"The Buzzer is Mightier: The Author as a Game Show Contestant" by Sean Gill
I recently became aware of the prevalence of famous authors appearing as game show contestants during the Golden Age of game shows (which I'd align with What's My Line?'s initial run, from 1950-1967). Just as the 1960 Nixon/Kennedy debates changed politics forever, literary celebrity, too, was evolving in the new televisual age, bringing new opportunities for self-promotion and discourse.
As I fell down this rabbit hole, I discovered the five appearances I will highlight here, as well as several others, including Lillian Hellman on Who Said That? (1950), Mickey Spillane on The Name's the Same (1954), and Truman Capote on The Cheap Show (1978).
There were also authors who appeared as panelists and not contestants: Mary McCarthy appeared on ten episodes of the British series Take It or Leave It (1964-1970), and, before he debated William F. Buckley so frequently and publicly, Gore Vidal was an overconfident panelist on What's My Line? (1960-1964). (In one episode, he was so certain he had correctly guessed Joanne Woodward's identity that he committed the ultimate What's My Line? faux pas of removing his blindfold early only to discover that the contestant before him was actually Barbara Streisand.)
Unfortunately, institutional closures relating to COVID-19 prevented me from tracking down every last episode, but I believe the five I have chosen here represent a reasonable cross-section of the author-as-game-show-contestant phenomenon.
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October 23, 1955
Herman Wouk vs. What's My Line?
For the uninitiated, What's My Line? is a modified version of Twenty Questions, where four celebrity panelists cross-examine a contestant, trying to determine their line of work. The host, former journalist John Charles Daly, acts as an arbiter, helping to clarify the yes-or-no responses when there is ambiguity. There are two modes of play: one for the everyday contestants with unusual or specific occupations, and one for celebrity "mystery guests" with hidden identities (the panelists wear blindfolds, and sometimes the mystery guest must respond non-verbally if their voice is too well known). Each "no" ups the jackpot, but in most cases, the maximum prize is only fifty dollars (less than the $500 today, adjusted for inflation), meant to emphasize the low-stakes fun of the game.
In this episode, the historical novelist, Herman Wouk, best known for The Caine Mutiny, is promoting his new novel Marjorie Morningstar. He faces off against Dorothy Kilgallen, Broadway columnist and true crime writer, Fred Allen, a radio humorist, Arlene Francis, a professional game show panelist, and Bennett Cerf, founder and publisher of Random House. (Cerf's frequent involvement in the show likely paved the way for many of its literary guests, who ranged from Emlyn Williams to Kathleen Winsor to Harold Robbins.)
Wouk's initial appearance draws loud cheers from the audience, and he looks delighted to be there, laughing and wearing a goofy smile. He comes across as a lovable Poindexter in the mid-1950s mold, with a burgeoning pomade comb-over and shades of Jerry Lewis.
The game begins and Kilgallen asks, "Do you in your work wear something other than an ordinary business suit?" Wouk consults with Daly, and with all the hand-over-mic whispering between them, it begins to resemble a Senate subcommittee hearing. "I've never done it in a business suit," Wouk finally declares. And Daly cracks up at the sexual connotation.
Later, Francis gets on the right track: "Are you in any part of the entertainment world?" Wouk firmly says, "Yes." Daly attempts to qualify it: "Broadly speaking, I would say that our guest has a relationship to the entertainment world." It's intriguing how quickly Wouk, a bestselling author and Pulitzer Prize winner, takes credit as an entertainer, and how Daly conditions his answer with a line of separation drawn between the worlds of literature and leisure.
Cerf asks if the panelists would recognize him and Wouk says, "I think so, yes." Cerf follows with, "Have you ever written a book that Random House has published?" and there is a genial kind of bitterness in Wouk's "no," which leads to uproarious laughter from the panel and audience alike.
