It was a night of tears, laughter, and a standing ovation that lasted nearly two minutes. On Thursday, Stephen Colbert signed off from The Late Show for the final time, closing a chapter not just for late-night television but for a generation of viewers who turned to his sharp wit and empathetic monologues to make sense of a fractured world.
The studio audience, a mix of loyal fans and celebrities, chanted his name as the credits rolled. For many, Colbert was more than a host. He was a nightly companion through the chaos of politics, the pandemic, and the quiet struggles of everyday life. "He made us feel seen," said 54-year-old Sarah Thompson, a teacher from Ohio who travelled to New York for the taping. "In a time when everything felt so divided, he brought us together."
Colbert’s journey from Comedy Central’s bombastic pundit to the measured, often emotional host of CBS’s Late Show mirrored the evolution of American satire itself. He took over from David Letterman in 2015, inheriting a legacy that he quickly made his own. His monologues were less about punchlines and more about rallying points. He cried on air after the 2016 election. He hugged a grieving Parkland student. He turned his show into a safe space for sanity.
But the economics of television are unforgiving. Ad revenues have cratered. Streaming has fragmented audiences. The late-night format, once a goldmine for networks, now feels like a relic. Colbert’s ratings, while still strong, had slipped. Insiders say CBS pushed for budget cuts, and Colbert, ever the network man, chose to walk away rather than compromise the quality of his show or his staff’s wages.
The final episode was a masterclass in grace. There were no bitter goodbyes, no political rants. Instead, Colbert sat with his bandleader Jon Batiste, both men visibly moved. He thanked his crew, many of whom had been with him since the beginning. "They are the real stars," he said, his voice cracking. "They get up early, they work late, and they make sure this show says what it needs to say."
Outside the Ed Sullivan Theater, a crowd gathered under the marquee. They held signs reading "We’ll miss you, Stephen" and "Thank you for the laughs." Among them was 32-year-old James O’Malley, a retail worker from Brooklyn. "I work nights a lot, and his show was my link to the world," he said. "It’s like losing a friend."
The end of Colbert’s show comes amid a broader crisis in American journalism and entertainment. Trust in institutions is low. Local newsrooms are shuttered. Strikes by writers and actors have laid bare the precarity of creative work. Colbert was a union man through and through. He refused to cross picket lines. He paid his staff well. In an industry that often treats labour as disposable, he was a anomaly.
What replaces him is uncertain. CBS has not announced a successor. Some whisper of a rotating panel of comedians. Others fear a decline into cheap, AI-generated content. But for one night, the focus was on what was lost. As the lights dimmed, Colbert walked off stage, hand in hand with his wife, Evie. The audience rose again. The applause was deafening.
For those who watched, it was not just the end of a show. It was the end of an era when television felt like it could still matter, when a comedian could be a moral compass, and when a show built on labour and loyalty could still thrive. That era is over. But for a few hours on a Thursday night, it felt like it never had to end.
