News As Entertainment/Entertainment As News, by Paul Shirley

News As Entertainment/Entertainment As News, by Paul Shirley

In the spring of 2003, I was playing basketball for a team in Barcelona, Spain.  My brother Dan was living with me; we spent much of my off time scouring the neighborhood fruit stand for the perfect strawberry and wandering the narrow alleyways of the Barri Gotic.  In between, we kept in touch with home by way of our email addresses and illegally downloaded episodes of Scrubs.

At that time, the Internet was a friendly add-on to my life, but it hardly dominated my worldview.  It was like the Lincoln Logs my brothers and I played with as kids – fun for a while, but eventually it was time to put it all away.

Sometime that spring, pictures surfaced that showed my college basketball coach, Larry Eustachy, posing with college kids at parties.  At first, the story was merely amusement.  Isn’t this funny?, people thought.  A short time later – what seemed like only hours to me – and people were calling for Eustachy’s job.  What had initially been viewed as slightly questionable behavior for a middle-aged man turned into an indictment of college athletics, alcohol, and university pay scales.

Eustachy was eventually fired, which probably had more to do with his hefty contract and feuds he’d had with the standing athletic director than people realized.  But ostensibly, he was fired for having beers with college students.  I was disappointed, so much so that I wrote an editorial defending Eustachy in the Des Moines Register.  I hadn’t even liked him that much.  But I failed to understand how the same people who had once celebrated Iowa State victories (of which there were many) could justify their vitriol toward a man who’d committed no actual crimes.

Thus, the power of the Internet, I learned then.  The benign force that my brother and I used with such glee was the great polarizer.  It took stories that weren’t all that important, twisted them, and turned them into tales of woe.   Or terror.  Or scandal.

News was no longer just news.  The old days were gone.  It was easy to point at the Internet as the facilitator for this new approach to information.  But in actuality, the progression had begun long before.

When I was a child, my parents were told the news by Dan Rather or Tom Brokaw.  I don’t remember which because I wasn’t paying that much attention.  I was probably being forced against my will to put away the aforementioned Lincoln Logs.  What I do remember was hearing “Beirut”, “Nicaragua” and “President Reagan said today that…”

But more than anything, I remember how those words were delivered.  The middle-aged man on the screen was stern, but comforting.  Like a teacher.  Or a well-read uncle.  Those news anchors did not editorialize – they provided no hint as to their views on a particular subject.   They might have cracked a grin at an entertaining human interest story.  But in general, they delivered the news with an even-handed approach.

And, sure, CBS and NBC and ABC had an interest in selling ads during their news half-hours.  And the news they chose to share was filtered, limited, and likely given to the viewer with a decidedly pro-America bent.  But there was a sense – at least in my still-developing brain – of responsibility to the way the information was delivered.  The networks seemed to have called a truce when it came to the news.  They seemed to be saying, “We’ll fight over Cheers and The Cosby Show, but let’s try to keep the way we deliver the news reasonable.”

Then, along came cable television and CNN and MSNBC and Fox News.  Suddenly, the people delivering the news were saying what they thought about that news.  They had to.  There was simply too much time to fill.  And the viewers – who had long wished that their Brokaws and Rathers and Jenningses would show some emotion – loved it.  Stars were created.  Ad space was bought.  And like the unholy spawn of an orc and a goblin, news as entertainment was born.

Suddenly, the political views of the messenger were just as important as the message.  It was no longer enough to report that there had been a bombing on the Gaza Strip – now we needed to know why.  And we needed to know it quickly.  It didn’t matter that there might not have been a ‘why’ or that the ‘why’ was open to interpretation.  What mattered was an answer, and a fast one.

Time went by, the model proved lucrative.  Cables were run, computers were linked.  The Internet age was upon us.  Information, available at the press of a button.  Very quickly, those selling that information learned how best to do so.  Long, overdeveloped opinions on foreign affairs: Out.  Snap judgments on the meaning of a primary poll: In.

At first, it wasn’t so bad.  We trusted the names we knew.  But eventually, our desire for the sensational took over.  Regular news stories were too boring.  We were only interested in stories accompanied by bright red graphics that read “BREAKING NEWS”.  Those selling the ad space figured out our weaknesses.  Everything – steroids in baseball, babies held over railings, the deaths of B-list models – became breaking news.

We thought we knew what we were doing.  We could separate reality from fiction, we said.  But goddamn, that Wall Street Journal is boring.  Summarize for me.  Tell me what to think.  I don’t have time for all this considered opinion bullshit.

And here we are.  We think in sound bites.  We process in fragments.  Sentences are too long.  Read me the headline.  On second thought, don’t even read it to me.  Just tell me what you thought it said, and I’ll take your word for it.

