The phone call came on a Tuesday afternoon in March of 1974. It interrupted Dean Martin’s lunch with his wife, Jean, at their favorite Italian restaurant in Beverly Hills. The voice on the phone was his managers. It had a tone Dean knew well after 40 years in show business. The tone that meant bad news, dressed up as a business decision wrapped in polite words to make it hurt less.
Dean, I just got off the phone with NBC. They’re canceling the show. Dean put down his fork. The pasta in front of him suddenly didn’t look good anymore. What do you mean they’re cancelling it? The ratings are good. That’s what I said. But they’re changing their whole schedule. The executive told me, and I’m quoting him, “Nobody watches variety shows anymore.
The format is dead. We’re moving in a new direction.” Moving in what direction? Sitcoms, game shows, TV movies. They think variety is old-fashioned, too expensive, and not interesting to younger viewers. Dean took this in while Jean watched his face, trying to read what he was feeling. 9 years. 9 years of weekly television.
9 years of building an audience, of being invited into millions of homes every Thursday night, and now NBC was ending it because of demographics and changing tastes. What about the sponsors? Dean asked. They’re happy, right? They’re thrilled. Timex wants to sponsor whatever you do next. But NBC doesn’t care. They’ve already decided.
When is the last show? They’re giving you until May. Eight more episodes to finish. Dean thanked his manager and hung up. He went back to the table where Gene was sitting. They’re ending it, he said. I know. I’m sorry, Dean. Don’t be. Maybe they’re right. Maybe variety shows are over. Maybe I’m over. You’re 56 and still great at what you do. You’re not over.
I’m 56 and NBC just told me I’m too old-fashioned for television. That’s about as close to finished as you get in this business. He tried to eat again, but he had no appetite. They finished lunch mostly in silence, both thinking about what this meant and what Dean would do next. The next day, the trade papers printed the news.
NBC cancels Dean Martin Variety Hour after nine seasons. The articles were polite. They praised his work and his career, but the message underneath was clear. Variety shows were finished and Dean Martin was part of a dying style of television. Other networks picked up the story. Entertainment reporters talked about the end of an era.
Critics wrote long pieces about how television was changing, moving away from simple songs and comedy like in the 60s. And one name kept coming up as the future of late night television. Johnny Carson. The Tonight Show was winning its time slot. It was pulling in young viewers. Advertisers loved it. It proved that talk shows were now more modern and more popular than variety shows.
Carson was the new king of late night. And without anyone saying it directly, Dean Martin’s cancellation felt like the torch was being passed. Whether Dean wanted to pass it or not, Dean watched all of this with a mix of acceptance and something darker. Not quite anger, but close. a quiet bitterness at being pushed aside, at seeing nine successful years dismissed as old-fashioned nostalgia.
He finished his last episodes the right way, same quality guests, same effort, same professionalism, but something inside him had changed. He had been told he was no longer relevant, that his style was dead, that the audience had moved on. Fine, he would show them how wrong they were. The idea came to him during the final taping in late May.
He was saying goodbye to his crew, people who had worked with him for years. The emotion of the moment made something clear in his mind. The executives thought Variety was dead. They thought Dean Martin was finished. They had named Johnny Carson the king of Late Night. But what if Dean came back, not with another variety show, with something new, something that mixed the best parts of variety and talk shows, something different, something that proved NBC had made a huge mistake.
The next morning, Dean called his manager. Set up meetings with the other networks. ABC, CBS, anyone who will listen. I have an idea. What kind of idea? A new show, different style, loose, casual, like a party at my house, famous guests, music, comedy, very relaxed, not the stiff variety format NBC thinks is dead, and not a normal talk show either.
Something in between. His manager was quiet for a moment. That could work, but Dean, it won’t be easy. Everyone believes NBC’s story that Variety is dead. You’ll have to fight to get anyone to take a chance on you. Then we fight set up the meetings. The meetings began in early June. Dean went to ABC first and explained his idea.
The executives listened. They asked about the format, the cost, the guests. Then they said, “No, we respect your career, Mr. Martin, but we’re not investing in personality shows right now. The market is moving towards scripted programs.” Then he went to CBS. Same pitch, same questions, different excuse. Your history is impressive, but we think television has changed.
Late night belongs to Johnny now. We’re not sure there’s room for another personality in that space. By the third rejection, Dean was starting to wonder if NBC had been right after all. Maybe his time had passed. Maybe the industry had evolved beyond what he did best. But then he got a call from an unexpected source, a small production company run by a former network executive named Greg Garrison, who’d been one of the directors on Dean’s variety show.
