Comedy can be about more than making people laugh. It can also make them think. In my book, some of the best in the game, like George Carlin and Richard Pryor, knew that. Stephen Colbert tried to walk that line, and ultimately lost — his network television talk show, anyway.

Sure, the official explanation from CBS for canceling not just its star, but “The Late Show” itself, was perfectly reasonable: It was the economically sensible thing to do. We’re talking about a model that has been losing money after competition from streaming services and podcasters, bloggers and more diminished the reach and sway of the once reliable format.

But despite its protestations to the contrary, CBS had to be sending a signal when, without first trying to trim expenses, it unceremoniously canceled the No. 1 late-night show soon after its host criticized the network’s $16 million settlement with Donald Trump over a “60 Minutes” episode, a battle most legal experts thought was a sure-fire winner for the network.

It didn’t matter, not when there was that merger involving parent company Paramount on the line.

Trump knows how to flex his muscles, so he took a victory lap on social media, crowing about Colbert and lining up his next targets. Why not? He didn’t have to have a good case against CBS or one that made constitutional sense, not when networks and many law firms, universities and pretty much every GOP member of Congress are willing to obey in advance — or worse, try to figure out what Trump desires before he’s uttered a word.

In history — and the United States of America has not been immune — popular entertainers have always made a tempting target.

I got a reminder when I recently viewed “Blacklisted: An American Story.” The traveling exhibit created by the Jewish Museum Milwaukee and expanded by the New York Historical, where it is on view through Oct. 19, has plenty of examples of careers upended and lives destroyed.

In a statement that begins the display, Louise Mirrer, president and CEO of the New York Historical, writes that the exhibit “can seem almost contemporary in its exploration of the intersection of politics, economics, arts and the social dynamics that impacted American First Amendment rights.”

We’ve heard of the most famous caught in the 1940s, 1950s and beyond, when anxiety over domestic influence of the Soviet Union led the House Un-American Activities Committee to call entertainment figures from Hollywood to testify, to name names of friends and colleagues or risk everything.

Some had been members of the Communist Party, not a crime when many artists and writers who had found the ideals of economic and racial equality attractive after the Depression leaned into left-wing causes. It was legal — and for a while, remember, the Soviets were an ally.

But paranoia gripped the country during the so-called Red Scare, and it was no coincidence that any organization that espoused something as admirable as economic or racial justice came under suspicion.

Even jokes were not safe. The powerful hate mockery, especially when it cuts close to the bone. And those in charge then or now have never been accused of having a sense of humor about themselves.

One interesting note I learned at the museum show: Comedy actually saved actress Judy Holliday, who played her outwardly dim (but in reality clever) character of “Billie Dawn” from the play and film “Born Yesterday” when called to testify on Capitol Hill. Her wordplay and wit flummoxed lawmakers, who just couldn’t keep up with one smart woman.

But that was an exception, as the purge often wrapped itself in patriotic fervor, with any criticism of America or its leaders deemed subversive. The super-wealthy joined with politicians to rid themselves of pesky union threats or citizens asking for relief from crushing debt.

Sound familiar?

Movies now judged classic — the holiday favorite “It’s a Wonderful Life” and the much-awarded “The Best Years of Our Lives,” which showed the effects of war on those who fought it — came under criticism for their depictions of bankers as “villains.”

Were TV shows scrutinized?

One canceled show was hosted by the popular and accomplished jazz pianist and singer Hazel Scott, who in 1950 became the first Black woman to have her own television show. It lost sponsors after her name was listed in “Red Channels,” a red-baiting publication, whose place has been taken by websites and blogs that today sling scurrilous accusations at those with few ways to defend themselves.

Several other museum-goers, making a stop on their way to a “No Kings” rally that day, joined me in noticing the parallels, ones that were clear even a month ago.

It’s not that I’m mourning “The Late Show,” the latest to face the wrath of a president. I don’t regularly watch CBS or any other network past my bedtime. And I’ve never had much interest in the cutthroat lobbying whenever a late-night anchor chair opened up. With few exceptions (I see you Trevor Noah, Samantha Bee and Amber Ruffin) the chosen one is usually going to be a white guy, especially one nurtured by “Saturday Night Live” guru Lorne Michaels. Or, in Colbert’s case, Jon Stewart. Those guys have lots of options.

It’s what one TV show’s cancellation represented.

Bend to the will of a man and an administration — or else the insults, the firing, the loss of a research grant, the deportation order, you name it, will follow.

The threat of what could happen is enough.

That’s how it starts.

Mary C. Curtis has worked at The New York Times, The Baltimore Sun, The Charlotte Observer, as national correspondent for Politics Daily, and is a senior facilitator with The OpEd Project. She is host of the CQ Roll Call “Equal Time with Mary C. Curtis” podcast. Follow her on X @mcurtisnc3.