network allowed it — was, at first, something to cheer. Clark’s formidable television legacy has earned him the right to revisit the studio on a gurney, if necessary. His fame as host includes pop-culture landmarks (American Bandstand), game shows (various denominations of Pyramid) and the Rockin’ Eve special. He kicked that off in ’72, picking up the New Year’s TV torch from bandleader Guy Lombardo. (You can spot segments from Clark’s first Rockin’ Eve telecast in the background of a time-marking scene in a bar during the movie Forrest Gump.)
By the ’80s, Clark’s year-capping show was a staple for all who stayed indoors on the big night. By this century, it finally spawned imitations on other networks. Rockin’ Eve’s longevity — the record for TV’s longest permanent hosting gig, even though it’s only once a year — is an accomplishment on an already legend-worthy resume. So, sure, throw him a bone. Let him pop up to wish us a “Habby Nooreer.” It’s the one gig he’s got left, and he’s glad to have it.
“I am one of the fortunate ones who survived and have been minimally impaired,” he told the Associated Press in 2008, “so I’m just thankful I’m still able to enjoy this once-a-year treat of bringing in the new year.”
Five years on, though, the charm has worn thin. Clark, 81, now haunts his own show. The program ideally is supposed to celebrate the turning of the calendar page with good feeling and hope for the coming year, but Clark’s presence instead spotlights the specter of old age, illness and death awaiting us all.
Part of the private allure of the program these days is its death-watch factor. We tune in (and we do, ratings for Rockin’ Eve were up 2 percent last year, according to Nielsen) for partly the same reason we buy tickets to see B.B. King, Chuck Berry, the Rolling Stones: Chances of them dropping dead increase with every dimming of the house lights, and there’s a certain status bestowed by saying, “I saw his last show.”
And Clark’s on live, nationwide TV — maybe he’ll go between seven and six, or as he tries to articulate the name Natasha Bedingfield, one of the night’s scheduled performers.
This Dec. 31, Clark is surrounded by youngsters, from his co-hosts now doing the heavy lifting — Seacrest, comedian Jenny McCarthy and Black Eyed Peas singer Fergie — to the performers, including dance-pop band Far East Movement, R&B singers Ne-Yo, Jason Derulo and Mike Posner, and rocker Avril Lavinge. There’s no way to cut from one of those acts to Clark without creeping out the entire viewing audience.
“Having fun, kidssssh?” he might as well say, leering into the camera with gruesome, googly eyes: “Becausssh thisssh is what’s coming for you!”
Regardless of one’s legacy or stature, the day comes for all of us when we can’t perform the tasks assigned. If Clark’s contract requires little more of him than to count backwards from 10 and say three words, he’s slipping into breech. An ABC exec needs to take a deep breath, shake Clark’s hand, and express many thanks and congratulations while wheeling ol’ Dick toward the door.
Perhaps a pre-recorded message would suffice on future shows — a well-managed video played just before midnight, acknowledging the show’s namesake and letting us all know he’s still OK and wishing us well. Either way, it’s time for a sea change toward Seacrest.
I say this not because I’m a snarky writer in my 40s, feeling invincible and shouting, “Go home, geezer!” Nor is it because this country needs to hide illness and warehouse the elderly any more than we already do, sometimes shamefully. This is about how we as human beings chose to exit the stage. It’s about determining, as we’ve all had or will have to do with our parents and grandparents, when exactly an admirable work ethic begins to threaten the health — and, maybe more importantly, the dignity — of the ones we love.
Clark could no doubt keep struggling through these annual cringefests, but doing so not only runs contrary to what his preceding career strived for (fun, entertainment, escapism) but also threatens to dismantle it, leaving us not with the legacy he earned but with the dominant memory of those awful final appearances.
He has his own sign-off at the ready, short and sweet. For decades, he’s ended his shows saying, with a clipped military salute, “For now, Dick Clark … so long!” Time to hear it, once and for all.
Thomas Conner is the pop music critic for the Chicago Sun-Times.
Seacrest admitted last year that the final 10 seconds of every year legally belong to Clark. Seacrest can count from 20 to 11 but has to surrender the rest to the man who’s been ticking backwards on live television nearly every New Year’s Eve since 1972.
“It’s in his deal, it’s in his contract,” Seacrest told ABC News. “He gets ‘Ten, nine, eight …’”
Tonight, though, Dec. 31, 2009, Clark jumps in early. “Let’s count it down,” he says. “20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15, 14, 12, 10, 11, uh, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 2, 2, 1. Happy new year!”Decades of doing this, he was bound to flub one. But we all know what’s really at play: Clark suffered a stroke six years ago, yet has continued to appear as the figurehead of the Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve special, handing one year to the next on live TV. He missed the 2004 show immediately after his stroke weeks before (Regis Philbin filled in), but was back on Dec. 31, 2005, in a limited capacity, interjecting less frequently from behind a desk, and with Seacrest now added as co-host.
