Yesterday Slate Magazine published an article by Bryan Curtis. Last night it was their featured piece, "front-paged" with a foremost position, a banner headline, and a full-color illustration. It is called
Frank Rich
The Butcher of the Beltway.
By Bryan Curtis
Posted Monday, Dec. 12, 2005, at 6:52 PM ET
Mr. Curtis' piece is not directly misleading: he writes about Frank Rich: his history as a drama critic, his reception in New York City, his authorial voice. Curtis' piece, though, is wrong. Wrong is just about every way I can think of. Wrong about journalism, wrong about journalists, wrong about debate, and wrong about the proper use of rhetoric. Slate should be embarrassed to have published it and ashamed to have featured it front, center, and in color. Mr. Curtis has performed an improbable invagination: his pen now writes with the same ink as the Republican's ingenious rhetorical playbook. His article exemplifies what is wrong with almost all of the mainstream media (and I include Slate Magazine Online). Hop below the line and read my response:
That's Rich
Dear Mr. Curtis,
I am not writing to debate whether what you say in your current Slate column is true. I am writing to debate whether your current Slate column is appropriate, and whether Slate should be praised for leading with it as its top story for the day (Frank Rich/The Butcher of the Beltway./By Bryan Curtis/Posted Monday, Dec. 12, 2005, at 6:52 PM ET). The conclusion you draw -- that Frank Rich is closed-minded and plays loose with the facts -- is, of course, as broadly painted as those conclusions of Rich's which you deride. As such, you do your reader a double disservice: you appropriate a method you simultaneously deride, and you attack the messenger. That is sophisticated -- and wrong.
Let us, for a moment, pretend we are in an alternate universe. You can call this LeftLand -- I like to refer to it as the reality-based community. In this alternate universe, the goal of journalism is to know, explain, and promulgate the truth. A passionate man arises -- a man well-versed in the ways of people -- and this man tells a story. The story itself is unbelievable -- dismissed out of hand -- possibly partisan -- borderline wacky. The man persists in the telling, the story gets bigger, people repeat it among themselves, and what once seemed ridiculous starts to appear plausible, if unlikely. You are a journalist, a wordsmith, a typist fighting a deadline. What do you do with the man and his message? In this alternate universe, you investigate his claims and report on them. You check his facts. You push on the sinews holding the muscles which flesh out his story and see if, indeed, they are connected to a solid but invisible skeleton. In short, you find out if, in fact, the wicked beast at the heart of the man's story is real, or just a chimera, a bogie-man, a will-o'-the-wisp, a delusion. Then, of course, you write about it. Perhaps the man has mis-described the ears, but understood the shape of its body, the beast's gait, where it's footprints have left their mark. Perhaps he has described the pulse of its blood, but misrepresented the beast's whereabouts. Perhaps there is no beast -- just some fur and an old jawbone. Then -- remember, we are still over in the alternate universe of the reality-based community -- then your careful, researched, documented report on the man and his story is published by a reputable news organization, and the people reward you for helping them understand the man, the story, the beast.
We do not live in an alternative universe. We live in what we somewhat hopefully describe as the here-and-now. Our universe is faulty: there is too much to do, not enough time, and we prefer to hear stories rather than to check facts. We reward entertainment at the expense of truth. That, weirdly, is the animus that gives your column life, and it is the same animus that you accusingly pin on Frank Rich and see fit to call him out on it in public. You do your readers and the truth no service here, nor does your employer, Slate. Frank Rich, the former drama critic, is standing outside the theater yelling "Fire! The Capitol is aflame!" and you have reported back to us that his voice is well-modulated but a bit shrill, his costume doesn't fit the part, and Act III is grandiose. OK, the Capitol is not really aflame, but we have left the theater. We are out in the street. A man is yelling: crimes are being committed, thieves are prospering, and the wicked are being rewarded. People are being killed, damn it. Don't tell us about the man and his voice. Tell us the truth. Your readership is starved for protein, and all you do is stir the pot and comment on odors. Give us some nutrition. Is this story true? How so? What parts? Find that out, and then and only then report back to us.
Should I send it?