How journalists get in the way of the election
Politicians learn from their mistakes, sometimes. The media keep repeating theirs.
ANDREW COYNE | September 17, 2008 |
Every election is different. Each has its own rhythm, its peculiar melody, its unpredictable barks and squeaks. But in one respect every election is the same: the press coverage. It's always an embarrassment, and always in exactly the same way. Politicians learn from their mistakes, sometimes. We just go on repeating ours.
We can't help ourselves, it seems. After every election we retire, defeated, to our newsroom post-mortems, and each time we vow: never again. Never again will we sit up and beg for our "Gainsburgers," the little meaningless morsels of news the parties dole out each day to keep us complicit in their charades. Never again will we chase after every fleeting poll, salivate over every minor "gaffe." Never again the gotcha question, the silly photo op, the constant search for "defining moments" and "turning points," the investing of trivial campaign mishaps with symbolic import — as if the great river of events were just naturally teeming with metaphors for us to fish. Why, next time we might not even go on those ridiculous leaders' tours.
And then we go out and do it all over again.
I don't know whether it's learned behaviour, or whether it's instinctive, responding to some deeply recessed part of the journalistic brain. I only know that we — the media: naturally I exempt Maclean's entirely from this critique — are hurting democracy. We aren't just missing an opportunity to help the public make sense of things at a critical time. We're making things worse. We're actually getting in the way.
Consider what has already happened in this campaign — and we're not yet two weeks in. We spent an entire day discussing puffin poop. We discussed, at scarcely less length, Dion's hearing problem, if Harper is a fruit or a vegetable, and whether Elizabeth May once called Canadians "stupid." We've published a poll a day — sometimes two or three — and analyzed each one of them in all seriousness as if it held any significance whatever, beyond the fact that we commissioned it. ("Poll suggests Harper could be headed for majority," the Canadian Press reported last Friday. Whoops! "Majority may elude Conservatives," Reuters reported, the following Monday.)
Put like that, it sounds harmless enough — a lot of fluff, maybe, but all in good fun. But it's when we get serious that we do the most damage: not because we aren't trying, but because we are. These aren't lapses. They're deliberate choices. They betray an attitude, a lens through which we view the news we are supposed to be covering, and our own role in it.
The question most readers, I submit, or certainly most voters would like answered in the course of any campaign is: Who are these people, and what are they going to do to us? Tell us about the candidates who are running for office, their values and character. And tell us what they would do with the power they seek from us, their policies and platforms. If you need to add a little colour to make it entertaining, fine, but don't let that obscure the main point.
What, instead, do we tell them? We tell them who's ahead, over and over and over. And, of course, who's behind. And when we get one or another of the candidates on TV, we ask them why they're behind — over and over and over, apparently in the hope that if we keep at it long enough, we might make them cry. We speculate on whether the ones who are ahead can stay ahead, or whether they have peaked too soon. And whatever space we have left we devote to the strategists.
Read the coverage in any major daily on any given day. Watch the television. It's not about the election — it's about the campaign: who's ahead, the minutiae of the day's staged events and, above all, the strategy and tactics behind it all. Among other ills, this requires us to give over acres of space and time to the deep thoughts of one or another of the many thousands of smirking strategists with which this country is apparently endowed. Understand that these are paid manipulators, people who spend their entire working lives thinking up ways to twist the truth to their clients' advantage. ("Spin," we call it, which is itself an example of it.) This is probably unavoidable, possibly even necessary, but it is certainly nothing to be encouraged, let alone admired. (They are tedious enough on their own. They are lethal in panels of three.)
But here's the thing: in his secret heart of hearts, that's who the journalist wishes he was — one of the players, the guys in the room, and not one of those legions of drudges who must forever stand and wait outside the door. We write about the horse race, the polls and the strategy, not because it matters to our readers, but because it matters to the pros, the people we cover, the people we idolize. We parrot their language, even as we absorb their values: the latest campaign ad is analyzed from any number of angles — Will it work? Is it on-message? — except the most obvious: is it true?
And when we tire of that, we write about ourselves. Consider this lede from a CP story early in the campaign: "The Conservatives are pulling back from an election strategy to set the daily news agenda with crack-of-dawn news conferences each day of the campaign." So far, so meta. But why the retreat? Well, at the first such meeting, we are told, "reporters all but ignored the now-familiar attacks [on Dion] and instead questioned the two candidates on high gas prices, tax policy and purported attempts to muzzle Tory candidates."
Reporting about reporting. Campaigns about campaigns. We are all in mortal peril of disappearing up our own backsides.