Sidebars

Siskel & Ebert By Bob Sanders

Recent word that film critic Roger Ebert was ending his 33-year association with At the Movies meant the dropping of the other shoe. Battling thyroid cancer for four years and unable to speak for the past two, Ebert had already given up his seat in the balcony. Ebert’s announcement followed by two days fellow critic Richard Roeper’s decision that he, too, was leaving the show after failing to reach an agreement with owner Disney. 

It  was Roeper who was eventually chosen as a permanent co-host following the death of Gene Siskel in 1999. That’s when the show became Ebert & Roeper & the Movies, later changed to At the Movies with Ebert & Roeper. Disney last year had pulled the trademark thumbs-up/thumbs-down from the show, an identification Ebert co-owns with Siskel’s widow. 

I worked with both Ebert and Siskel meeting Roger in 1968 while employed by Playboy. Our introduction was by way of Dick Rosenzweig, Hugh Hefner’s right hand guy. 

Ebert had worked for the Champaign-Urbana News Gazette handling sports starting at age 15. After graduation (1966) from the University of Illinois, he joined the Chicago Sun-Times as a general assignment reporter while doing occasional movie reviews. Our meeting at the Playboy Mansion was to discuss The Big Bunny, a DC-9 being built for Hefner. As it turned out, Ebert’s movie plate became fuller before 1968 ended and he never wrote about the plane. I would have more to do with Hefner’s toy including the flying of an ape named Baltimore Jack from Johns Hopkins Hospital to Phoenix where a lonely simian named Hazel awaited to participate in primate cohabitation. More about that anon.  

Siskel & Ebert’s first go-round on TV—Opening Soon…At a Theater Near You” was taped at WTTW, Chicago’s public station. Working in public relations there, I became aware that while they got along better than, say, Abbott & Costello, Siskel & Ebert didn’t like each other much at all; mutual respect eventually, yes, but not much else. In truth, the friction developed into a winning chemistry. Evident on all their shows, it was a major factor in turning them into the most influential critics in their field. I recall trying to phone Roger during filming. Gene answered the call, the subject of food was introduced into the conversation and Siskel (handing the phone to his then portly partner) commented: “Here’s Roger who sure gets his four squares a day.” 

It was after moving to Field Enterprises (Chicago Sun-Times & Daily News) that I learned Ebert had little interest in appearing on radio and TV to advance his career. This was, as I later learned, in sharp contrast to Siskel. Some of Roger’s best writing involved his annual trips to the Cannes Film Festival where his coverage included a lot of funny stuff about film business eccentric “Silver Dollar” Billy Baxter. I once suggested he turn the material into a book that became Two Weeks in the Midday Sun: A Cannes Notebook.” I’m sure I wasn’t alone with the advice. 

The success of Siskel & Ebert could very well be measured by a booking I made of Siskel after I joined the Chicago Tribune in 1980. In spring of the next year, I got him an engagement for $5,000, damn good money in those days. A few months went by and I got a call from a realtors association who were having a meeting in tony Lake Forest. All he had to do was schmooze at a cocktail party, then talk for 20 minutes. When I called Gene to tell him of his good fortune, he very apologetically said his price had gone up to $7,500. The realtors quickly agreed and Gene presented me with a very expensive bottle of wine.

 A year after Siskel died of a brain tumor, I ran into Ebert in Hawaii at a book store in Oahu’s Wahiawa. He was there to autograph his latest work and, midway through the appearance, asked for questions. 

“Whatever happened to ‘Silver Dollar’ Billy Baxter?” was my query. Ebert’s answer and the way he delivered it was intriguing.  

Seemingly transported in time by the question to another time and place, Ebert spent a good 10 minutes providing rich anecdotal material about Billy Baxter whose “Silver Dollar” nickname was achieved by offering the coins as tips. Seemingly in a time warp, Ebert described Baxter’s unusual schemes for producing films and other aspects of his eccentricity. The critic finished by shaking his head as though he had been half a world away reliving those days in Cannes. It was Roger at his story-telling best giving impressive evidence of his then ability to communicate whether writing or speaking. 