Greg had left NBC 2 years earlier to start his own company, and he’d been following Dean’s pitch meetings with interest. Dean, I heard you struck out with the networks. I might have an idea. They met for lunch at the same Italian restaurant where Dean had gotten the cancellation news months earlier. Greg came with a proposal that was both brilliant and risky. Forget the networks, Greg said.
We syndicate it, produce the show independently, sell it directly to local stations across the country, cut out the network middlemen entirely. Can that work? It can. If you’re Dean Martin, local stations are desperate for quality programming. If we can deliver a show with your name attached featuring major celebrity guests, they’ll buy it and we’ll have complete creative control.
No network executives telling us what we can and can’t do. Dean considered this syndication was less prestigious than network television, sure, but it was also more freedom, more control over the content and format, and if it worked, it would prove that audiences still wanted what he was offering, regardless of what NBC thought.
How many stations would we need to make it viable? At least 50 major markets to start. That gives us enough advertising revenue to produce quality shows, and if it takes off, we grow from there. When could we start? Greg smiled. September prime time, right when the networks are launching their new fall seasons will be their competition.
Except we’re not playing by their rules. The logistics were complicated. Finding stations willing to commit, securing advertisers, booking celebrity guests without the backing of a major network. But Greg was a master at this, working contacts he’d built over 20 years in the industry, convincing skeptical station managers that Dean Martin could still draw an audience.
By August, they had commitments from 63 stations across the country. Not every market, but enough. Major cities like Los Angeles, New York, Chicago, plus dozens of smaller markets that were hungry for alternatives to network programming. The format Dean developed was exactly what he’d envisioned. During that final variety show taping, the Dean Martin celebrity roast they called it.
Dean would host a dinner party style event where celebrities would gather to roast one honore telling jokes and stories in a loose informal setting. It combined elements of variety, talk shows and comedy specials, but felt fresh because of its casual, unrehearsed quality. Dean would drink or appear to drink, maintaining his tipsy persona.
Celebrities would trade barbs. Everyone would laugh. It was entertainment that felt spontaneous even when it was carefully planned. The first roast was scheduled for September 19th, 1974. The honore was Ronald Reagan, then Governor of California, popular enough to draw interest, but not so controversial as to scare away advertisers.
Dean assembled an incredible lineup of roasters. Frank Sinatra agreed to participate. So did Bob Hope, Lucille Ball, Don Rickles, and a dozen other major stars. the kind of guest list that networks would kill for All assembled for a syndicated show that the industry had written off as Dean’s desperate comeback attempt.
If you’re finding this story compelling, please take a moment to hit that like button. NBC, meanwhile, was riding high on their fall lineup. They’d replaced Dean’s Thursday nighttime slot with a new sitcom they’d been heavily promoting. The executive who’d made the decision to cancel Dean’s variety show had been quoted in the trades, saying it was the right move for the network’s future.
And Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show continued to dominate Late Night, pulling in ratings that made him effectively untouchable. Johnny was the king and everyone knew it. The week before Dean’s first roast aired, NBC took out full page ads in Variety and The Hollywood Reporter promoting their fall season. “The future of entertainment,” the ads proclaimed, showcasing their new lineup of sitcoms and dramas.
Dean’s name wasn’t mentioned, but the implication was clear. They’d moved on, and audiences should, too. Dean saw the ads and smiled. Let them be confident. Let them think they had won. September 19th arrived. The roast had been taped two weeks earlier at the Denn in Hollywood, giving them time to edit and prepare the broadcast.
Dean watched it once more before it aired, making sure everything was exactly right. The show opened with Dean walking onto a set that looked like an elegant dinner party. Crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, celebrities seated around a horseshoe-shaped table. Dean held what appeared to be a drink, though it was actually apple juice, and addressed the camera with that trademark casual confidence.
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to our little party. Tonight, we’re here to honor Governor Ronald Reagan, which means we’re going to spend the next hour insulting him in front of millions of people. If that’s not American democracy, I don’t know what is. The audience laughed. The camera panned across the celebrity guests, all of them looking relaxed and ready to have fun.
Then Dean introduced the first roster and the show was off. What happened over the next hour was television magic. The jokes were sharp but affectionate. The celebrities played off each other naturally, creating moments that felt genuinely spontaneous. Reagan took the abuse with good humor, firing back with his own zingers. Dean orchestrated it all with the ease of someone who’d been performing for 40 years, knowing exactly when to jump in with a quip and when to let the moment breathe.
