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Vinson Cunningham
A critic covering television
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Stephen Colbert had a pretty decent amount of time to plan the final broadcast of “The Late Show” last night. He got the news back in July, then shared it in turn with his audience, his face glistening with a still fresh coat of shock, betrayal, and wounded anger. He’d overplayed his hand with the biggies at CBS, calling them out for capitulating to Donald Trump, right in the middle of the network’s attempt to finalize a deal (now fatefully inked) with David Ellison’s Skydance Media—and he ended up with a cancelled show. I don’t think those ten months to plan helped him so much, though.
Photograph by Scott Kowalchyk / CBS / Getty
Here, at the end of the line—not just for his eleven-year tenure but for a long-lasting pillar of late-night network TV—Colbert seemed like he’d been asked to put a pretty face on a hastily arranged funeral. Lots of friends showed up, people like Ryan Reynolds and Bryan Cranston and Paul Rudd and the very funny Tim Meadows, all jokily vying to be the show’s official final guest. The other extant besuited desk dudes—Jon Stewart, Jimmy Kimmel, Jimmy Fallon, Seth Meyers, and John Oliver, the waning brotherhood for whom Colbert’s cancellation is not unlike a death in a very small, once great family—made a surrealist cameo about a greenish hole, some tear in the fabric of reality, that had opened up backstage at the Ed Sullivan Theatre, where the show has been filmed for many years.
Paul McCartney was there, telling stories about his old neighborhood and hawking an upcoming record. Colbert asked His Paulness if he’d ever met the Pope. Nope. “Oh, I have,” Colbert said, pretending to gloat. It was an awkward time, perhaps a fitting anticlimax for the beginning of the end of the late-night era. Colbert’s decision to make the show an only slightly more self-indulgent version of his usual fare felt like an acknowledgment that no spectacle he manufactured could hope to rival the spectacle of his firing, which revealed just how totally and readily the corporate media had bequeathed its dignity to Trump. Private greed and public decline: what nice twins!
Toward the end of the show, Colbert sang background for McCartney. Jon Batiste was there, too. They warbled out an effortfully energetic version of “Hello, Goodbye.” Celebrity—even the brightest, shiniest, and implicitly liberal variety—keeps losing its battles with the venal political powers that insist on giving us the blues. The song felt like one that might be performed on the deck of a quickly sinking ship.
For more: Read Colbert on one of his favorite New Yorker pieces ever.
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