“I want to thank you for that excellent question,” observed Ebert, who then began autographing books. Ebert, the first film critic to win a Pulitzer Prize (1975) never did tell us whatever happened to “Silver Dollar” Billy Baxter. Yoo-hoo, Billy, are you out there, somewhere? 

Following Ebert’s announcement that he would no longer be associated with the Disney-owned show, the entertainment firm announced the balcony seats will be filled in nepotistic fashion by Ben Lyons, a reporter for E1 News and son of film critic Jeffrey Lions, and Ben Mankiewicz of Turner Classic Movies. The latter is of the Writing Mankiewiczs and whose grandfather was Herman Mankiewicz who, along with Orson Welles, won an Academy Award for “Citizen Kane.” 

I wouldn’t dismiss the thumbs-up/thumbs-down style of reviewing nor would I suggest we won’t see more of Roeper who continues to write for the Chicago Sun-Times. Roger Ebert’s medical problems may keep him off the screen but he could be back in a behind-the-scenes role.   

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"The Billionaire’s Vinegar" by Benjamin Wallace (book review) by Bob Sanders

My only brush with expensive wine was, in truth, not even a near miss. Marshall Field V, whose holdings in 1976 included newspapers (Chicago Sun-Times/Chicago Daily News), Encyclopedia Britannica and real estate, wished to bring attention to a just-completed rental high rise. River Plaza, of 56 stories, was located next door to the Sun-Times/Daily News Building. 

A member of Field Enterprises Public Relations Department, I had begun a search for the world’s largest bottle of champagne (or, at least, one really big) that would lend attention to a  celebration; the beribboned bubbly, linked to an enormous crane by a lengthy rope, would be catapulted in dramatic fashion by Mayor Richard J. Dailey, famous for the 1968 Democratic Party riots and father of the current mayor. 

The christening never happened. In the midst of a search for appropriate juice of the grape, I learned my exploitive plan would not be in keeping with the Field family attitude toward what they regarded as obvious vulgarity. No one enjoys being labeled vulgar so I’ve been inclined to blame an earlier celebratory event deeply imbedded in the American psyche: that of President Harry Truman’s wife Bess attempting to break a bottle (not nearly as impressive as the one I envisioned) on a World War II battleship.

Wine is what The Billionaire’s Vinegar: The Mystery of the World’s Most Expensive Bottle of Wine” is all about and it’s a captivating tale even if you care little about the subject. In that respect, the book by Benjamin Wallace is reminiscent of Tracy Kidder’s House, and Susan Orleans’ The Orchid Thief. Of seemingly narrow subject matter, all three books deliver fascinating tales that transcend their topics.   

 In truth, The Billionaire’s Vinegar” is a mystery although whodunit becomes pretty apparent early on. And, as one might suspect, the book’s characters are full of quirkiness as they move about in the wine world’s rarified atmosphere. The McGuffin, were Alfred Hitchcock still around to make a film of the book, is a bottle of 1787 Chateau Lafite Bordeaux purchased in 1985 at a Christie’s auction. The buyer was the son of the late publisher/multi-millionaire Malcolm Forbes. The younger Forbes paid $156,000 at a heated auction for the bottle, reportedly once owned by Thomas Jefferson. Daddy was not happy with the purchase, a Guinness Record then and now. 

With past as prologue, Wallace details Jefferson’s travels through the major wine fields of France where, incognito, he studies grapes and becomes entranced by the reds of Bordeaux. The conundrum concerns purchases of Lafite Jefferson might have ordered upon his return to Monticello. All bear his initials and, as the plot develops, the number of Jefferson bottles becomes a major part of the mystery. 

The man who knows most about the bottles is Hardy Rodenstock, a charming yet volatile pop-band manager turned wine collector who found the bottles in a Paris cellar. Rodenstock’s discovery and its attendant publicity sets the ancient wine world slavering and it’s not long before the most respected palates are singing praises of a 200 year-old product not likely to be drinkable. In telling a tale of gullibility and facile scamming, the author simply offers the facts while never descending to derision as the experts offer such comments as the wine tasting “so much younger” than they expected; scientific evidence eventually proves that the chances of the greatest 200 year-old wine being anything other than vinegar are slim to none. 