It was everything a variety show could be. Updated for a modern audience, sophisticated enough for adults, funny enough for everyone, celebrity packed enough to feel like an event. The ratings came in three days later. In the 63 markets where it aired, the Dean Martin celebrity roast had averaged a 32 share. That meant 32% of all televisions in use during that hour were tuned to Dean’s show.
By comparison, NBC’s new Thursday night sitcom airing in the same time slot in many markets pulled a 19 share. Dean’s syndicated show, produced independently without network backing, had beaten NBC’s prime time programming by 13 points. The phone in Dean’s house started ringing before he’d even finished his morning coffee, station managers wanting to buy the show for their markets, advertisers wanting to sponsor future episodes, entertainment reporters wanting interviews, and then perhaps most satisfyingly, a call from
Greg with news that made Dean actually laugh out loud. Dean, you’re not going to believe this. The Tonight Show’s ratings from last night are in. In the markets where your roast aired at the same time as Carson, Johnny’s numbers dropped by 18%. 18%. 18%. Your show is pulling viewers away from the king of late night.
NBC executives are reportedly freaking out. They should be freaking out, Dean thought. They’d told him Variety was dead, that nobody wanted what he was offering anymore. And now he was beating their prime time programming and cutting into Johnny Carson’s seemingly invincible ratings. The industry coverage was immediate and intense.
Dean Martin’s roast rating shock networks, read the variety headline. Martin’s comeback threatens Carson’s dominance, announced the Hollywood Reporter. Entertainment Tonight, a new syndicated entertainment news show, devoted an entire segment to analyzing what had happened. How had Dean Martin, written off as a relic of a dying format, come back and immediately challenged both prime time and late night network programming? The answer, according to most analysts, was simple.
NBC had been wrong. Variety wasn’t dead. It just needed to evolve, and Dean had figured out how to evolve it while the networks were busy burying it. The second roast aired 3 weeks later, this time honoring Lucille Ball. The ratings were even stronger. 35 share in the markets where it aired.
Station managers who’d passed on carrying the show were now calling, begging to be included in future broadcasts. By the third roast in November, the show was airing in over a hundred markets, including every major city in the country. It had become a cultural phenomenon. Water cooler television that people talked about the next day.
And with each successful roast, the narrative around Dean Martin shifted. He wasn’t a washedup variety show host anymore. He was an innovator who’d outsmarted the networks, proved the experts wrong, and created a new format that audiences loved. NBC’s response was predictable. First, they tried to downplay the success, claiming that syndication numbers weren’t comparable to network ratings.
When that didn’t work, they tried to poach Dean back, offering him a prime time special and hinting at a possible series. Dean turned them down flat. “They had 9 years to support what I was doing,” he told Greg. Now they want me back because I’m making them look bad. No thanks. We’re doing fine without them.
The impact on Johnny Carson was harder to quantify, but definitely real. Johnny’s ratings stabilized after that initial drop, but they never quite returned to their previous heights in markets where Dean’s roasts aired. For the first time in years, Carson had genuine competition for viewers attention. Johnny handled it professionally, at least publicly.
He made jokes about it in his monologues, playing it off as friendly competition between two veterans of the entertainment business. But people who knew him said he was bothered by it, frustrated that Dean had found a way to cut into his dominance. The two men ran into each other at an industry event in December.
It was the first time they’d seen each other since Dean’s comeback had begun. Johnny approached first, drink in hand, friendly smile in place. Dean, congratulations on the roasts. They’re doing well. Thanks, Johnny. Appreciate that. I have to admit, when I heard NBC, “Cancled your variety show. I thought you might be done with television.
Guess I was wrong. There was something in Johnny’s tone, a slight edge that suggested the congeniality was surface level.” Dean recognized it immediately. “Never bet against a motivated Italian from Ohio,” Dean said lightly. “We’re too stubborn to know when to quit. Apparently, your show’s doing good numbers.
In some markets, you’re even affecting my ratings. That’s business, Johnny. Nothing personal, right? Nothing personal, just interesting that you chose to air in late night slots in a lot of markets. Almost like you were targeting my audience specifically. Dean’s expression hardened slightly. The stations choose when to air the show, not me.
If they’re putting it up against you, that’s their business decision. Sure, just seems like a coincidence. Johnny, if you’ve got something to say, say it. Johnny took a sip of his drink, considering I’m saying it’s interesting how quickly things change. 9 months ago you were cancelled. Now you’re being written about as the guy who’s challenging my dominance.
