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Riding shotgun | page 1, 2, 3

We wouldn't have had that experience in earlier years, when news and cultural decisions were driven from the top down, made by Olympian professionals who called the shots, often with great wisdom but also with a general belief that important news was made in cities like Washington and New York by men in suits: that it was a great thing for democracy if citizens stayed glued to, say, the Kefauver hearings, but that it was somehow an equally disgraceful thing if they spent a year and a half following the minutiae of a criminal trial -- the same stuff that civics teachers struggle to keep eighth-graders awake for. If you've spent your entire life thinking of your profession as a giant ziggurat with the White House press room at its apex, you cling longer to the old-fashioned notion that things like voting and legislation have the greatest effect on the way people live. The public recognized that the problems of two people -- Ron and Nicole -- told a much larger story, whereas the elected representatives of millions didn't mean a hill of beans in this crazy world. (Earnest media attention notwithstanding, for instance, the government was just then, unsurprisingly, bungling national health care.)

By the time Al Cowlings pulled that Bronco onto the freeway, the public was driving the media. Our big public explainers had lost their absolute command of our consciousness. Competition, from outlets like cable TV, was one reason, the Cold War vacuum another: There was no more great overarching national narrative to prioritize the news, and nothing forcing the public to stick with the great explainers if it didn't like their choices. Therefore, the audience didn't exclusively receive its culture from the same three networks anymore, and they, in turn, didn't always understand the audience's language anymore. You can attribute much of what we've seen in the media this decade -- talk radio, call-in shows, chat rooms, instant polls -- to ratings and immediate gratification, but it's also the recognition that one had to start listening to the audience, and even involving them, in order to thrive.

That's what was so poignant about Jennings' being flatfooted by that caller, apparently not immediately understanding that "Baba Booey" meant he'd just been had. In O.J.'s America, you didn't need to be a teenager to have your own confounding subculture anymore. Mr. Higgins had his Howard Stern subcult and was shoving it in ABC News' face: "You think you know something I don't? Well, here's something you don't know!" (That's part of the basic appeal of Stern, who's always defined himself through his conflicts with media authorities, from big broadcast companies to the FCC.) And that moment of boggled disconnect presaged the next year's, when trial-watchers in the media saw the jury announce a quick verdict and concluded, "Well, they must have found him guilty! The jury had its own alien subculture, where having evidence planted in your house is easily as believable as a hunk of lab equipment determining a man's guilt.

Even in the country of Andrew Jackson, we tend to think that institutions are lessened when they open themselves up to the public; hence the implicit hierarchy in Jennings' line about being "reduced" to the audience's level. In past breaking news events, the elites were there to put the rest of us in our place: Walter Cronkite, accused by a caller -- unaware she was speaking to Cronkite himself -- of crying "crocodile tears" after JFK's assassination, responded, "Madam, this is Walter Cronkite, and you are a goddamn idiot." Or they would put underlings in their place: There was ABC's Frank Reynolds, after being fed the erroneous line that James Brady was killed in the Reagan assassination attempt, barking, "Let's get it nailed down, people!" on air. But the night of the Simpson chase the audience, essentially, reached out and put ABC television in its place.

I'm being unfair to Peter Jennings here, because it wasn't just Jennings or ABC or even TV alone being brought down. No one seemed to know what they were doing that day. I still have a clipping of the most hilarious typo I've ever seen in the New York Times; it ran the next morning. The caption to two photos read, "The chase began on Interstate 5 near El Toro, in Orange County, and ended about 50 miles away at Mr. Simpson's home in Los Angeles." But the photos -- whether an outright mistake or a joke that didn't get torn down in time -- were of 1) O.J. running a play with the Buffalo Bills and 2) O.J. being served tea by Leslie Nielsen in one of the "Naked Gun" movies.

The Bronco chase was the signal event of a period in media that would offer people great opportunity and responsibility, when our viewing and reading choices would be myriad, often unedited and frequently unreliable. We would be able to see much but not necessarily to believe everything. We would all become aware of the Heisenberg uncertainty principle, conscious of our own role as viewer-participants (as when the police shooed helicopters from coming too close and disrupting the scene, raising the specter that we might, vicariously, have killed O.J.). We would have to become either media critics or suckers. The chase was gripping and newsworthy for all the familiar reasons -- the suspense, the slow-mo surreality, the hero's-last-run irony, the funeral/party atmosphere of the "Run, Juice, run!" gantlet of fans -- but that wasn't why it was, in the end, important. It was important because it made all of us part of the media.

. Next page | Not knowing if we were going to see a man die on national TV



 

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