One of the plot developments involves American billionaire Bill Koch who becomes something of an eccentric hero in taking Rodenstock to court as laboratory tests pile up evidence. You’ll like Koch much better as Rodenstock’s pursuer than the guy who introduced billionaire’s money and bad manners to the 1992 America’s Cup. 

The Billionaire’s Vinegar, written with literary intelligence, is a mesmerizing story about a sub-culture whose structure and self-indulgence make for rapid fire page turning. It will make a fine film and Dustin Hoffman a terrific Rodenstock.             

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Sidebars Satire By Bob Sanders

Maybe playwright and great wit George S. Kaufman was on to something when he observed more than 60 years ago that “satire is what closes on Saturday night.” 

Kaufman, recognized as a 20^th Century theater giant, was a guy all too aware that Broadway authorship, often enhanced by mesmerizing performances and sets of dazzling splendor, must always take into consideration the audience. Dubbed the “Great Collaborator,” Kaufman’s first two stage efforts with Edna Ferber fell short of success. Both went on to better things including two Pulitzer Prizes for him and one for her as he added screenwriting, directing and producing credits to his biography. 

I bring up Kaufman’s name in view of the Barack Obama brouhaha created by New Yorker Magazine’s July 21 cover depicting the Presidential candidate and his wife as fist bumping Muslim terrorists (she carrying an AK-47) in an Oval Office complete with a picture of Osama bin Laden on the wall and a fireplace in which an American flag is burning. The right wing went nuts over the cartoon’s “accuracy” while the left cringed suggesting the magazine had fueled misconceptions. Was it satire or slander? 

New Yorker editor David Remnick understandably came down on the side of satire while forced to explain the joke, always an indication that a piece of humor is not understood. Christopher Hitchens, the free-swinging Vanity Fair writer, then took the contretemps to a Jonathan Swiftian level by quoting the Anglo-Irish satirist:  “Satire is a mirror wherein every man will commonly discern every face but his own.” Such, er, reflections recall the Marx Bros. mirror scene in “Duck Soup” in which Groucho has a problem of self-identification because Harpo (also attired for bed and wearing a Groucho mustache) apes his every movement before the framework of a mirror. Perhaps a New Yorker cover down the road will feature Obama standing before a mirror in the Lincoln Bedroom attempting to figure out who he is? Do I hear a mixed reaction from the right? 

Hitchens, a man of violent political twists and turns, is on firm ground with Swift who was so good at satire that he mastered two styles: Horatian and Juvenalian whose detailing will be savored at another time.

Even Rush Limbaugh got into the act although my notes reflecting his verbal gallop left me with little to inspire circumspection other than some words hastily penned as he hastily spoke: “intolerant Muslims,” “drive-by media,” “sexist throw-back” “wheeze-whine,” “drive-by media,” “stupid cartoon,” “people need enemas” and “drive-by media.” Possessor of a new $400 million contract, there can be no question that Limbaugh must easily make 10 cents a word. 

While there’s little doubt that Remnick, an excellent editor, knew precisely what he was doing up to a point, the resultant uproar suggests he misgauged the totality of reaction. At the same time, there seems to be a larger point being missed. How did so many people not get the satire? I don’t mean the 12 percent of the public firmly convinced that Obama is a practicing Muslim thus reinforcing a stereotype. If satire is so poorly understood, one wonders how many viewers don’t realize what “The Colbert Report” on the Comedy Channel is all about yet rarely miss a show because the host hoes such a rigid line of conservatism in the creation of satire. What a fascinating subject.

Perhaps all of this suggests our country’s dumbing down has progressed to the numbing stage or at the very least is further proof that we are losing whatever national sense of humor we might have had.  I’m rather taken by the somewhat obvious notion that David Remnick is a sophisticated fellow working for a sophisticated publication where his cohorts in sophistication are, well, sophisticated. This approach is based upon an accepted verity of human nature: it takes one to know one and Mr. Remnick should spend more time on the street.

In terms of our national stupidity, I have absolutely no idea how far along we are in this regression but I do believe Remnick should have heeded the words of George S. Kaufman regarding satire closing on Saturday night. 