Each New Year’s Eve since, there he is again, slurring his words, botching the countdown and fumbling his cues. “My speech is not perfect, but I’m getting there,” he said on-air in 2005. Therapy has shown results, though his few short remarks during the American Bandstand tribute at last June’s Daytime Emmys were still largely unintelligible.
Seacrest that night did his usual able job of treating his boss gracefully. “If I lived to be 300, I could never fill your shoes,” he said as he crouched next to Clark’s front-row seat, perhaps acknowledging the secret fountain of youth they both seem to have discovered. For decades, the perennially boyish Clark was given nicknames like America’s Oldest Teenager or the Boy Who Wouldn’t Age. But the stroke effectively stabbed his own Dorian Gray portrait, aging him suddenly and completely.
That he soldiered on — and that the network allowed it — was, at first, something to cheer. Clark’s formidable television legacy has earned him the right to revisit the studio on a gurney, if necessary. His fame as host includes pop-culture landmarks (American Bandstand), game shows (various denominations of Pyramid) and the Rockin’ Eve special. He kicked that off in ’72, picking up the New Year’s TV torch from bandleader Guy Lombardo. (You can spot segments from Clark’s first Rockin’ Eve telecast in the background of a time-marking scene in a bar during the movie Forrest Gump.)
By the ’80s, Clark’s year-capping show was a staple for all who stayed indoors on the big night. By this century, it finally spawned imitations on other networks. Rockin’ Eve’s longevity — the record for TV’s longest permanent hosting gig, even though it’s only once a year — is an accomplishment on an already legend-worthy resume. So, sure, throw him a bone. Let him pop up to wish us a “Habby Nooreer.” It’s the one gig he’s got left, and he’s glad to have it.
“I am one of the fortunate ones who survived and have been minimally impaired,” he told the Associated Press in 2008, “so I’m just thankful I’m still able to enjoy this once-a-year treat of bringing in the new year.”
Five years on, though, the charm has worn thin. Clark, 81, now haunts his own show. The program ideally is supposed to celebrate the turning of the calendar page with good feeling and hope for the coming year, but Clark’s presence instead spotlights the specter of old age, illness and death awaiting us all.
Part of the private allure of the program these days is its death-watch factor. We tune in (and we do, ratings for Rockin’ Eve were up 2 percent last year, according to Nielsen) for partly the same reason we buy tickets to see B.B. King, Chuck Berry, the Rolling Stones: Chances of them dropping dead increase with every dimming of the house lights, and there’s a certain status bestowed by saying, “I saw his last show.” And Clark’s on live, nationwide TV — maybe he’ll go between seven and six, or as he tries to articulate the name Natasha Bedingfield, one of the night’s scheduled performers.
This Dec. 31, Clark is surrounded by youngsters, from his co-hosts now doing the heavy lifting — Seacrest, comedian Jenny McCarthy and Black Eyed Peas singer Fergie — to the performers, including dance-pop band Far East Movement, R&B singers Ne-Yo, Jason Derulo and Mike Posner, and rocker Avril Lavinge. There’s no way to cut from one of those acts to Clark without creeping out the entire viewing audience.
“Having fun, kidssssh?” he might as well say, leering into the camera with gruesome, googly eyes: “Becausssh thisssh is what’s coming for you!”
Regardless of one’s legacy or stature, the day comes for all of us when we can’t perform the tasks assigned. If Clark’s contract requires little more of him than to count backwards from 10 and say three words, he’s slipping into breech. An ABC exec needs to take a deep breath, shake Clark’s hand, and express many thanks and congratulations while wheeling ol’ Dick toward the door.
Perhaps a pre-recorded message would suffice on future shows — a well-managed video played just before midnight, acknowledging the show’s namesake and letting us all know he’s still OK and wishing us well. Either way, it’s time for a sea change toward Seacrest.
I say this not because I’m a snarky writer in my 40s, feeling invincible and shouting, “Go home, geezer!” Nor is it because this country needs to hide illness and warehouse the elderly any more than we already do, sometimes shamefully. This is about how we as human beings chose to exit the stage. It’s about determining, as we’ve all had or will have to do with our parents and grandparents, when exactly an admirable work ethic begins to threaten the health — and, maybe more importantly, the dignity — of the ones we love.
Clark could no doubt keep struggling through these annual cringefests, but doing so not only runs contrary to what his preceding career strived for (fun, entertainment, escapism) but also threatens to dismantle it, leaving us not with the legacy he earned but with the dominant memory of those awful final appearances.
He has his own sign-off at the ready, short and sweet. For decades, he’s ended his shows saying, with a clipped military salute, “For now, Dick Clark … so long!” Time to hear it, once and for all.
Thomas Conner is the pop music critic for the Chicago Sun-Times.
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