Which would be fine, except that we aren’t yet equipped for this setup.   You see, when those of us who use the Internet most were growing up, we were taught about the power of journalism.  We learned that a free press is what keeps the government in check.  What keeps corporations from dominating our lives.  As kids, we learned how reports on conditions at mental hospitals changed minds.  We were taught that The Jungle was more than a story about Lithuanian immigrants.  Woodward and Bernstein were the heroes, not Richard Nixon.  We were taught that the pen is powerful and that journalists have a noble cause.

Therein lies the problem.  We see information presented as news and think, “I should pay attention to this – I’ve been taught that journalists are good and helpful to keeping me safe.”  And they are.  The problem is that now, those journalists have multiplied.  Some of them are doing the good work that journalists do.  But more are entertainers in journalists’ clothing.  They’re better at figuring out what keeps an audience coming back for more, and not so good at accurately or fully reporting on news stories.

Some say that members of the media have a bias.  Most, that that bias is liberal.  I would say that the bias is toward stories that can be turned into entertainment.  That is, the bias is a sensational one.  In an effort to turn stories into entertainment, they are sensationalized.

It is tempting to blame those entertainers or to blame the corporations supporting their behavior, but they aren’t the real problem.  Sure, they provide a tempting forbidden apple.  “Watch us, listen to us, read us.  We won’t make you think.  We’ll make this really easy.”  But to blame others is shortsighted. To blame a corporation for trying to make money is like blaming an E. Coli bacterium for causing diarrhea.  That’s what E. Coli does, if it’s put in the wrong place.

No, the blame lies, of course, with us, for reacting as we do.  We haven’t yet caught up to the Internet’s many ways to fool us.

Making matters worse: While our computers have become linked, we’ve actually grown more isolated.  That isolation leads us to a search for community.  But the community we find isn’t real.  It’s anonymous.  We aren’t held accountable for our actions.  When we find a common enemy – whether it’s an album, a movie, or Fred Durst, circa 2001 – we attack, and quickly.  Afterward, we feel good; we’ve unloaded our anger on someone or something else.  In the process, we become the mob we thought we’d banished to the past.

As members of that mob, we decide, almost unknowingly, that quality information isn’t that important.  We pretend that we’re more informed thanks to the Internet.  And while it is true that we have more information, more information does not equal more informed.  Especially when the information isn’t pure.  That is, untainted by opinion, presentation, or influence.

Lack of pure information, and the erosion of the ability to form one’s own opinions led to fictitious nightmares like Orwell’s 1984 and The Matrix.  But it also led to not so fictitious ones like the USSR, Iran in 2009, and North Korea for the last 50 years.  In those cases, though, the problem was usually the withholding of information.  What we face in the United States, as I write this, isn’t about the withholding of information.

No, we face the specter of information as a revenue source, and the accompanying manipulation of that information, as we give in to basic desires – escapism and a mob mentality.

Oddly enough, the above paragraph probably could have been written after the advent of the printing press, the radio, or the television.  I’m sure that a man named Elmer, when faced with the prospect of buying a radio for his family in Oklahoma, used many of my arguments to convince his children that playing outside would serve them better than would an hour with Hopalong Cassidy.

But it seems like there’s something different about the Internet.  That information can be interpreted and disseminated so quickly is the Internet’s great gift, but also its great curse.

The lack of responsibility its sites sell is so tantalizing.  And we’re tempted to give in.  We’re tempted to think more about what’s easy, and less about what matters.

What matters is universal health care or not, the Supreme Court’s zany decision on campaign finance, and the Great Recession.  But those topics aren’t fun ones – they aren’t easy ones.  What’s easy is demonization, polarization, non-thinking.  What’s easy is entertainment as news, or news as entertainment.

What’s hard is reading the whole story and then asking oneself who stands to benefit from the two, or three, or ninety-seven different interpretations that might be made.

But doing what’s hard is what makes us human.  Because we did the mental heavy lifting required, we’ve built great civilizations, created great art, and figured out ways to (at times) live in harmony.  Now isn’t the time to stop.

We live in an age of luxury. We live somatic existences, calmed by our generally pleasant jobs and our generally pleasant lives.  We assume that, as long as we don’t make any waves, we’ll be rewarded.  We assume that someone will take care of us; that, because it’s always been this way, it always will.

Unfortunately, our complacency could lead to our ruin.  Our intolerance of dissent might lead to single-mindedness.  Both lead to places I don’t think any of us want to be.

Thankfully, there is a solution.  It’s one with which we’re all intimately familiar, but one with which some of us have had only a fleeting relationship.

That solution:  To think.  And then to question.  And then to discuss.

As humans, we’ve been doing those things for thousands of years.  We’re built for them.

So, the next time you’re tempted to take someone’s word for it, don’t.  The next time someone says, “We don’t discuss politics at the table,” tell them that’s what the table is for.  The next time you’re tempted to oversimplify an entire position in a few words, think of Larry Eustachy and of Bob Woodward.  Tell someone to read the entire column, or see the whole movie, or watch the whole play.

Tell them to think for themselves.  And then tell them that if they don’t, the bacteria win.

And no one likes diarrhea.