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Byline Bio

Robert H. (Bob) Sanders, born in Lakewood, Ohio, has a BS degree in journalism earned at Ohio University.  In a career justifiably described as peripatetic, he worked in a variety of media jobs eventually becoming an award-winning public relations professional in Chicago.  His employers have included the Cleveland Press, TV Guide, Playboy Enterprises, Public Television, Field Enterprises (Chicago Sun-Times/Daily News) and the Chicago Tribune from which he retired in 1989.  He lives with his wife and two bichon-frises in Bellingham, Washington where, as the writer of a monthly newsletter, is a neighborhood activist.  Sanders is the author of an unpublished memoir, Media Rare.  

Bleacher Preacher (sports) by Bob Sanders

It’s rather astonishing how internet information can be stumbled upon. A case in recent point involved my search for details about that day’s untelevised Cubs victory. Partially satisfied by information on ESPN’s website, I went after a Chicago Tribune blog authored by one of the newspaper’s baseball beat reporters. With 99 years of World Series frustration behind us, we Cubs fans will dig for any information as long as it adds to our conviction that this, surely, will be The Year. 

My initial link offered massive opportunities to gain Cubs information including a tour of Wrigleyville, video highlights of the 1955 team’s 14-4 opening day victory over the thoroughly despised St. Louis Cardinals and YouTube confirmation of the winner of the Zell No! song competition won by a Chicago Tribune intern. Sam Zell is the interim owner of Tribune Company who attempted to sell the Wrigley Field name to the highest corporate bidder until temporary sanity was restored.  My keyboard stumbling eventually provided a chance to read about the newspaper’s front page coverage last month of a Chicago character known as the Bleacher Preacher with whom I watched a lot of Cubs games. A.K.A. Jerry Pritikin, the Preacher was a fellow Wrigley Field Bleacher Bum who rarely missed a game back in the 80s when the most you could pay at the box office for a seat between the lines was $6, a sharp contrast to today’s $46.  

The Tribune story was largely about the Preacher’s exhibit of Gay Pride Month photographs he took during San Francisco’s turmoil of the 70s. Further searching provided a video of the now 71-year-old speaking at breakneck speed about his exhibit and the Cubs. Within 10 minutes I had emailed the Tribune reporter expressing curiosity about my fellow Bleacher Bum who emailed me with greetings last exchanged 20 years ago.  

Pritikin came by his enthusiasm for the Cubs quite naturally. His dad, a die-hard fan, was on his death bed nearing the end of a 30-day coma. Suddenly, the senior Pritikin awakened. Motioning for his son to come closer, dad uttered his last words. They were in reference to a power hitting outfielder with low batting averages, a penchant for striking out and an errant arm that once put a ball in a dugout toilet during a game. Dave Kingman had been the subject of much ire directed by Pritikin’s dad culminating in a final observation of curt dismissal: “We gotta get rid of Kingman.” 

The Bleacher Preacher, whose income came from public relations projects that often found their creator getting as much attention as the product, was of serious bent at the ballpark while most often wearing a propeller topped pith helmet emblazoned with the words Bleacher Preacher. As the fans’ chaplain, he would arrive at the ballpark a couple of hours before game time. One of his missions was to convert holders of allegiances to such atheistic citadels as New York’s much-castigated Mets and the St. Louis Cardinals, considered an abomination by The Preacher. Conversions consisted of a ceremony part Catskill Mountains resort comedy and part religiosity.    

Voodoo dolls of opposing players and highly original signs created during the games were part of his ever-burgeoning repertoire. A huge array of colored pins were used to pierce the dolls at propitious moments of a game; the colors related to possible enemy bungling including fielding errors, missed signals and balks by the pitcher. One time The Preacher dropped his pin collections during a Cubs rally. He spent a couple of anguished innings putting his arsenal back in an alignment I never fathomed.

 The Preacher’s fondness for visiting players who distinguished themselves—usually for off-field heroics—resulted in his creation of an MVP Award. In 1989 it went to Trevor Wilson, a free-spirited Giants pitcher. With the hazing of rookies derigueur in the major leagues, Wilson was honored by The Preacher “for his courageous assault against the statue of General Sheridan and his horse Winchester above, beyond and below the call of duty in his rookie campaign.” Wilson’s award as “Most Valuable Painter” for his Lincoln Park escapade was for brushing Winchester’s testicles a brilliant pink; understandably, the hurler became a favorite of the Bleacher Bums. The feeling was mutual and word circulated that he wanted to be traded to the Cubs. His wish was never granted.  

