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<text> <title> (52 Elect) Television:One Big Stage </title> <history> TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1952 Election </history> <article> <source>Time Magazine</source> <hdr> July 21, 1952 RADIO & TELEVISION One Big Stage </hdr> <body> For 70 hours last week, from the opening gavel to the nomination, television's three big networks carried the story of the convention to 18 million U.S. homes, offices and bars, drawing an estimated 70 million people to the screen for lessons in politics, parliamentary procedure and citizenship. (A fourth, Du Mont, shared CBS's pictures.) The candidates and their managers found television an invaluable intelligence service; some newsmen decided that they could cover the show best at their ease before a TV screen. An Outstretched Hand. Television's relentless cameras (more than 70 were deployed) caught some memorable pictures--the proud profile of Keynoter Douglas MacArthur; the hand of defeated Bob Taft, which, like a numbed limb, remained outstretched long after his handshake with Ike; the small drama of eager hands passing a microphone along during a delegation poll. TV also caught some intimate close-ups that most of those present failed to see--the grim, set face of an elderly woman as she swayed and clapped to music and speeches; the sight of Committee Secretary Mrs. Charles Howard slipping off her shoes before advancing to the rostrum. Its microphones eavesdropped on some private remarks, e.g., Mrs. Howard to National Committee Chairman Guy Gabrielson: "No, dear, I know that I'm supposed to read it down to here"; and Herbert Hoover to the operator of the stalled Teleprompter from which he read his speech: "Go on, go on." For good or bad, television at times found itself an active participant in the convention drama. By demanding the right to cover the Credentials committee session, TV aligned itself with the Eisenhower "fair play" forces; before the committeemen yielded to TV's demands, 10,000 listeners fired in angry telegrams protesting the Taftmen's closed-door rule. Everyone an Actor. But there was much that television missed. The camera failed to pick up such dramatic moments as Tom Dewey's walkout during Dirksen's nominating speech for Taft. At critical points in the proceeding it often seemed unsure where to look, fell back on meaningless long shots of the convention floor. Most of the TV commentators were tiredly commonplace, some were plainly uninformed, and all were occasionally inaccurate (one tentatively identified a delegate on the convention floor as the Democrats' Senator Estes Kefauver). Smooth-talking Walter Cronkite (CBS) delivered the most lucid flow of comment and information. Runners-up: NBC's Bill Henry and ABC's John Daly and Martin Agronsky, with seasoned Newman Elmer Davis providing his Indiana-accented commentaries. The sheer weight of equipment often kept television far behind the fast-breaking news. And before the show was over, some of those watching were beginning to wonder if television and its ubiquitous reporters had not managed to turn what was essentially a serious meeting into a sort of vaudeville act. Said one foreign newsman: "Everyone has the feeling of being an actor in a show. It is a fallacy of democracy that everything has to be continually decided by popular vote. You need something in the middle, an element of reflection." Added CBS's Ed Murrow "Does it sort out the charlatan from the statesman? Are we quite sure that Father Couglin and Huey Long wouldn't have been bigger with the help of television? You can't stop the picture and say, `Go look at his voting record.'" Walkie-Talkies & Periscopes. Yet it was to TV's credit that viewers everywhere could get a comprehensive picture at all. The three big networks alone had more than 1,000 people on the job, along with a vast assortment of tape recorders, hand mikes, minicorders, walkie-talkies, peepie-creepies and periscopes. In the main control room in a little room off the first balcony, Pool Director Bob Doyle (of ABC) sat on a high stool scanning TV screens from seven cameras, selecting the picture to go out over the air. In addition to the pool, each network placed cameras at strategic spots around the city, and frequently left the pool to follow its own stories. For many--including the millions of bleary-eyed viewers-- the convention ended none too soon. Announcers and crews were probably all as tired as one nerve-racked ABC announcer who stood outside Eisenhower's hotel room before the general left to make his acceptance speech. Shouted the announcer, as he tried to fight his way out of a maze of wires, legs, cameras and people: "We're waiting for the general now. We don't know when he'll come out. And frankly, I don't care any more." <list> <l>August 4, 1952</l> <l>RADIO & TELEVISION</l> <l>Writing with a Camera</l> </list> At 2:30 o'clock one afternoon last week, weary television crews snapped off their lights, closed down their cameras and gratefully headed home from Chicago, groggy, red-eyed, aching for sleep. Following the interminable roll calls and floor battles of the Democratic marathon, they had been on the job up to 15 hours a day, a total of 77 hours in six days (v. 70 hours for the Republicans). But they had learned some invaluable lessons in the art of covering fast-breaking news. Inside the convention hall itself, camera crews and spotters had sharpened their eyes and quickened their reflexes. While the polls and roll calls dragged on, televiewers could see the next moves taking place in countless floor huddles and maneuvers, e.g., the gleaming bald heads of New York's Jim Farley and Chicago's Jack Arvey preparing the Illinois break for the seating of Virginia. Other memorable scenes: -- Senators Paul Douglas and Estes Kefauver, glumly seated on the platform, waiting for the chance to throw in the towel. -- The Louisiana delegation in a secret midnight meeting, caught by an enterprising ABC camera