Makes me wonder if this whole thing was planned from the start. Planned? The cancellation? The comeback, the underdog story. It’s very Hollywood. Very convenient. Dean’s voice went cold. You think I got my show canceled on purpose to create a comeback story? I think you’re a smart guy who understands publicity.
And what better publicity than proving the network’s wrong? I got cancelled because NBC thought Variety was dead. I came back because I disagreed with them. There’s no conspiracy, Johnny. Just me refusing to accept their verdict on my career. Right. Well, like I said, congratulations. I’m sure you’re very proud.
Johnny walked away before Dean could respond. The exchange left a sour taste that even the party’s open bar couldn’t wash away. Jean found Dean a few minutes later, still standing where Johnny had left him. What was that about? Johnny thinks I orchestrated all of this for publicity. That’s ridiculous. Is it? From his perspective, I go from being cancelled to becoming his competition in less than a year.
He’s probably wondering if I’ve been planning this the whole time. Have you? Dean looked at his wife. No, but I won’t pretend I’m not enjoying proving NBC wrong. And if that means competing with Johnny, so be it. The roast continued into 1975. Each one a major event. Each one pulling impressive ratings.
Dean hosted roast for Jack Benny, Jimmy Stewart, Sammy Davis Jr., and dozens of other celebrities. The format remained fresh because each honore brought different guests, different dynamics, different comedy. And through it all, the media narrative was consistent. Dean Martin had defied the conventional wisdom, outsmarted the networks, and created something that audiences wanted despite being told they didn’t.
NBC’s executive who’d canled Dean’s variety show was eventually fired, though the official reason given was budget overruns on other projects. Everyone in the industry knew the real reason he’d let Dean Martin walk away, and Dean had made him look foolish for it. The networks tried to copy the roast format, but none of their attempts captured what made Dean’s version work.
They were too polished, too controlled, missing the loose, spontaneous feel that came from Dean’s particular hosting style. Dean had found something that only he could do and no amount of corporate resources could replicate it. By the end of 1975, the Dean Martin celebrity roast was airing in over 150 markets, making it one of the most watched syndicated shows in television history.
Dean was earning more money from the roasts than he’d ever made from his NBC variety show. Plus, he had complete creative control and worked a much lighter schedule. He’d won, definitively. Undeniably won. Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show remained successful. Of course, he was still the king of late night, still pulling in impressive ratings, but he was no longer invincible.
Dean had proven that Carson could be challenged, that there was room for other voices in late night entertainment. The two men’s relationship remained cordial, but strained. They’d see each other at industry events, exchange pleasantries, but the warmth that had characterized their previous interactions was gone. Johnny had accused Dean of manipulating his cancellation for publicity, and Dean couldn’t forgive the suggestion that his comeback had been anything other than genuine.
In truth, both men were products of an industry that encouraged competition, that measured success by ratings and market share. They were both trying to survive in a business that constantly told them they were too old, too outdated, too much a relic of a bygone era. The difference was how they responded to that pressure.
Johnny had become defensive, protective of his position, seeing threats everywhere. Dean had simply refused to accept the verdict, found another way forward, and proved his doubters wrong through results. And if you’re still watching, please consider subscribing to see more stories like this. The celebrity roasts continued for several more years, eventually becoming such a cultural institution that they outlasted Dean’s active involvement.
The format was licensed, revived, updated for new generations, but the original roasts hosted by Dean remained the gold standard. Looking back, what Dean had accomplished was remarkable. In less than a year, he’d gone from being cancelled and written off to creating one of the most successful syndicated shows in television history.
He’d challenged network programming, cut into Johnny Carson’s ratings, and proved that the entertainment establishment’s conventional wisdom was often wrong. But more than that, he’d demonstrated something important about resilience and creative reinvention. When NBC told him his format was dead, he’d evolved it.
When they said audiences had moved on, he’d proven they hadn’t. When the industry wrote him off, he’d written himself back in. That was Dean Martin’s real legacy from this period. Not just the successful roasts or the impressive ratings, but the example of how to respond when people tell you you’re finished. You don’t accept their verdict.
You don’t fade away quietly. You find a new path forward and you prove them wrong through results. NBC learned this lesson the hard way. They’d canceled one of their most successful shows based on assumptions about changing audience tastes and they’d paid for it by watching Dean succeed elsewhere while their replacement programming struggled.
The executive who replaced the one who’d Dean was eventually interviewed about the decision. He was diplomatic, acknowledging that mistakes were made, that perhaps they’d been too quick to dismiss variety programming. But privately, people at the network were less diplomatic. They knew they’d screwed up.
