Describing Taylor Tomlinson as a prodigy is not an overstatement. Still in her twenties, she cemented her status as a top-earning touring stand-up comic, was chosen to lead a late-night program (CBS’s After Midnight), and developed a volume of material that many of her peers might take a lifetime to create. Her early start, committing to comedy by age 16 as a Christian comic, certainly contributed to her rapid ascent.
“I’m 32 now and I’ve been doing this for half of my life,” Tomlinson reflects. “It’s crazy to think about.”
In the decade since Tomlinson distanced herself from the church comedy circuit — and the church itself — her engagement with religious themes in her comedy has fluctuated. However, this topic takes center stage in her fourth Netflix special, Prodigal Daughter, which debuted on the streaming platform on Feb. 24. She even filmed the special inside a church. Yet, consistent with Tomlinson’s personal and professional evolution, her perspective on the subject has matured.
“When I revisit earlier jokes I made about Christianity, I find them quite harsh compared to this hour,” she states. “This special approaches it with more nuance, playfulness, and even affection.”
During a recent appearance on The Hollywood Reporter podcast I’m Having an Episode (Spotify, Amazon Music, Apple), Tomlinson delved into her new special, the difficult choice to leave the late-night hosting role she enjoyed, and which entertainer she’d switch lives with for a day. (It’s surprisingly not Beyoncé — and for a very clever reason.)
Early in Prodigal Daughter, you mention your team was concerned about you focusing too heavily on religious content in this special and tour. Were these concerns valid? And, if so, what specifically worried them?
My team has never interfered creatively with my work. So, that’s a slight overstatement. When we were naming the “Save Me” tour and designing the artwork, which featured me with crosses and such, I think their main point was, “Alright, can we ensure people understand it’s not exclusively about that? And that we’re not just criticizing religion the entire time?” And we aren’t, but I understood their perspective. Once they saw the full hour, they grasped it. Their role is to consider things from a marketing angle, so they were simply doing their job. If you look back at my previous specials, all my jokes about religion stemmed from a deeply hurt place due to my upbringing. I carried a lot of resentment towards many things I was taught and told growing up in the church, and I had to process a great deal of that.
You famously began your career on the church comedy circuit. From what little I know, these comics are typically middle-aged, married white men. You were 16. What was your act like then?
Honestly, it wasn’t great. (Laughs.) It was filled with jokes about skipping prom, feeling like a misfit, feeling unattractive, and observational humor about my family. Obviously, I lacked life experience. A lot of my jokes were apologies for my youth, because I could sense the audience’s apprehension — which I think is completely justified. I’d be nervous if a 16-year-old got onstage and declared, “I’m a comedian.” I believe I was quite self-aware back then, and perhaps that was a strength. But, clearly, I wasn’t good. People always ask about starting in churches because it’s such an unusual origin story, and for years I was embarrassed by it. Part of the growth in this new hour involves me discussing it in a way that shows gratitude and appreciation, rather than shame and embarrassment.
But how many of your peers can claim they were performing at 16? You didn’t have many options for venues, I imagine it was largely limited to churches and coffee shops?
Absolutely, one hundred percent. I was doing school fundraisers and similar events. I probably did some corporate gigs because my material was clean. What it taught me, though, was that there were many avenues to earn money as a stand-up comedian. You don’t have to solely perform in clubs — or theaters, if you’re fortunate. You can be a corporate comedian, a church comedian, a cruise ship comedian. Performing clean for those first five years likely strengthened my writing skills. I used to feel very ashamed of my comedy background, but now I think it’s actually quite unique and cool, and probably benefited me greatly.
Having performed in churches, for corporate events, on cruises, in clubs, and arenas; which audience proved the most challenging or unforgiving?
It really depends on the corporate event. You always anticipate a difficult crowd, and then sometimes they’re surprisingly receptive. “Wow, didn’t see that coming.” You’re essentially just an entertainer for hire; you go in knowing that. But if you manage to succeed, you feel like an incredible comedian. I’d say cruise ships are particularly tough because everyone essentially sees you for free. You’re just another available activity on the boat.
You’re like a water slide.
Exactly. And you’re not as fun as a water slide. Most people were there with their families or celebrating anniversaries, and I was around 21, talking about the weirdness of dating. I typically relied heavily on crowd work on cruise ships. The other comedian performing with me would have an entire hour focused on that specific cruise ship. And I remember thinking, “Oh man, I am not good at this.” I believe those were the hardest for me. Churches, if your material is clean, are generally quite pleasant, but you must be impeccably clean. I’m not talking about material that just gets approved by The Tonight Show; I mean absurdly clean: no innuendo, no mild swearing, nothing too dark or negative. But if you can adhere to those boundaries, the audience tends to be very supportive.
Taylor Tomlinson in Taylor Tomlinson: Prodigal Daughter.
Todd Rosenberg/Netflix
I’ve heard you mention that it was tough to forgo the income when you transitioned away from church work. Without being impolite, what kind of earnings does a successful church comedian typically make per show?