crew through a crack in the wall of the caucus room. -- Senator Paul Douglas, hoarse-voiced and face twisted with emotion, shouting for recognition on his motion to adjourn before the balloting could begin. -- Democratic Nominee Adlai Stevenson, emerging from the Astor Street house where he had waited out the convention's decision. For three days a modern journalistic army had bivouacked in the quiet, aristocratic street, setting up a battery of portable telephones and mobile TV transmitters, festooning the elm trees with dangling cables, lights, microphones and reflectors. The result, for the TV audience at least, was well worth it: the contrasting shadows and harsh glare of mobile television lights produced the dramatic background effects of a first-rate documentary. One story came off as if it had been spliced together in a film cutter's studio. C.H. ("Joe") Colledge, directing NBC's network picture, and CBS's Don Hewitt called for their Washington mobile units to pick up Harry Truman's car as it whisked to a stop a few feet from Truman's private plane. Televiewers watched Truman turn and wave at the precise moment that his alternate, Thomas Gavin, cast the President's vote in Chicago. A few hours later, mobile trucks caught Truman again, this time at Chicago's Midway airport. Said Harry Truman (who had a TV set on the plane): "This is the first time a President has been able to see himself get into an airplane, take off, and then land." The TV commentators had also profited from their experiences at the Republican Convention. They were a lot less talkative and a lot more informative, particularly the bird-dogging floor reporters with walkie-talkies, who frequently were able to funnel the news out before the delegates themselves were informed. (But many viewers preferred to hear radio commentaries and watch their silent TV sets.) The convention standout: ABC's tenacious Martin Agronsky, who developed a knack for catching delegates eager to report the results of their most recent caucus. But the one man as responsible as anyone for TV's improved performance last week was ABC's Bob Doyle, working as pool director for all three networks, coordinating the pickups from seven network cameras on the convention floor. Said Director Doyle: "My job was to tell a story. I just wrote it with those seven cameras. They were just like my fingers." September 29, 1952, RADIO & TV, The Campaign In the race to sew up the choice television time, the Democrats got off to a fast start. They lined up 18 network TV shows at a cost of $630,000. As early as last June, the Democrats staked a claim to a 30-minute period that was available on alternate Tuesdays (CBS, 10:30 p.m., E.S.T.) until election day. Explains the Democrats' Washington radio chief, Lou Frankel: "As we book our man on speeches around the country, we can fit him into the radio & TV time already purchased." The Democratic program is simple: there is only one star, and such supporting players as Harry Truman and Vice Presidential Candidate John Sparkman will get only a minimum share of the limelight. Of Adlai Stevenson, Frankel says: "He's our John Barrymore, our biggest radio & TV asset." The Republicans reserved time on TV as early as the Democrats, but they did not make firm purchases until after the convention. Result: they found all the best spots already bought up by commercial sponsors. A political party may, by law, bump an advertiser off the air if it wishes--but it must then pay the sponsor the entire cost of the program, plus commissions. In taking over a 45-minute nighttime period next month, the Repub- licans must not only pay an $80,000 rebate to Pabst beer, but also take the risk of irritating and alienating voters who had been expecting to watch a prizefight rather than Eisenhower. Neither party has yet decided what sort of a show to give on election eve. The Democrats formerly used Hollywood and Broadway stars, but this year, says Frankel, "we don't plan any wingding--even though the talent is gratis, the production cost is murder." The Republicans are showing the greater TV ingenuity. Last week in Kansas City, General Eisenhower answered questions posed by voters in the TV studio and from remote pickups on street corners. Another project will feature Harold Stassen and Republican governors, attacking and answering Candidate Stevenson on specific points of his campaign and record. Candidate Eisenhower put in an eight-hour day filming 40 spot announcements on such subjects as taxes, corruption and peace. Sample: Housewife--"They say I've never had it so good, yet I've had to stop buying eggs and everything expensive." Eisenhower--"No wonder. You actually pay 100 different taxes on just one egg. We must cut costs and taxes." <list> <l>October 27, 1952</l> <l>RADIO & TELEVISION</l> <l>Univac & Monrobot</l> </list> The radio & TV networks hope to end the suspense as quickly as possible on election night. In order to detect instantly any significant trends in the voting, CBS has arranged to use Univac, an all-electronic automatic computer known familiarly as the "Giant Brain." Because it is too big (25,000 lbs.) to be moved to Manhattan, CBS will train a TV camera on the machine at Remington Rand's offices in Philadelphia. This week, and for the rest of the month, a staff of researchers is feeding 1944 and 1948 election results of each state into the Giant Brain. With all this material digested and memorized, the machine will be able on election night to respond every hour with a comparative analysis of the total popular and electoral votes for each candidate. NBC has its own smaller electronic brain. Called Monrobot, it will also recall the past and help predict the outcome of the current election at the earliest possible hour. Says ABC's News Director John Madigan, professing a disdain for such electronic gimmicks: "We'll report our results through Elmer Davis, John Daly, Walter Winchell, Drew Pearson--and about 20 other human brains." </body> </article> </text>