Allen is the one who ultimately guesses Wouk's identity—that they worked together twenty years prior on Allen's radio show plays a role in the reveal, but they haven't seen each other in ages. In a satisfyingly intimate and off-the-cuff moment, they discuss social plans they intend to make with one another. Wouk walks away with twenty-five dollars, courtesy of Stopette Spray Deodorant.
Herman Wouk (left), CBS/Goodson-Todman Productions.
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There's a relaxed tone to these Golden Age game shows; the production value is cheap, but it accentuates the informal nature of the relationships between the panelists, hosts, and contestants. Most of these shows seem devoted on some level to the "art of conversation," offering a window into the party games of likable—if slightly square—intellectual personalities. They're often less interested in the cheap thrill of a competitive premise than in the potentially thoughtful collision of chatty and interesting people.
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April 27, 1964
John le Carré vs. To Tell the Truth
To Tell the Truth, in a nutshell: one contestant and two imposters—all three of whom claim to share the same name and identity—stand before four celebrity panelists. The host, Bud Collyer, reads aloud a brief autobiography of the contestant, who generally has been chosen for their unusual job or intriguing life story. Under a strict time limit, the panelists grill the three potentials (with almost lawyerly rigor) and must come to individual decisions about which player is "for real." For each incorrect vote cast, all three players earn $250.
In this episode, sponsored by Easy-Off Oven Cleaner, the supporting segments center on Jerrie Mock, the first woman to fly solo around the world, and "Killer" Joe Piro, a celebrity dance instructor. When the episode aired, le Carré's novel The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, an existential portrait of spies and spying, had been a critical and cultural sensation for six months.
The three “John le Carrés” enter before a celebrity panel comprised of Tom Poston (Newhart, Mork & Mindy), Peggy Cass (Auntie Mame, Gidget Goes Hawaiian), Orson Bean (Anatomy of a Murder, Being John Malkovich), and Kitty Carlisle (A Night at the Opera, Murder at the Vanities). To Tell the Truth's casting department—perhaps fearing the panelists would recall le Carré's face from the book jacket photo—opt for three basically identical Englishmen, the only obvious differentiating factor is that one of the men sports a double-breasted suit jacket while the other two wear singles. Collyer reads the clue:
"I, David Cornwell, am a former Eton schoolmaster and former member of the British foreign service. I am also the author of three novels, two of which caused practically no comment, and one which became an instantaneous success and to date, has sold nearly one quarter of a million copies. The book is at the top of the American bestseller list and will be made into a movie later this year. Master of suspense Graham Greene calls it 'the best spy story he's ever read.' I wrote it under the pen name John le Carré. It is called The Spy Who Came in From the Cold. Signed, John le Carré."
John le Carré (left), CBS/Goodson-Todman Productions.
The real le Carré, who is designated as player #1, comes across as uncommonly relaxed and affable in what is his first American television appearance. (In a little over a month, he'd be on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson). Perhaps it's due to his background in MI6's covert "Circus"—where he was outed as a spy in 1963 by the double-agent Kim Philby, paving the way for his public career as a novelist—that being on a game show, interrogated by B-list TV stars, fails to set his pulse racing.
The majority of questions from the panelists involve minutiae about Eton College, its customs, and geography ("Do you know what Monkey Island is?"). They're hoping for an obvious stammer or slip-up, but the imposters are well-prepared. Peggy Cass, who calls his novels "peachy," asks about the character George Smiley and his debut novel, Call for the Dead (1961). Orson Bean, for some reason, asks about supporting characters from Sherlock Holmes and after being chided by player #3 for not having read The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, makes a joke meant to showcase his own Philistinism: "I haven't read anything since Stealthy Steve and the Great Blue Diamond!"
