Tag Archives: journalism

CNN’s ‘Tragedy Porn’

Capture Break NewsRarely has a major news organization drifted so far from reporting and toward endless speculation, leaving its in-studio experts adrift in a fog of awkward conjecture.  

No one watching screenwriter Aaron Sorkin’s portrayal of television news in the The Newsroom should assume it’s a documentary.  But after witnessing the last few months of output from CNN, the HBO drama series is more prescient than perhaps they intended. In the first season of the show has management at the fictional Atlantic Cable News (ACN) scrambling to end a ratings slide toward oblivion.  A third of its audience has abandoned it.  After a lot of handwringing abandoning journalistic standards, managers reluctantly decided  to reign in hard-hitting coverage of the most consequential news events of the day, including a potentially catastrophic flirtation by House Republicans to allow the United States government to default on its debt. Instead, the network decided to the match the decision of Nancy Grace at HLN Cable to devote most of its time to reviewing footage of the Casey Anthony trial.  Anthony was charged with murdering her child in 2008.  Grace has made a career by wringing out all the melodrama she can imagine from videos of actual court testimony.

Sorkin titled this episode on the network’s turn toward sensationalism “Tragedy Porn.”  And true to form, for ACN and  a real CNN more recently, the decision was a ratings bonanza.

There are several journalistic variations on the old P.T. Barnum quote about never underestimating what will attract American audiences.  One form is “If it bleeds, it leads.”  Another is that no one should underestimate bottom-feeding journalism as a way to attract viewers.  What we want to know often trumps what we should or need to know.

Our case in point is the March 8 disappearance of the Malaysia Airlines jet after departing from Kuala Lumpur International Airport.  Over seven weeks the network ignored significant and important stories in America and Europe to pile on continuous hours of speculation about where the plane was, and why it disappeared.

To be sure, the disappearance of the plane is and was a significant story.  In our age of transponders and satellites we are simply not prepared to lose commercial aircraft without a trace.  And yet an intense hunt for what most presumed would be a visible debris field somewhere between Malaysia and southern China never appeared.  Even as the days passed, and in the absence of any proof the airliner had been found, the network went forward with its coverage.  For seven weeks hosts asked questions. Experts guessed.  Reporters interviewed each other.  And “B” role footage of distraught families looped almost continuously.  Rarely in recent years has a major news organization drifted so far away from reporting toward endless speculation, leaving its in-studio experts adrift in a thick fog of awkward conjecture.

Other broadcasters initially used as much as one-third of the airtime for the story, according to Andrew Tyndall, who reliably tracks such things.  But no network so clearly succumbed to what media critic Bob Garfield called CNN’s “long slide from hard news to morbid infotainment.” As with its coverage of the trials of O.J. Simpson and Michael Jackson, or its recent fascination with a disabled and sewage-soaked Carnival Cruise liner, the network suddenly seemed incapable of putting together more than one thought at a time. CNN could have justifiably changed its call letters to OCD.

Never mind the Russian invasion of Crimea, the collapse of what had appeared to be promising Mideast talks, or the deadly collapse of a mountain that wiped out a town in Washingon.  Instead, the network instead busied itself with discussions of the Boeing 777 cockpit, or that idea that planes might be sucked into black holes, or idle speculation about what it meant that one of the pilots had a computer flight simulator at home.

The simple answer to CNN’s abandonment of its reputation as a serious international news source is that the story was good for ratings.  This explanation is in line with network chief Jeff Zucker’s stated desire to come up with “a fresh definition of what news is.”  The idea of pushing a story into a bogus imitation of a thriller is hardly novel to Americans. The fun of watching the “Tragedy Porn” episode of The Newsroom is that it gave us a hopeful view that serious journalists would indeed squirm when asked to forsake the meaningful for the lurid.  In the process, as Tyndall noted, “CNN seriously undercut its reputation as the go-to place for major news.”

