Once upon a time…
…late-night talk shows were the domain of live music and shiny guests hawking a movie, song or something else that needed bright lights and anecdotes to promote.
People played nicely together on cool TV sets with chic sofas. The host was always charming and self-effacing enough that you welcomed their scripted banter into your living room way past your bedtime. And it was certainly mine.
To the wide-eyed, sleep-deprived ten-year-old me, these shows felt like a sequinned hug. My favourite host was Don Lane. Tall. American. Classy. And the undisputed doyen of after dark chat shows in Australia for ten glittering years between 1975 and 1983.
Fast forward to 2025 and the late-night format is unrecognisable. We still have the desk, the stars and soft furnishings – but the opening monologue? We’re not talking throwaway lines that prep us for the guests and their well-oiled stories. Now the race is on to see how many times you can mention the latest Presidential gaff in five minutes.
Somewhere along the line, talk shows have morphed into political mosh pits fuelled by overworked gag writers who pen punchlines to throw at suits in power. Again and again.
It seems that, no matter how much glitz sits in those comfy chairs, or how many stories are told to the Pavlovian studio audiences, this beleaguered format is now just a mouthpiece that gobbles up ugly headlines and spits them out as entertainment.
And that’s showbiz? No. It’s a philosophy. My Phylosophy.
© Phyllis Foundis 2025