When it comes time for the vote, every single panelist gets it wrong. Orson Bean says, "#1 has a twinkle in his eye that most writers don't have," and Kitty Carlisle goes for #3 because he seemed offended that Bean hadn't read his book. The real John le Carré observes all of this with a wry detachment, barely concealing an amused smirk. He's pulled off quite a feat in To Tell the Truth-land; it was rare indeed that the panelists were unanimously incorrect. This earns le Carré and his imposters $1,000 each (roughly $8,300 today, adjusted for inflation), as well as a gift package of “all the fine products from the makers of Easy-Off." It's not every day that you get to see a former spy turned great novelist interrogated by actors from Gidget Goes Hawaiian and Skirts Ahoy!, only to walk away, triumphant, with an armful of products promising to turn "hard black grease into soft brown soap."
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Despite some dapper pretension, there is a basic ridiculousness in "the person of letters" making the rounds on a game show, which, in theory, ought to be a real dignity-leech. Most of these authors seem amused to be on television, as if they can't believe that a network executive signed off on such a thing. By the late 1960s, however, the promotional angle—which always existed—becomes slightly more obvious. There's more polish and less aimless chit-chat. This is partly due to Jacqueline Susann, who, in many ways, revolutionized the modern book tour with Valley of the Dolls and pioneered a savvier, more focused kind of media blitz.
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February 20, 1967
Hunter S. Thompson vs. To Tell the Truth
In what is perhaps the most gloriously absurd author/game show crossover, a contractually-obligated (?) Hunter S. Thompson and his two impostors tread the boards before perennial To Tell the Truth panelists Peggy Cass, Kitty Carlisle, and Tom Poston. (Orson Bean has been swapped for Barry Nelson, perhaps best known for being the first actor to portray James Bond on a 1954 episode of Climax. Thompson's first book-length work, Hell's Angels: The Strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs, had been published one month prior and the relatively unknown Thompson was being promoted heavily by Random House. (By Thompson's own admission, he was drunk and/or high for much of the Hell's Angels press tour, but he does not appear to be particularly altered here.)
Hunter S. Thompson (center), CBS/Goodson-Todman Productions.
Of the three "Thompsons," the genuine #2 stands awkwardly at center, wearing slacks that appear a size too small, a white T-shirt, and a droopy vest that looks as if it's been smuggled out of a community theater's Shakespeare wardrobe. His posture is self-conscious; his visage, anemic. He is flanked by one man who looks like James Dean with a goatee and another who's dressed like Marlon Brando in The Wild One. The producers have clearly pitched Thompson as "the one you'd least expect," but the effect is essentially comic. Bud Collyer reads us the clue:
"I, Hunter Thompson, am a writer. Recently, I spent over a year living in close contact with a notorious California motorcycle gang called the Hell's Angels. I found the Hell's Angels to be an elite organization of outlaws and hoodlums whose philosophy is violence. They dress in filthy leather or denim jackets with their insignia on the back: a winged skull wearing a motorcycle helmet. Although I never actually became a member, for over a year I drank with the Hell's Angels, talked with their leaders, and recorded their involvement with dope. I watched them terrorize and intimidate communities as they roared through the streets on stripped down motorcycles called 'chopped hogs.' My time spent with this gang came to an abrupt and violent close after an argument with a group of Hell's Angels. They knocked me down and stomped me. I ended up in the hospital. But I had this story, which is the basis of my new book called, simply, Hell's Angels."
During the questioning, it becomes immediately apparent that the celebrity panelists are terrified of anything relating to counterculture. Half of the questions center on the horrors of LSD, and when Peggy Cass asks the real Thompson which writer is most involved with the drug, he "narcs" on Ken Kesey, whose hallucinogenic exploits were well-known. Throughout, Thompson is lethargic and clearly hates being on television; it's like watching a child squirm through church service.
Kitty Carlisle, done up in a bouffant and looking like she's just departed cocktail hour at Martha's Vineyard, quizzes the players about Kesey and his gang as if she's a local D.A. shaking down potential perps. When #1 refers to them as "The Scavengers" she looks pleased, for she's sure the real Thompson would know they are "The Merry Pranksters," a fact she recently learned by "reading Tom Wolfe's piece in the Tribune."
