Amid roars of the egos, TV parties on

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By ERIC DEGGANS, Times Television Critic

© St. Petersburg Times, published December 17, 1999

James Murdoch passed a heavy hand over his face and set down his drink, leaving a wispy ring of moisture on the fine antique desk that dominated his den.

On the wall before him stretched the image of a titan: his father Rupert, immortalized in a vivid oil painting that dressed him in a neat black tuxedo -- his lips drawn into a pained smile that made his rugged face look as if it were about to crack into bits and fall off the canvas.

At times like this, after a few scotch and sodas, James couldn't help remembering the last, great evening they'd spent together in the 20th century.

It was decades ago. A time before his dad bought ABC, NBC, CBS and every other broadcaster that mattered; before the government grew tired of pretending and merged with the family business; before he took his father's place at the helm of a corporation that quite literally ran the Western Hemisphere.

Back then, at the turn of the new century, Daddy Rupert's News Corp. controlled only the Fox network, Fox News Channel, 20th Century Fox studios, HarperCollins publishers, the New York Post and more.

So, when he decided to throw a grand, money-is-no-object kind of millennium party to celebrate TV's exciting past and explosive future, who dared say no?

By then, James was heading the company's new media concerns, striding into the party at his father's shoulder, expecting another boring corporate function.

The first sign things would be different: Some big guy with a truckload of gold chains around his neck and an afro mohawk stood at the mansion door as they entered the party, his wide biceps and barely disguised sneer screaming "bouncer" louder than any sign could.

James watched as the big guy pressed a script he'd written into his father's hand, muttering "I pity the fool that don't cast me in this" -- whatever that meant.

Inside the cavernous space, a wild crowd of showbiz legends, has-beens and never-weres mixed together, drawn by News Corp.'s already growing power. Daddy Rupert pointed to two old men in the corner pointedly avoiding each other.

"Sid Caesar and Milton Berle," Murdoch said, dryly. "They started it all -- the first TV variety shows, the first stand-up comics to build their stardom on TV and the first really big fights over who got top billing."

Bill Maher, Chris Rock and Dennis Miller sat by one of the fireplaces, trading quips with George Carlin and Richard Pryor. Maybe it was the margaritas, but Carlin kept shaking his head saying, "What's the point? I mean, you can actually say the f-word on the air! Where do you go from there?"

A moment later, Bill Cosby had pulled Rock aside, passionately arguing why he should stop cursing onstage. How could Cos know that, five years later, the Fox network would take advantage of coarsening TV tastes to offer Rock his own prime time CBS holiday special, (Expletive deleted) You, It's Christmas?

James felt a cold sprinkle on his shoulder, looking over to see another famous son; the only child of famed TV journalist Edward R. Murrow -- looking just like his father with a trademark cigarette in one hand, a gin and tonic spilling onto the carpet from the other.

Murrow's kid had Diane Sawyer, Geraldo Rivera and Barbara Walters backed into a corner, bellowing that their empty-headed focus on celebrities and self-promotion was destroying his father's legacy.

Good thing Walter Cronkite was standing between them, or there might have been some real fisticuffs.

Out by the bandstand, Steve Allen and Jack Paar talked longingly of the days when totally unattractive, awkward white guys ruled as the most powerful performers on TV -- back when Jack Webb was a sex symbol and Ed Sullivan was the nation's hippest judge of musical talent.

They couldn't see David Letterman and Johnny Carson a few feet above on a nearby balcony, aiming a balloon filled with water at Jay Leno's oversize head.

Onstage, a stellar cast of TV-created music stars assembled to ring in the millennium, with the Blues Brothers (featuring James Belushi filling in for long-gone brother John) and a reunited Beatles jamming with The Monkees (who knew Davy Jones could wail like that onRevolution 9?).

Gerry Thomas and Robert Adler sipped their drinks quietly. As the inventors of the TV dinner and remote control, respectively, the men shared a common shame: assembling products that forever changed the TV culture, while helping keep couch potatoes eating bad food in front of the small screen for longer stretches than ever before.

At poolside, a small circle had formed near one of the wet bars. Pushing through the crowd, James nearly stumbled over a passed out Jerry Springer, flat on his back, flanked by Oprah Winfrey and Rosie O'Donnell.

The two women could barely contain their laughter as they scrawled "I'm a depraved, opportunistic pig" on his face in black marker. James wondered if it would wash off in time for his next show.

But it wasn't all bad times. Gathered around a leather-trimmed pool table, All in the Family creator Norman Lear swapped stories with The Simpsons mastermind Matt Groening, as both chuckled at how much truth could be found in a flawed, caring American family.

Waves of laughter poured from the den, where the casts of Monty Python's Flying Circus and Saturday Night Live sat around a TV watching old Ernie Kovacs tapes, pointing out where each had ripped off the early master of absurdist comedy TV.

Looking back, it seemed Daddy Rupert definitely succeeded in crafting a star-filled send-off for the 20th century, James thought, smoothing back his graying hair as he turned away from the old man's painted visage.

But more than that, he had distilled perfectly the mix of anarchy, celebrity and ego that always had -- and James knew always would -- fuel the world's most powerful entertainment medium.