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The ruined life of Charles Van Doren

July 2008 By Denny Hatch

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Charles Van Doren, 30, was rail thin with curly hair, a long face and finely chiseled features. I remember him as a truly gifted teacher: personable and exuding knowledge in a low-key, charming manner that made his every appearance in class a magical performance. On this daytime TV game show, he resonated so well with the studio and nationwide audiences that in November, 1956, he was given a shot at prime time as a contestant on “Twenty-One”—also hosted by Jack Barry and produced by Barry and his partner, Dan Enright.

During 14 weeks as a contestant, Van Doren went on a winning tear that took the country by storm, causing the show’s ratings to skyrocket and landing him on the cover of TIME magazine. I worked as a page at most of his “Twenty-One” appearances and was fascinated to see him morph from brilliant TV luminary to extraordinary teacher the following morning. On the show, Van Doren, wearing headphones, was mesmerizing—struggling with difficult questions in his glass isolation booth, sweating profusely and wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, grimacing and wincing convincingly.

On March 11, after winning more than $128,000 (a huge sum in those days), Van Doren was dethroned by Vivienne Nearing, an attorney for Warner Bros. Van Doren signed a $150,000-a-year contract with NBC to do commentary on various network programs, including regular appearances on “The Today Show.” He had become one of the most famous and admired men in the country.

I graduated from Columbia in 1958 and was drafted into the Army, completely losing touch with Van Doren’s career—and with television—during my two-year stint.

In 1959, it came out that the whole thing was a massive fraud. Van Doren had been fed the answers and meticulously coached on his delivery by the show’s producer, Albert Freedman.

As rumors began to surface that “Twenty-One” had been fixed, Van Doren denied it, lying to the district attorney and lying to Congressional Investigator Richard Goodwin. He went on to lie to a grand jury. “It’s silly and distressing to think that people don’t have more faith in quiz shows,” he told an interviewer.

Finally the plot unraveled, and Charles Van Doren was subpoenaed by Congress. On Nov. 2, 1959—with his young wife and old father looking on—he appeared before the House Committee on Interstate and Foreign Commerce and stunned the country by admitting that he had been fed the questions in advance. That day he was fired by NBC and resigned from the Columbia faculty.

As I read Van Doren’s remembrances in The New Yorker, the facts of the case came back to me, but I felt the account more properly should have been titled, “The Quiz-Show Scandal Lite.”

In 1959 I read the full transcript of his appearance before the committee and was bowled over. Today, in five minutes I found the transcript, downloaded it and reread after nearly 50 years. Charles Van Doren fell on his sword and spilled his blood and guts over two full broadsheet pages of The New York Times—an overpowering 3,345-word mea culpa with follow-up questions by members of the committee. “I have deceived my friends,” Van Doren told politicians and the country, “and I had millions of them.” It was horrific—this civilized, articulate, learned man publicly imploding.

A Life Destroyed by a Single Bad Decision ...
The two key paragraphs of Van Doren’s testimony before the House Committee:

Before my first actual appearance on “Twenty-one” I was asked by [“Twenty-One” producer Albert] Freedman to come to his apartment. He took me into his bedroom where we could talk alone. He told me that Herbert Stempel, the current champion, was an unbeatable contestant because he knew too much. He said that Stempel was unpopular, and was defeating opponents right and left to the detriment of the program. He asked me if, as a favor to him, I would agree to make an arrangement whereby I would tie Stempel and thus increase the entertainment value of the program.

I asked him to let me go on the program honestly, without receiving help. He said that was impossible. He told me that I would not have a chance to defeat Stempel because he was too knowledgeable. He also told me that the show was merely entertainment and that giving help to quiz contests was a common practice and merely a part of show business. This of course was not true, but perhaps I wanted to believe him. He also stressed the fact that by appearing on a nationally televised program I would be doing a great service to the intellectual life, to teachers and to education in general, by increasing public respect for the work of the mind through my performances. In fact, I think I have done a disservice to all of them. I deeply regret this, since I believe nothing is of more vital importance to our civilization than education. Whenever I hesitated or expressed uneasiness at the course events were taking during my time on the program the same sort of discussion ensued, and, foolishly and wrongly, I persuaded myself that it was all true. Freedman guaranteed me $1,000 if I would appear for one night. I will not bore this committee by describing the intense moral struggle that went on inside me. I was sick at heart. Yet the fact is that I unfortunately agreed, after some time, to his proposal.

In the end, Van Doren, the producer and other contestants were convicted of lying under oath to a New York grand jury. They received suspended sentences and did no jail time.

Van Doren told Alex Beam of The Boston Globe about “the time I fell face down in the mud” and was saved by a family friend, Encyclopaedia Britannica board member Mortimer Adler, who “picked me up, brushed me off, and gave me a job.” Van Doren moved his family to Chicago where he worked in relative obscurity for Britannica and ghostwrote some books. Now 81, he lives in the family homestead in Cornwall, Conn., and is an adjunct professor at the University of Conn. Torrington campus.

In 1994, the film “Quiz Show” was released, directed by Robert Redford and co-authored by former Congressional investigator, Richard Goodwin (now married to historian Doris Kearns Goodwin). As someone who was on the scene at the time, I can report the movie is absolutely on the money. The portrayals of Herb Stempel (John Turturro), NBC VP Bob Kintner (Allan Rich) and Mark Van Doren (Paul Scofield) are uncanny. In his New Yorker memoir, Van Doren relates that he was offered $100,000 to be a consultant on the film, but after multiple family deliberations and soul-searching, he turned Redford down.

Below are hyperlinks to the great quiz-show scandal of the ‘50s, including the complete transcript of Van Doren’s appearance before Congress ($3.95 to nonsubscribers of The New York Times), his statement to the committee sans questions (free) and video clips as a contestant on “Twenty-One.”