Hello Goodbye

I have some thoughts on the finale of The Late Show with Stephen Colbert. Actually, I have lots of thoughts, but I'm going to save the discussion of what this means for the future of late night and of CBS/Paramount (particularly Paramount+) for a later post—I might even do one specifically on the extraordinary career of Byron Allen and how he fits into all of this—and play TV critic for now.

If you haven't watched the final episode of The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, you should, particularly the last 10 minutes. It was extraordinary television. Even more so if you caught it over the air, because the medium of broadcast television is at least in part the message here.

Perhaps the biggest difference between broadcast and streaming media comes down to the distinction between personal versus shared experience. Watching something at the same time as millions of other people is very much a new idea historically speaking.

Our modern conception of time was largely shaped by two technologies: the railroad and mass communication. Up until less than 200 years ago, time was set and experienced locally. Noon occurred whenever the sun was directly overhead, and the fact that 12:00 in Memphis might be 11:30 in Oklahoma City was a matter of no great concern.

Trains led to time zones; then radios and televisions led to synchronization. The telegraph started the process, but it was the media that streamed directly into people's homes that had the big cultural impact.

That sense of experiencing the same news and cultural events at the same time peaked in the '60s. Soon after that came second-run syndication, home video, satellite, and finally streaming, all greatly diluting that feeling of synchronization. But even now, broadcast television can convey a feeling of sharing a moment, particularly moments of historic importance.

It is, of course, true that these newer technologies, plus things like gaming and social media, have eroded broadcast television's numbers, though it is important to note that the actual viewership estimates are far more complicated than most commentators admit or even realize (for instance, shows that first appear on broadcast television, like High Potential, often score streaming numbers that crush most of the streaming originals), and that this erosion has been far slower than most industry watchers predicted. In the late seventies and early '80s, it wasn't unusual to see people predicting that at least one of the big three networks wouldn't make it to the 1990s. Instead, the next two decades saw that number go from three to five.

It is safe to say that, back in the early '80s, few pundits would have guessed that two of the most consequential stories of American politics and media would involve not just broadcast television but the dinosaur format of the late-night talk show.

The Kimmel suspension was arguably the first time during Trump 2.0 when a major corporation, one that had readily complied, reversed its position and stood up to the administration. Disney realized it had more to fear from its own customers than it did from Brendan Carr.

Kimmel was a humiliating defeat for the administration; Colbert was a Pyrrhic victory. Forcing him off the air greatly amplified his message and burnished his reputation while inflicting considerable costs on the Ellisons and CBS/Paramount. Combine this with the self-inflicted damage that Bari Weiss has done to the once-respected and profitable news division, and it's safe to say that the company is worth considerably less than it was when David Ellison bought it with his father's money. If things continue going the way they have been, Byron Allen might end up owning CBS after all.

In terms of the legacy of both the show and the host, the cancellation was the best possible outcome.

For serious history buffs, the obvious analogy here is that The Late Show with Stephen Colbert is to the anti-Trump resistance as The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour was to the anti-war movement.

Somewhat unfairly, we remember that latter show almost entirely because of the circumstances of its demise. As long as historians study the anti-war movement and the counterculture, the Smothers Brothers will merit a section in the history books.

I think it was with COVID that Stephen Colbert truly stepped into the "America's dad" role. Every night we could have a Zoom call with a friendly middle-aged family man who openly shared our frustrations and our fears.

If anything, Colbert steered the show into this role of a traditional, reassuring, old-fashioned late-night talk show, sticking with the familiar format and reliably throwing in some dad jokes as the years progressed. This was perhaps best demonstrated by introducing the recurring segment with his wife, Evie. It was the sort of thing that could easily come off as cloying or fake, and I'm sure people who hated Colbert would have had that reaction had they watched the show. For fans, however, the exchanges felt spontaneous and charming.

Viewers and TV critics will inevitably go back and forth over the way the show wrapped up its run, particularly the last two episodes. In many ways, the penultimate episode would have been the more conventional send-off, with a star-studded lineup of guests honoring the departing host. By comparison, most of the actual finale was comparatively goofy and low-key.

The closing musical numbers were indicative of the two approaches. We could argue about where Bruce Springsteen and Paul McCartney rank in the pantheon, but obviously both are very close to the top. But while the caliber of the performers was comparable, the tone could not have been more different. "The Streets of Philadelphia" was and is a gut punch, at least for now the definitive protest song of the second Trump administration. The closing numbers of the finale were something quite different.

While the finale was not free of politics, the focus was on history, nostalgia, and an appreciation of what the show had been and what the theater that housed it meant.

I don't want to get overly nostalgic for the period, but the ability of broadcast television to create shared moments for a nation was probably exemplified by The Ed Sullivan Show more than by any other program. Ed Sullivan strove to make his show a cross-section of the best and biggest in popular culture. From plate spinners to avant-garde rockers, from vaudeville comics to George Carlin, from big Broadway dance numbers to Diana Ross singing "Love Child."

All of this came together perfectly in the last 10 minutes of the show, from its suggestion of the afterlife as a bunch of friends sitting around in the dark singing old songs (complete with an uncredited Jon Batiste and Elvis Costello) to the absolutely perfect number with Paul McCartney returning to the site of his American debut over 60 years ago, performing the apt "Hello, Goodbye," and closing with the image of the Ed Sullivan Theater disappearing and leaving a miniature replica inside a snow globe.