Tom Poston begins his questioning with a dad joke: "Did you hear about the musician who was on LSD? He decided to throw himself on the ground and missed." Somehow, this receives not groans but hearty applause from the studio audience. He follows up: "Do those cats have a lot of broken legs and broken thighs and broken knees and things?" If you look closely, you can witness Hunter S. Thompson's soul withering away in real-time.
In a remarkable show of competence, the panelists all guess correctly that the real Thompson is #2. Barry Nelson observes that he looks worried, as if he's being hunted by the Hell's Angels. Poston makes sure to rub it in: "If I were a Hell's Angel I'd rather beat him up than either of the other two guys." Thompson looks disappointed and grins sheepishly. Because he's lost the game so disastrously, he is awarded a consolation prize of $150 (about $1,100 today). I can only assume that he spent it on drugs.
Hunter S. Thompson (right), CBS/Goodson-Todman Productions.
At the end of the episode, all the players return onstage to mingle with the panelists while the closing credits roll. Thompson stands in the back, seemingly too cool (or introverted) to interact with the others, smoking a cigarette and staring into the middle distance. The announcer cheerily informs us that tonight's broadcast was sponsored by Pledge cleaner. It's likely the most corporate tableau Thompson could have ever imagined, and indeed his proximity to such squareness has rubbed off on him; he looks like a gangling wallflower at the school dance, an effect only inflated by the presence of women in debutante gowns and water skier costumes. It's gloriously insane, and its basic incongruity demonstrates how this sort of thing could shortly fall out of fashion.
In a 2004 interview with Bankrate, Thompson revealed that To Tell the Truth was not his first brush with the game show world. In 1961, he intentionally (!) became a contestant on Johnny Carson's Who Do You Trust?:
"I saw an ad in the New York Times. It was a show where you paired up with a strange woman, in my case, but the point of it was, you made $50… when the cameras came on, my knees began to knock. I had read about that and heard about it, people's knees knocking, and goddamn they actually were. And I looked over at the host, and I didn't know Carson from Jim Baker, and he saw that I was trembling and shaking and he calmed me down. But I still lost the main prize."
It's unclear if this episode ever aired, but the story confirms Thompson's persistence, his stage fright, and his complete inability to succeed at game shows.
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As counterculture movements advanced into the late 60s, America's social fault lines grew more defined. On To Tell the Truth, at any rate, gentle banter that felt charming in 1964, felt obnoxious and woefully out of touch in 1967. From the modern perspective, it seems that the basic corniness associated with game shows had finally overcome its cerebral elements. Thoughtful conversation had migrated to talk show venues like Dick Cavett and David Frost. Gore Vidal, for one, had already made the switch from erudite self-promoter to ferocious politico; some have associated his clashes with the right-winger, Buckley, as the genesis of today's 24/7 punditocracy-as-entertainment atmosphere.
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March 5, 1967
Jacqueline Susann vs. What's My Line?
Halfway between the release of her novel and its Hollywood adaptation, Jacqueline Susann appeared on What's My Line? to promote Valley of the Dolls—though, as the bestselling novel of 1966, at this point, it needed little additional help. With the Summer of Love on the immediate horizon, a striking indicator of the audience's age can be found in the program's sponsor: PoliGrip Denture Adhesive Cream. Original 1950s panelists Arlene Francis and Bennett Cerf remain, but new additions include Tony Randall (Pillow Talk, The Odd Couple) and Sue Oakland, a professional game show panelist.
Jacqueline Susann, CBS/Goodson-Todman Productions
After the panelists banter about such proletarian topics as the makeup of the Peabody Awards committee and the proper nomenclature for polka dots, they blindfold themselves, and Susann, whose public persona was that of a straight-talking, high-society empress, makes a dramatic appearance in her signature bouffant and a hand-stitched sequined dress with a Pucci-esque ivy swirl; a riot of embroidery with earrings to match. The crowd loves her and she loves the crowd. Susann ought to be a uniquely interesting What's My Line? contestant, having lived so many lives—Broadway actress, model, TV host, playwright, novelist—but the questioning quickly pegs her as a successful author. "Is writing books your regular line of work?" asks Tony Randall. "Now it is," she says, slyly. "I'm illiterate!" mugs Randall, going full-Orson Bean.
