On a hot August afternoon in 1993, I stood outside the Ed Sullivan Theater on Broadway and took in a scene of enormous excitement and expectation.
A massive crowd had gathered, around and under the famous marquee, and for a block north and south, extending across the wide, congested street as people milled about with their Kodak Insta-matics (no cell phone cameras in that era), looking to memorialize the moment.
A phalanx of satellite news trucks and vans were parked up and down the famous Manhattan thoroughfare, representing the national news networks, CNN, magazine shows like Entertainment Tonight and Inside Edition, as well as the local news divisions of New York’s television stations and even some from CBS-affiliated stations around the country, as close as Philadelphia and as far away as Phoenix.
Reporters from those outlets, as well as print reporters from newspapers all around the country, pestered staffers and the lucky people in the line that wound around 53rd Street to get into the premiere of Late Show with David Letterman, a bold—and expensive—move by CBS to finally become a real competitor in the late-night time period, to that point a goldmine in more or less sole possession of NBC.
When those with tickets had been ushered inside, after answering typically mundane/inane questions along the lines of “Why is David Letterman funny?” the reporters reached for any other slice of interest they could find. They interviewed Letterman fans holding up little paper plates shaped into Dave’s face and a couple trying to score a last-minute ticket by showing up in a wedding gown and tux.
Making the most of this moment of national attention was reporter Kevyn Burger from CBS affiliate WCCO in Minneapolis, who carted a box loaded with a 79-pound sculpture of Letterman’s head in butter from the Minnesota State Fair in hopes of presenting it to the host. After Letterman demurred via a staff member, it was placed on a platter like a benign-looking prop out of a Game of Thrones episode, and surrounded with chunks of bread for those inclined to dip from Dave’s head.
Letterman’s features were only identifiable for a short time because within an hour or so the butter-bust was a puddle of yellow matter thanks to the heat of a New York summer.
The atmosphere that day was happy and rowdy, a combination block party and rock concert. It was a celebration of the arrival of a star already established as the most accomplished late-night talent since the great Carson.
The location played a significant part. The Ed Sullivan Theater was unquestionably historic, a television temple that initiated cultural phenomena ranging from Elvis to the Beatles. But it was a decaying wreck before CBS bought it for Letterman with the promise of a restoration of its previous glory.
On premiere day for the network’s all-in effort to play in the big arena of late night, the classic old theater did indeed look glorious in the afternoon sun, a living monument to both the legend of Broadway and the big, exciting business of network television.
Today, at the same location, the mood will no doubt be more nostalgic; it will still be a celebration of sorts for the talented performer who succeeded Letterman, and who continued night after night to fill the orchestra and balcony seats of a landmark New York building. Fans of Stephen Colbert are no doubt lining the streets again, but surely with less joy in their hearts.
Disappointment has replaced excitement.
Farewells are always bittersweet. This one is going to leave a memorably sour taste.
Not just because the forced exit of this late-night star is playing like almost unprecedented political censorship. That element will always be attached to this decision, and vilified for it, both today and in the future. When the president of the United States publicly calls for a comic critic to lose his show and then spikes the football after the deed is done, the country is in new territory.
The Smothers Brothers saw their hit show canceled in 1969 because political pressure pushed their network (CBS, as well, as it happens) to fevered battles with the stars over censorship. But even Nixon had enough decency to skip out on whatever his version of a “Y.M.C.A.” twist of triumph would have been. (Trump’s warning that he has a “message” in store for Colbert sounds like a prelude to a chest-beating victory march.)
Beyond the politics, a part of what’s happening today in midtown feels like a cultural bomb blast that will spread noxious fallout in several directions. A television show that millions of people enjoyed will no longer be seen. An iconic arena that used to be filled, often with tourists who were drawn to the city by the opportunity to enter it and be entertained, will be emptied. A genre that was once both hugely popular and culturally relevant—as well as uniquely American—will be closer to extinction.
Stephen Colbert is a talented man who will relocate his distinctive voice elsewhere. It won’t resonate in the same way because he won’t still be speaking out on that particular platform, from that particular stage, in that particular spot on the map of what the Letterman opening introduction—post-9/11—always called “the greatest city in the world.”
Something of value and distinction is going to be missing.
Even a metaphoric bomb blast leaves a hole.
Get stories like this in your inbox: Sign up for LateNighter’s free daily newsletter.