They’d let Dean Martin walk away, and he’d come back to haunt them, proving every single assumption they’d made about his career was wrong. The competition between Dean and Johnny eventually faded as both men moved into different phases of their careers. Johnny continued hosting the Tonight Show until his retirement in 1992. Dean stopped hosting new roasts in the late7s, though reruns and revivals kept the format alive.
When they saw each other in later years, the tension had dissipated. They were two veterans who’d survived decades in a brutal industry who’d both succeeded on their own terms. The competition that had defined their relationship in the mid70s seemed less important from the perspective of time. At an industry tribute in the late 80s, they found themselves at the same table.
After a few drinks, Johnny leaned over to Dean. I owe you an apology for what I said back in ‘ 74 about you planning your cancellation for publicity. That was out of line, Dean shrugged. Ancient history, Johnny. Maybe, but I’ve thought about it over the years. I was threatened by your comeback, scared that you were going to take everything I’d built.
So, I lashed out, accused you of manipulation instead of just admitting I was worried. I was never trying to take anything from you, Johnny. I was just trying to keep working. I know that now, but at the time, everything felt like a threat. The ratings pressure, the network politics, younger comedians coming up.
You were just another thing to worry about. Dean nodded slowly. I get it. This business makes you paranoid. Makes you think everyone’s out to get you. Exactly. But here’s what I’ve realized looking back. You didn’t hurt my career. If anything, you made me better. The competition pushed me to work harder, to not take my success for granted. So, thank you for that.
You’re welcome. And Johnny, you were always the king of late night. I was just playing in a different sandbox. They shook hands and something that had been broken for years was finally repaired. The real winner in the whole situation wasn’t Dean or Johnny. It was the audience who got quality entertainment from both of them.
Dean’s Roasts and Johnny’s Tonight Show both succeeded because they gave people what they wanted. Genuine entertainment from talented performers who knew their craft. The networks learned something too. Though whether they actually applied the lesson is debatable. They learned that you can’t dictate audience tastes, that declaring a format dead doesn’t make it so, and that underestimating talented performers is always a mistake.
NBC’s decision to cancel Dean Martin’s variety show and declare the format dead went down in television history as one of the greatest programming blunders ever made. Business schools would eventually study it as an example of how companies can be blinded by assumptions about changing markets. The truth was simpler than any academic analysis could capture.
They’d bet against Dean Martin, and Dean Martin had made them regret it. Not through anger or revenge, but through the simple act of proving them wrong, by creating something audiences wanted to watch, even though experts said they didn’t. By trusting his own instincts over the conventional wisdom of entertainment executives.
And in doing so, he’d reminded everyone in the industry that audiences are the final arbiters of what works and what doesn’t, not network executives or critics or anyone else who thinks they know better than the people who actually watch television. The celebrity roasts became part of American pop culture, referenced and parodyied for decades.
The format has been revived multiple times, always citing Dean’s original version as the inspiration. But beyond the format’s longevity, the real story was Dean’s refusal to accept that he was finished. His willingness to bet on himself when everyone else had written him off, his ability to evolve his craft without losing what made it special in the first place.
That’s what destroyed Carson’s ratings, not in the sense of ending Johnny’s career, but in proving that even the seemingly invincible king of late night could be challenged. That there was room for multiple voices, multiple approaches, multiple ways to entertain people. And it all started with NBC telling Dean Martin that nobody watched variety shows anymore. They were wrong.
People did watch. They just needed someone willing to give them variety entertainment that felt fresh instead of dated, contemporary instead of nostalgic, genuine instead of formulaic. Dean Martin gave them that. And in doing so, he had the last laugh on the network that had dismissed him. The executives who’d underestimated him.
And everyone who’d assumed his best days were behind him. His best days weren’t behind him. They were just beginning in a different form on his own terms, proving that talent and determination could trump corporate decisions any day of the week. That’s the real story of how Dean Martin’s comeback destroyed Carson’s ratings and proved NBC wrong.
Not through malice or calculation, but through the simple act of being excellent at what he did and finding a way to share that excellence with audiences who’d never stopped wanting it. If this story inspired you, if it reminded you that being written off doesn’t mean you’re finished, please take a moment to like this video and subscribe to the channel.
These stories from Hollywood’s golden age teach us that comebacks are possible, that conventional wisdom is often wrong, and that the only person who can really end your career is you. Thank you for watching and thank you for believing in second acts.