The largest dispute comes when Cerf asks whether Random House is Susann's publisher. There is much deliberation with Daly, as the book is actually published by the imprint Bernard Geis & Associates, but distributed by Random House. It's fascinating to find that Cerf, obviously a publisher himself, is not the only panelist with industry knowledge: there's a sense of expectation that the average American would have not only an intimate familiarity with the current crop of bestsellers, but would also know from which publishing houses they originated. (Later in the show, it's expected that the average American would also know who is currently appearing in a play on Broadway and who is not—a sort of "common knowledge" that might come across as elitist today.)
With the jackpot at fifteen dollars, Sue Oakland is the one who guesses correctly, in perhaps the most charming 1960s way possible: "Have you written an absolutely lollapalooza of a best seller? Are you Jacqueline Susann?" Susann, completely true to her character as Jackie Susann the Product, gushes about today being the one year anniversary of her appearance on the bestseller list. Cerf then notes her sales numbers. It's hard to watch her fluent self-promotion without imagining she was born for this sort of thing.
Later in the show, Judy Garland is the second mystery guest. Her voice is so iconic she must answer her "yes’s" with a bell and her "no’s" with a clicking device. At the time, she was contracted to play the character of Helen Lawson in the Valley of the Dolls movie (she was eventually fired from the production, presumably for substance abuse), so it's partly a crossover with Susann's publicity tour. After Garland’s identity is guessed, she claims she has "the flu" and makes a joke about Valley of the Dolls: "I'm the only one in the book that doesn't take pills!" The laughter this prompts does make one wonder about how aware everyone is—from the panelists to the audience—of her particular addictions. They couldn't have staged a more perfectly relevant epilogue for Susann, who, like Hunter S. Thompson, fueled many of her media appearances with amphetamines.
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There came a point in my research—probably when I found Hunter S. Thompson on To Tell the Truth—when almost anything seemed possible in this arena. Sadly, only in my imagination could I find James Baldwin on Hollywood Squares, Flannery O'Connor on Wheel of Fortune, Kingsley and Martin Amis on Family Feud, and Jean-Paul Sartre on The Dating Game. In reality, there was a basic drought of these sorts of appearances through the 70s and 80s. Perhaps the target demographic died off, or perhaps sometime between Vietnam and Ronald Reagan, the national game show palate drifted toward pure "entertainment." Who wants to hear John le Carré muse on the Cold War when you’d rather shut your brain off over an episode of The Newlywed Game?
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November 6, 1995
Stephen King vs. Jeopardy!
The Celebrity Jeopardy! invitationals of the 1990s (which inspired the iconic series of Saturday Night Live sketches) chose Stephen King and Tom Clancy as literary representatives. By this time, celebrities playing for personal winnings was seen as gauche, so the beneficiaries were charities. King appeared twice: once in 1995, and once in 1998.
For his first appearance, King squares off against actors David Duchovny (The X-Files) and Lynn Redgrave (Georgy Girl, Gods and Monsters), playing for the benefit of the public library in Bangor, Maine. King immediately goes for the category "Fictional Characters," giving correct answers—in the form of a question, of course—about Sherlock Holmes and Jane Eyre. Generally speaking, Duchovny rules the first round (not all categories are as dignified as "Fictional Characters," which sits alongside "Rhyme Time" and the bloodcurdling "Bird TV") until King unearths the Daily Double (under "The Bible") and bets nearly everything—and prevails—on a John the Baptist question. The round ends with Duchovny in the slimmest of leads, King right behind him, and Redgrave in the negative numbers (she appears to be having trouble operating her buzzer).