Pritikin’s desire to try out his Baseball’s Moses gig in a minor league ballpark was realized later that year when wife Jan and I drove Jerry and Carmela Hartigan to John O’Donnell Stadium in Davenport. Iowa. Carmela, then 87, rarely missed a Cubs game taking two buses to get to Wrigley. The Preacher wore a flowing robe of white which, along with his Ten Fanmandments of Baseball, added panache to what was clearly spirited shtick. His attire also included the ever-present propeller topped pith helmet. 

There have been a lot of quotable quotes directed baseball’s way and I join the Bleacher Preacher in subscribing to two in particular. It was Humphrey Bogart who nailed it when he said: “A hot dog at the ballpark is better than a steak at the Ritz.” Maybe even better was Bill Veeck, baseball’s brilliant Barnum, who offered an appealing explanation of the bleacher mystique: “The sun is hotter and the beer is colder.”    

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City of Subdued Excitement By Bob Sanders

Adventure novelist Ernie Gann became a neighbor in 1990 when my wife and I moved to San Juan Island, a somewhat secluded place in this country’s Fourth Corner. The relocation was from Chicago where I had lived 22 years; island life took more than a little industrious acclimation.

 
I had had an introduction to Gann beyond his novels seven or eight years earlier. On the set of PBS’ Book Beat, I asked host Bob Cromie with whom of the authors he had interviewed would he prefer spending a whole lot of time. His answer was Gann. “A funny thing happened when I interviewed him. He’s the only author who wouldn’t tell me where he lived. His explanation: “’If I tell you where I live, then you’ll ask me what it’s like and I’ll rave about the place and more people will move there so I’ll take a pass on your question.’” 

Four years ago my wife and I left the island for Bellingham. The reasons were largely medical plus the island’s isolation. Gann’s words of caution are something the people of Bellingham might consider since the city has been deluged by stories telling America what a great place it is to grow old under the best of circumstances.    

While publications can give cities such identities as Worst Air, Top Ten Flood Prone, Most Murders Per Capita and the like, Bellingham is getting far too much positive editorial attention. Last fall Mother Earth commended the city as “a great place no one has ever heard of.” These accolades are bringing far too many people here to escape all those things that make big city living disagreeable. Our population is swelling to the point where something has to be done. 

Having spent a great many years in publicity and public relations, I can assure you that there is only one way Bellingham can escape the inevitable and become a minor league Los Angeles. The way is a dexterously-handled reverse public relations program. We must draw a line in our clay. 

First, we have to re-write our current unofficial motto.  “City of Subdued Excitement” is simply not enough of a turnoff to reduce in number the growing hordes. Let’s go for a line like “The City of Sublimely Subdued Subjective Excitement” set against a man contemplating his belly button. That should make America aware that Bellingham is of narrow mind and not a place for such popular pursuits as listening to Art Bell’s enchantingly bizarre “Coast to Coast AM,” participating in paint ball wars or playing human croquet. The latter, British fun likely inspired by a Monty Python skit, is threatening to invade this country--probably by way of Texas where so many questionable ideas and strange people are encouraged to ferment.    

Of course, we could take a less subtle course. Something like “Tony Soprano’s Kinda Town” complete with a northwestern Badda Bing Club where the strippers wear checkered flannels to hide their tattoos. The possibilities are as numerous as “American Idol” contestants. Borrowing a page from the remarkable Hank Meyer, we’ll find a way to make certain that all Bellingham weather is of a negative nature as if 45 inches of rain a year isn’t off putting enough. It was Meyer, a public relations miracle worker, who persuaded Jackie Gleason to originate his TV show in Miami Beach. He also made sure the media never reported temperatures beyond 89 in the Sun and Fun Capital of the World. 