Writing History Without the Soundtrack

Double DownTwo recent and widely reviewed political books are clear reminders of just how frail our civil life has become. Double Down by Mark Halperin and John Heilemann (Penguin, 2013) and This Town by Mark Leibovich (Penguin, 2013) offer riveting but off-putting accounts of the twin challenges of winning national elections and taking on the responsibilities of governing. Leibovich focuses on the unique customs of high level politicos who move back and forth between K Street offices and various high-level federal jobs. Halperin and Heilemann have provided a re-election sequel to their account of the 2008 campaign, Game Change. Reviewers have rightly praised both books for their thorough research and breezy readability. These writers have listened to their sources, and are good at weaving interviews into compelling stories. In both cases it’s clear that they have done about as much as a reporter can do using “background” rules (sources remain mostly unidentified) to flesh out their narratives. Those who talked wanted to be a part of the record, even though the dominant impression is of political elites infatuated with the intricacies of political strategy. Members of the Washington pundit class are nothing if not addicted game-players.

Even so, anyone using these books as snapshots of our recent history is bound to be struck by how much our national affairs journalism continues to be dominated by narratives that tell rather than show. As a campaign history, Double Down is especially notable for how little space is given to what Barack Obama and Mitt Romney actually said in the sprawling campaign of 2012. Direct quotes come infrequently, and then as just a few select words from much longer speeches. Statements by the candidates—even ones billed as “major” policy addresses—are either ignored or used to illustrate an awkward gaffe. These books dwell on moments when the candidates made comments that violated some strategic goal the campaign team had fashioned for a given day.

So we learn that the GOP challenger was prepared to give “a major economic address” in Detroit, partly to address accusations that had dogged him that he didn’t care about the auto industry. But the reporting in Double Down never really gets to the speech. For this and many other similar events it is preoccupied with backstories about botched planning and advance work. The authors duly note that the setting in a mostly empty stadium was an advance-planner’s nightmare. In addition, Romney was apparently tone-deaf to what his words would mean:

The drafting of the speech had been a replay of CPAC, only worse. The version Romney saw that morning was such a mess, it lacked any mention of the auto  industry. . . .With no time for a run-through, he took the stage and opened  with an ab-lib. “This feels good, being back in Michigan,” he said. “I like the fact that most of the cars I see are Detroit-made automobiles. I drive a Mustang and a Chevy pickup truck. Ann drives a couple of Cadillacs, actually.” (e-location, 4510)

The deeper implication of this example—that Romney had nothing to offer but some ill-considered pandering to the crowd—contributes to a book that is less than a history than one long paraphrase. We get to hear nothing more of this and many other addresses. The equivalent in non-fiction film would be an account where the narrator never pauses long enough to actually hear what the subjects of the film are actually saying.

This kind of “strategy” writing emphasizes the maneuvers and counter-maneuvers of political agents as they jockey for favorable position within a power structure. Tactical mastery is suggested in reporting about favorable poll numbers for a candidate or cause, or a perfect one-liner as a pivot out of a tight spot, or a media “buy” that leaves another candidate without time to reach tv viewers firmly locked to their sofas. A given moment has “winners” who press their advantages on “losers”—usually by having more money, better access, or news of a favorable poll . The lesser candidate is relegated to a dead corner on the game board.

Revealingly, in their own 1992 study, Spiral of Cynicism, the University of Pennsylvania’s Kathleen Jamieson and Joseph Cappela confirmed that about 67% of all political broadcast and print stories tilted toward strategy reporting. Stories about the strategic intentions of a candidate are easier to write than accounts explaining what a candidate thinks. Though lamented by journalism think tanks and critics, no one believes this preference for strategy over policy has changed much in the intervening years.

I’d like to be able to say that it was different when Theodore White was writing his influential campaign volumes in the 1960s. White’s Making of the President series is a benchmark for the kinds of exhaustive campaign recapitulations that now regularly show up in bookstores a few months after an election. But he was also immersed in long back-story chronologies, though he gave the campaign process a greater sense of complexity. The irony is that this kind of reporting tends to turn our leaders into relatively minor players in sprawling multicharacter dramas of palace intrigue. Even Shakespeare sensed the appeal in making politics less about ideas than the daily struggles of the powerful. His plays are filled with kings and courtiers struggling to master the machinery of their own re-invention.

All of this suggests and perhaps contributes to the widespread suspicion that public discourse is easily dismissed. But in response to the view that “rhetoric” deserves the “mere” that is frequently placed in front of it, there is an easy retort: What would we substitute in its place? If we wish to enrich our understanding of the process, how can it possibly help to render mute the principals who seek to lead? Even if they come heavily discounted by their receivers, their words truly matter.

Gary C. Woodward