Colbert's "Report" rapport still strong
The walls of "The Colbert Report" studio are plastered with letters and artwork of the show's fearless leader submitted by loyal fans. In one painted portrait...
The Associated Press
NEW YORK — The walls of "The Colbert Report" studio are plastered with letters and artwork of the show's fearless leader submitted by loyal fans. In one painted portrait, Stephen Colbert, astride a horse, is substituted for George Washington.
Colbert's desk is surrounded by leftover props and gifts from guests — a veritable record of the absurdity he's created from this place Jon Stewart calls "bizarro world."
This is where Colbert and his staff hatch plans for where they might next fling their bloviating, perpetually suit-clad creation. Like a malfunctioning heat-seeking missile, he might go anywhere.
Colbert may inject his character into politics and media. He's created a kind of satire in action, teetering between his self-made universe and an often equally absurd real world. It's a constant balancing act that last year nearly had him on the road to the White House.
"The Report" recently aired its 400th episode. In his hall of mirrors, reflections may be distorted, but never unflattering. A study has even shown that his self-declared "Colbert bump," an upswing in popularity for a politician after appearing on the show, is largely factual.
Colbert doesn't demand a particular agenda of anyone, only the tacit, wink-wink acknowledgment that most any agenda — and all the image-conscious apparatus behind it — is a bit absurd, don't you think?
His particular talent is in blurring reality while at the same time illuminating it. In a world where kids on MySpace trumpet a cult of personality just as politicians do on the stump, his act has larger reverberations.
We all have a truthiness.
Hastily finishing a sandwich at his desk, Colbert is busy. Lining the wall to his right are index cards of segments that may or may not make the week's shows.
"Mostly I know what I'm doing today and tomorrow and have an idea about the day after that," he says. "And tomorrow might change and I'm not sure about tonight."
"The Colbert Report" debuted on Oct. 17, 2005, with what might still be its biggest success — the coining of the term "truthiness." The term, which means a truth one feels in the gut rather than learns in books, was a home run in the first at bat that Colbert calls the "thesis statement" to everything that's followed.
"The Report" was then seen (and largely still is) as a parody of Bill O'Reilly's "The O'Reilly Factor" on Fox. While that was indeed the inspiration — a satire of conservative political punditry — anyone who's watched the show consistently knows that its tentacles of farce reach far beyond any simple spoof.
"People say, 'Aren't you going to be sad when Bush goes?' " says Colbert. "No. The show is not about that. The show is not about O'Reilly. The show is not about the shout fest. The show is about what is behind those things, which is: What I say is reality. And that never ends. Every politician is going to want to enforce that, or every person in Hollywood — every person."
Colbert, 43, grew up in Charleston, S.C., the youngest of 11 children in a Catholic family. In 1974, his father and two of his brothers were killed in an airline crash. His mother, Lorna, recently said of her son on South Carolina public television network ETV, "I can never nail him down as to exactly what he is" — which makes you wonder what hope the rest of us have.
In his nearly decadelong tenure, Colbert became a standout correspondent on "The Daily Show," and "The Report" was spun off by Stewart's company, Busboy Productions.
So far, Barack Obama has appeared on "The Report" via satellite and Hillary Rodham Clinton has made a quick cameo, but John McCain hasn't yet stopped by.
A politician's appearance on "The Report" certainly comes with risks. In a sit-down interview, Colbert memorably — and in a keen journalistic fashion — asked Georgia Congressman Lynn Westmoreland, who had lobbied for the Ten Commandments to be displayed in government buildings, to name them. Westmoreland managed only two and got one wrong, while Colbert sat patiently counting.
On camera, his devotion to staying in character is total, but off-camera he's himself: intelligent, relaxed and quick to laugh. Before taping episodes, he asks the studio audience if anyone has any questions "to humanize me before I say horrible things."
Many of the show's greatest hits have been entirely apolitical, like the "meta-free-phor-all" with Sean Penn, or singing "Go Down Moses" with civil-rights activist and politician Andrew Young, author Malcolm Gladwell and the Harlem Gospel Choir.
Since falling while running around his "C"-shaped desk and breaking his wrist, he's advocated "wrist awareness" by selling "WristStrong" bracelets. All proceeds go to the Yellow Ribbon Fund to assist injured service members and their families.
When asked how long he plans to keep wearing the band and stick with the joke, Colbert turned more serious than at any other point in our conversation. He replied firmly, "Not until the war is over."
That's about as close as Colbert comes to any kind of political statement.
Colbert compares himself to a "windup toy." Unable to plan ahead, he must always react to the news, to the initiations of his devoted audience and to his reflection in the media.
It's a clearly frantic, near-insane job ("I'm tired all the time," he admits) and one can't help but wonder how much longer Colbert — who lives with his wife and three kids in Montclair, N.J. — can keep it up.
When asked this, he puts his head down and is silent for a full 20 seconds. He finally breaks the quiet, "The short answer is, I don't know. The facile answer but maybe the true answer is, as long as it's fun."
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