The media should play a vital role in sullying Bellingham as we erect walls of attitude to keep out people insistent upon clogging our streets and jamming our schools. With Florida’s Red Neck Riviera as inspiration, let’s get some intrepid shore-line developer to create a wide open White Neck Riviera based on the principles of Kansas City Boss Tom Pendergast complete with a crooked police chief. Further, let’s get a White Neck Riviera story of citizen abuse by the cops in the local press at least once a week thus also satisfying the insatiable thirst of the wire services. Our PR campaign also could make much of the delights of nearby communities including Leavenworth where cuckoo clocks meet Wiener schnitzel in a tourism wunderbar explosion of high kitsch.  

Also, let’s not forget the frightening increase of Canadian border crossings as our dollar shrinks thus attracting  Maple Leafers seeking even worse clothing here than attire offered in their drab stores. Let’s publicize Bellingham as the Milan of the Northwest offering nothing of what has become much sought after celebrity fashion road kill. Couture turnoff possibilities are breathtaking in potential.  

That observation a few paragraphs back about drawing a line in our clay could be advanced—particularly if the threatening crowds don’t believe those stories about our awful weather. Surely a series of stories about gardening difficulties in our truly ridiculous soil has considerable potential. We could create a Worst Gardener in the World Contest whose bleat of defeat each year would direct ire on our wickedly woeful soil so near and yet so far from Victoria’s famed Buchart Gardens. Think of the exposure in gardening publications and let’s not forget Martha Stewart—always a powerhouse in public persuasion.  

While we are it, let’s do something thrillingly horrendous and have a Festival of the Moles and Voles to honor our second worst aspect of gardening. That might not get Bellingham recognized by Oprah’s people but it’s a cinch for Keith Olbermann’s “Countdown” on MSNBC. 
 

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Fireworks By Bob Sanders

Did anyone else have queasily mixed emotions while watching Fourth of July fireworks displays? 

At the risk of being called un-American during these times when 10 percent of our public believes Barack Obama to be a Muslim, a lapel flag is often considered to be just this side of a Purple Heart while the far right rejects suggestions that the invasion of Iraq really was about oil, I wish to quarrel with fireworks. Would someone please pass the Pepto-Bismol.   

Yes, fireworks—that red, white and blue opportunity for grown men to prove to their kids that they, too, can be kids and blow tin cans at least 10 feet in the air. In my youth in Lakewood, Ohio, one of the neighborhood kids blew one at least 15 feet. Unfortunately, one of Bobby Hall’s fingers went with it--a development that chilled at least six of us. I think the destructive agent in use was called a super cherry bomb.  

Fireworks in the world is not a mom and pop operation. The Chinese provide 98 percent of America’s overall pyrotechnic needs and 80 percent required for displays. The American Pyrotechnics Association indicates it represents a $930 million industry here and who would wish to quarrel with such an august body, lobbying efforts and all. This figure may be modest considering the American propensity for guns, noises including bad music for our tin ears, and Sylvester Stallone movies. Our national attention span being what it is, logic suggests that Americans have an infinite capacity to absorb brief noises, then move on to even higher decibel counts. Just keep it jack-hammer simple. The hearing aid industry revels in all this and I guess that’s where the Chinese come in. 

As with other emerging nations, China has been having some production problems. It’s not easy furnishing the world with booms and skyward flourishes; those production problems include rising labor costs and soaring prices for raw materials. There is evidence a shortage of fireworks exists. Welcome, China, to the real world. 

For those of you out there whose internet order never arrived, please bear with the Chinese who recently lost $25-30 million in fireworks orders. At least that’s what they admit to losing but this is a world where truth is all too often a sometimes thing. Our world, which used to be much more orderly, is beginning to resemble the plot of a Marx Bros. movie with Groucho something of a stretch playing a guy in Liuyang whose fireworks factory is overwhelmingly confused and beginning to look like Detroit on a bad day. Liuyang is the fireworks capital of the nation and Groucho’s factory, one of 900 there devoted to fury and beauty, has been experiencing multitudinous explosions. Groucho longs for the good old days in Liuyang where the manufacture of chopsticks was so very, very quiet. 

With the world’s eyes this summer on the Olympics in Beijing, some athletes will be competing while wearing masks in attempts to handle what promises to make Los Angeles smog idyllic by comparison. Meanwhile, the Chinese government has banned fireworks shipments from Sanshui, a port that handles 20 percent of China’s fireworks exports. I guess word of the Liuyang explosions reached Sanshui. How Groucho could possibly handle these plot delineations is anyone’s guess, but he can always sing “Hail, Fredonia.” 

