Everybody's a Critic

For a long time, nobody had any clue why Barbara Walters — who symbolized the gold standard of the TV news business — would dip her feet in the murky waters of daytime. This was the genre that gave rise to paternity tests, plastic surgery, and "too fat to wear." In 1983, a serious broadcaster named Sally Jessy Raphael started a talk show with the goal of tackling lofty societal issues. But a few years in, she caved and went the tabloid route. All her competitors were doing the same. Geraldo Rivera staged so many fights he ended up with a broken nose during an episode called "Teen Hatemongers." Maury Povich made a cottage industry out of unfaithful boyfriends. Jenny Jones was on a constant search for guests who didn't know their real daddies. Jerry Springer presided over a circus of angry misfits who threw chairs and fists. The nuclear arms race for smut TV was the complete opposite of Barbara's brand, as an erudite ambassador of world news — with access to everybody from Barbra Streisand to Mu'ammar Gaddafi.

Most daytime talk had evolved from Phil Donahue, who in 1967 launched his eponymous show that changed the culture. Donahue had no fear of boundaries or taboos — he tackled homosexuality decades before Will & Grace, once invited a Nazi to speak to an audience of Jews, and challenged a young Donald Trump about his real estate dealings. "We can't continue to give you guys these big tax breaks," Donahue scolded. Just as important, he taped his show in front of a live audience, taking their questions and concerns into living rooms across the country.

His no-holds-barred approach cleared the way for Oprah Winfrey, who duplicated the template. Winfrey had grown up in Chicago as a reporter who studied Walters on NBC's Today, imitating her interviewing techniques and style. When Winfrey landed her own nationally syndicated talk show in 1986, she gravitated toward education and information, emulating a best friend you can trust with your deepest secrets. By the midnineties, Oprah ruled the cult of stay-at-home moms with "remember your spirit" segments and book club recommendations. The inspirational programming made Winfrey the mightiest woman on TV, with up to 20 million daily viewers.

But in 1996, she finally got some competition. Rosie O'Donnell, a comedic actress from movies (Sleepless in Seattle, A League of Their Own, and The Flintstones), wanted to take a shot at her own talk show. She modeled her venture on a staple from her childhood: 1961's Mike Douglas Show, on which the squeaky-clean host chatted playfully with rising celebrities such as Aretha Franklin and Mel Brooks. Douglas was an early adopter of celebrity gab, an afternoon counterpart to The Tonight Show, which had started seven years before. In Rosie's reboot, the format stayed the same, but she revved up the pace with Broadway musical numbers, audience giveaways, and lengthy discussions about her crush — back when she was closeted — on Tom Cruise. As two of TV's biggest moguls, O and Ro built up their kingdoms, shaping pop culture and raking in fortunes.

Unlike soap operas, most talk shows are cobbled together quickly and inexpensively. There's no need for actors or too many writers toiling on scripts. The biggest expense is usually the host's salary, assuming he or she is a marquee name. Many of the giants in the industry started out small, such as Regis Philbin, who climbed into his seat on Live with Regis and Kathie Lee in 1988 after years as a local morning emcee in New York and LA. The measure of a successful host is genuine connection, imitating a BFF with jokes, self-help tips, and makeovers. It's not so easy, though. The daytime audience is impatient and fickle, with an appetite for sauce. Since Oprah's rise, an army of A- and B-list personalities have tried to mimic her — Katie Couric, Anderson Cooper, and Megyn Kelly (anchors); Queen Latifah and Harry Connick Jr. (singers); Roseanne Barr, Tony Danza, Megan Mullally, and Fran Drescher (sitcom actors); Kris Jenner and Bethenny Frankel (reality stars) — only to fall flat on their coiffed heads.

But if you make it, the job is lucrative. Advertisers embrace successful daytime talk shows because they reach stay-at-home moms, who typically control their family budgets and watch the programs live, even the ads. As a result, Ellen DeGeneres, Dr. Phil, and Kelly Ripa earn multimillion-dollar salaries, in the same range as movie stars such as Jennifer Lawrence and Brad Pitt. Above them, there's that short-tempered brunette with a gavel, Judith Sheindlin, who cashes a check for $47 million a year. Her courtroom series, Judge Judy, which started in 1996, isn't really a talk show, but it plays like Jerry Springer meets Matlock, with wounded plaintiffs battling over unpaid dues and broken promises. "I would have been so happy if we had done three years, and I had enough money to buy a condo two blocks off the beach of Miami," Sheindlin told me. "That was my dream."

Sheindlin's perch in daytime is so towering and profitable that she scoffed when she heard that Trump had been considering her for a vacancy to the US Supreme Court. "It must have been one of those moments when he wasn't thinking," Sheindlin said. "I have too good of a day job."

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By the midnineties, Barbara Walters was at the head of her class at ABC, carrying a hefty workload as the number one star of TV news. She served as the coanchor of 20/20, then a place for meaty investigations, cranked out Oscars specials, aired her 10 Most Fascinating People (which began in 1993 with Hillary Clinton at the top), and constantly outhustled her peers for exclusives. In 1995, she scored the first interview with a paralyzed Christopher Reeve, making headlines around the world. A year later, after the O. J. Simpson verdict, prosecutor Christopher Darden sat down with Barbara before anyone else.

Barbara grew up in New York and Florida, where she lived in a pistachio-colored house. Her father, Lou, ran a string of nightclubs, packed with showgirls and hit singers, which gave her early brushes with famous people — he was constantly socializing with the likes of Milton Berle, Johnnie Ray, and Frank Sinatra. "It made me the way I am," Barbara told me one day. "I'm not in awe of any celebrity." Her...