I never reached the point of selling tickets at churches, so I genuinely don’t know those figures. But I can tell you, when I was 21 and opening for prominent church comedians, it was around $1,000 per show. That was a significant amount to walk away from. At one stage, I told my manager I couldn’t do church gigs anymore: “Just don’t even inform me if offers come in.” The last one she mentioned was $3,000 for about 30 minutes. When you’re 22, have two TV credits, and aren’t selling your own tickets, that’s quite remarkable. That’s a lot of money. But I simply couldn’t do it. I’m not a Christian, and I’m not what they believe they’re paying for.
As your public profile has grown considerably, particularly when discussing personal matters on stage concerning yourself, friends, and family, have you needed to redefine any boundaries regarding what you’re willing to share?
I’m not sure if it was for this hour or Have It All, but there were some jokes I performed — an entire segment, about eight minutes worth — that focused on a relationship I had with a family member. They were landing really well, and I was proud of them. However, I started dreading telling them every single night. I just thought, “You know what? I don’t actually need to do these.” I’m writing my own script here. What I say up there is entirely up to me. So, I simply stopped doing them and instantly felt much better. When I was younger, you’re so desperate for material that connects, and so desperate to make it, that if you create a strong joke that consistently works… You feel like, “Well, I have to do it. I have no other choice. I must perform it.” As you mature and gain more confidence as a comedian, you realize, “Alright, I’ll find something else to say. It’s okay.”
I wanted to discuss After Midnight. You chose to leave to concentrate on stand-up. Then, CBS announced the show’s cancellation. A few months later, CBS also canceled The Late Show With Stephen Colbert, effectively signaling a major shift, if not the end, of late night as we’ve known it. It’s a lot to process.
Isn’t that wild? I was stunned they canceled Colbert. I’m curious what you think about the current state of late night.
I understand that it’s a very challenging financial model to operate with. But given that there’s still such a high standard of prestige and quality, that reasoning alone feels like an easy excuse. That’s just my take.
It’s interesting how the argument often is, “Nobody wants to watch people just talk.” Yet, people are consuming hours of conversations on podcasts on YouTube, and now even Netflix. I’ve been doing all these podcasts, and it’s also fascinating because you visit some studios and it’s… it’s essentially a TV show. They have a team of eight or nine people, 20 lights, and a beautiful set.
Returning to After Midnight, could you elaborate on that decision and those final months?
It was difficult. I had already decided I couldn’t return before the show was officially renewed. It was a somewhat confusing timeline because the decision for renewal had been made, but I wasn’t aware of it. So, it wasn’t as simple as, “They told us, ‘You’re being renewed,’ and I responded, ‘No, thank you.'” That’s not what happened. And that show was incredibly enjoyable to do. Our writers’ room was fantastic; they came up with so many different games and jokes for various guests in every episode. I truly couldn’t have asked for a better group of people to work with daily, and I was excited to be in a position to host it three days a week while still being able to tour. From the outset, I always maintained, “If I can manage both, I will do both.”
It simply reached a point where I was touring, doing press for the show, actively working on the show, and dealing with some health issues. I just couldn’t sustain both endeavors anymore. I so desperately wanted them to just hire someone else to host it, because I believe there were so many comedians who would have been absolutely incredible hosts for that program. And it’s unfortunate that they didn’t pursue that direction because, over the two seasons we produced, we developed a format that CBS seemed pleased with. It’s a very different show than the one I initially signed on for, and I was genuinely happy with and proud of where we collectively brought it. The hardest professional decision I’ve ever made, by far, was not returning for a third season. But I simply couldn’t maintain the pace.
What surprised me about the cancellation was that the format seemed like a viable evolution for late night. Panel shows are less expensive and hugely popular in other countries, particularly the U.K.
I thought so too. I’m genuinely sad that it no longer exists, because so much dedication went into it. And it offered such a fantastic chance for comedians to reach a new audience, gain a TV credit, and craft jokes in a way that didn’t exhaust their stage material. I’m truly thankful I got to be a part of it for as long as I was. But when Colbert was canceled, it was like, “Holy shit, seriously? How much longer would we have even been on if they were going to cancel Colbert?”
Okay, I’ll let you go, but if you could swap professions with anyone in the entertainment industry for a single day… who would it be and why?
Perhaps Greta Gerwig, because I’m eager to find out what she’s planning with Narnia. The Narnia books were incredibly meaningful to us growing up. Maybe I would just walk around and try not to answer any questions. Is it like a Freaky Friday scenario — where I’m still myself but inside her body?
That’s a good question. No, you’re stepping in as yourself. Greta approaches you and says, “Listen, I need some dental work done. If you could just direct for one day, that would be fantastic.”
I love that you’re like, “By the way, Greta Gerwig does not want to trade places with you.” (Laughs.) I’m no longer switching places with her. I’m simply filling in while she gets a root canal.
She’s scheduled to perform stand-up later in the day, after the Novocaine wears off.
Understood. Okay, then [I choose] Greta Gerwig or, like, anyone who can truly sing. I just want to experience what that feels like. But you don’t want to say Beyoncé. Everyone picks Beyoncé. The downside is you’d then have to live the rest of your life knowing that feeling and return to being yourself. That might be absolutely devastating. That could destroy me.