Stephen King, Sony Pictures Television/Jeopardy Productions, Inc.
King's demeanor is reserved but confident. He's wearing his signature county coroner/bachelor science teacher-style glasses, a black suit, and a salmon dress shirt/90s-pizzazz tie ensemble. He's focused and not given to jokes or displays of emotion. If it were a To Tell the Truth episode, you would immediately peg him as the writer. Duchovny riffs occasionally, clearly having the most fun, and Redgrave is mostly frustrated, obviously knowing many of the answers but unable to use her buzzer effectively.
In the Double Jeopardy! Round, Duchovny takes commanding lead. King falters on questions about Baghdad and typhoons, but secures big-money ones about Woodrow Wilson and Oscar Wilde. As we enter Final Jeopardy!, Duchovny sits at $9,900, King at $5,700, and Redgrave at $3,500.
With the category "Business & Literature," King and Redgrave bet everything; Duchovny bets nearly all. The answer is revealed: "On March 24, 1994 this store held a breakfast to announce the new Truman Capote Literary Trust." King correctly responds, "What is Tiffany's?" Redgrave guesses "Brentano's" and Duchovny, "Rizzoli's," which, at the very least, demonstrates a familiarity with New York City bookstores. King snatches victory from Duchovny in this final moment, earning $11,400 (roughly $19,000 today) for the Bangor Public Library. There were apparently no hard feelings because King went on to write an episode of The X-Files ("Chinga") in 1998. (In 1998, in his second Jeopardy! appearance, King faced off against Robin Quivers and Regis Philbin, narrowly losing to Quivers in Final Jeopardy!)
King must have enjoyed his time on Jeopardy!, as he returned in 2018 as a "celebrity clue reader," and categories devoted to his work have often popped up in seasonal play. As a writer who regularly references pop culture, King has mentioned Jeopardy! with some frequency. At the very least, he's worked it into The Stand ("'Do you remember Jeopardy!, Stu?' Smiling a little, he said: 'And now here's your host, Alex Trebek'"), Black House ("that made him feel like he'd walked into a combination of a raunchy blues bar and a Jeopardy! championship"), Dreamcatcher ("'It's going to fuck with the ratings of Jeopardy! And Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, I can tell you that') and the short story "The Moving Finger" (which contains an extended riff on the concept of Final Jeopardy! in relation to life and death).
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The King and Clancy appearances on Jeopardy! feel like more of a last hurrah than a resurgence of the phenomenon. The only non-Jeopardy! author appearance I could find, post-1980, was Twilight's Stephenie Meyer on Project Runway in 2012, a program more accurately categorized as a seasonal, reality competition show and Meyer was not a contestant. Therefore, unfortunately, as a culture, we've been denied from seeing George Saunders on American Ninja Warrior, Zadie Smith on The Weakest Link, J.K. Rowling on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, or Colson Whitehead on The Price Is Right.
However, Jeopardy!, with its basic focus on trivia over personality, seems to remain as the last domain for the author as a game show contestant. In an updated version of Celebrity Jeopardy! called "Power Players Week," Jonathan Franzen appeared on May 16, 2016, playing, perhaps predictably, on behalf of the American Bird Conservancy. Despite being gifted with categories such as "Birds of a Feather" and "The Corrections," Franzen lost to CNN's S.E. Cupp by a factor of six. It is impossible to say when we'll next see an author delivering such a spectacle, but the odds are high that when we do, it will be in a Jeopardy! studio.
Sean Gill is a writer and filmmaker who won Pleiades’ 2019 Gail B. Crump Prize, The Cincinnati Review's 2018 Robert and Adele Schiff Award, the 2017 River Styx Micro-Fiction Contest, and the 2016 Sonora Review Fiction Prize. He has studied with Werner Herzog and Juan-Luis Buñuel, documented public defenders for National Geographic, and other recent work may be found in The Iowa Review, McSweeney's Internet Tendency,and Michigan Quarterly Review.