Whether you find yourself talking with someone recently returned from China or somewhere else in this rapidly shrinking world, the message is that the United States has reached its lowest level ever in terms of regard by other nations.  We had the world in our hip pocket shortly after 9/ll and our impressive capital (now, there’s a word in George Bush’s vocabulary) was quickly squandered.  

If after eight years this country is finally going to talk with other nations, even those bad and questionable, perhaps it would be wise to prove that we are better than we appear to be. Maybe it’s time that we simply called a halt to the fireworks and give the money to good causes like cancer research, Africa or the penguins of Antarctica. In a strange pragmatic way, it really doesn’t matter and Groucho needs your support. He’d much rather manufacture chopsticks. 

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Tim, Ed and Katie

I don’t know what I can offer regarding the late Tim Russert since so much has been said and written about the broadcast Everyman. We hadn’t seen a weekend like that one in mid-June  since John F. Kennedy’s assassination in 1962. One wonders if Edward R. Murrow, born 50 years later than his real birth in 1908 and possessed of credentials comparable to what he earned in a lifetime, could possibly receive anywhere near the outpouring of affection accorded Russert? 

Perhaps the word affection is the most acceptable one in any analysis of Russert’s ability to connect with the public. He was that guy you’d love to drink a cold one with. Not many journalists have that ability. Murrow didn’t. There was a distancing about him--particularly evident on the frothy “Person to Person,” as he did the bidding of CBS. It was one thing to report the “London Blitz” from rooftops, it was another to be given perfect laundry room dimensions from film star Esther Williams.  

Murrow had envisioned “Person to Person” as interviews of common folk: farmers, beauticians, plumbers. CBS had other ideas and Murrow backed off figuring his acquiescence would enable him to get more significant programming past network head William F. Paley with whom the broadcast great eventually had a falling out of high decibel count. Before that, Murrow did remarkable work including “See It Now” (an outgrowth of the radio series so named) and special stand alone programs including the long-needed decimation of Sen. Joseph McCarthy. Of casual  irony and hardly rare in show business was Murrow’s making more money from “Person to Person” than any other of his undertakings and made possible when he gained full rights to the seven-year series. 

NBC, aware that continuity is a major factor in maintaining a show’s success (Sid Caesar’s woefully-handled “Show of Shows” on the Peacock Network is a classic) took little time to name Tom Brokaw Russert’s “Meet the Press” successor. While proclaiming the semi-retired Brokaw’s bona fides, the network made clear that the assignment will run out after the November election. What to do then? 

Timing is everything in most pursuits with Bulova, baseball and broadcast networks particularly aware. Take CBS which did something stupid in 2006 and hired NBC morning star Katie Couric, amidst intense publicity, to take over Bob Schieffer’s anchor chair. Those of sufficient memory are inclined to rank CBS’ foolishness on a par with trading Babe Ruth, invading Iraq and, for those of quixotic denial, suggesting that 40-point underdog Appalachian State never beat Michigan last year and the game, like the Holocaust, never happened.   

The $75 million Couric gamble to turn the “Today” co-host into a CBS anchor has been a failure. Her “Evening News” pulls 6.7 million viewers compared to NBC’s Brian Williams with 9 million and Charlie Gibson whose ABC efforts attract 8.8 million. Somewhat forgotten in the ratings analysis and Couric’s $15 million yearly salary (often mentioned in story ledes) is what got her to the dance in the first place: she’s a person who knows how to interview.  She’s one of the best and can ask the succinct question without embarking on a Larry King labyrinthine digression. No, there aren’t many as good as Couric. One is Brian Lamb of C-SPAN. Another was Tim Russert whose relentless pursuit on “Meet the Press” is a medium hallmark.

 The question of Couric’s future may well be, oddly enough, in the hands of NBC. Couric is believed finished as a CBS anchor. Will NBC be smart enough to bring Katie on board as Russert’s replacement or will Couric become a “60 Minutes” regular where her considerable talent will be wasted?

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