Hyping Ratings with Pathos

By Hugh Sidey

The Presidency / Hugh Sidney

The last thing that the gentle and unassuming Frank Reynolds did for television was to rescue it from its selfimportance, poor taste and excess. It was a close call, but the constant reminder that Reynolds the man was the heart of the reason for the ABC spectacle marking his death gave his funeral, which almost gained the electronic dimensions of a national crisis, at least a touch of the natural dignity and modesty that he possessed.

Still, Reynolds' commemoration left Washington, his home town, troubled about television's encompassing view of its own glamour and power. The first act of those who run the singular world of big-time TV was to make the passing of Reynolds a major studio enterprise that, whether intended or not, seemed to be an effort to hype the ratings with pathos and personalities. The memory of Reynolds was programmed for the presidential level. There were requests--almost demands--at the White House within minutes of Reynolds' death that the President issue a statement of personal loss and that he praise Reynolds for his esteemed position in the American culture. Next, network pressure began to build subtly to make it a certainty that Ronald Reagan would have to attend the services for Reynolds. In Reynolds' case there was no problem, since Reagan was indeed a friend, and he did attend. But the impatience and the take-it-for-granted-that-the-President-will-perform attitude of the television big shots make one wonder whether, if Reagan had been forced to stay at his White House office and work, there might have been a huge electronic frown directed around the globe. After all, if such TV personalities as Dan Rather and Tom Brokaw can take time off from their duties to attend, then surely a President can do as much. Thank goodness Walter Cronkite has retired. Had he died on the job, his network might have sought a day of cosmic mourning and tribute.

The sheer quantity of television time given to Reynolds' career, especially on his own network, ABC, can be understood, in a way, in human terms. Colleagues reach for any device to say so long to a fine man. However, television, as its high priests keep insisting, is a public trust, a servant. But there was the faint echo in all of the Reynolds tribute of the television anchor fraternity telling the nation that they stand astride civilization and ride in the company of Presidents, Prime Ministers and Popes. They rule.

There is the deep suspicion that Frank Reynolds considered himself a kind of marvelous accident. Television anchoring is about 60% God-given and 40% sweat. Hairlines, profiles and mellifluous tones go a long way toward moving a man or woman into the ranks of television's stars. Reynolds was a journeyman newsman with all of the above and also a pleasant way on-camera that came from his innate decency. The celebration of such qualities just might be better tuned in a more modest environment. Frank Reynolds probably would be among the first to agree.

In December of 1967 Lyndon Johnson launched a mad jet dash around the world. Reynolds ended up as the trip's pool reporter in the Vatican when L.B.J. met Pope Paul VI on Christmas Eve for a joint plea for peace in Viet Nam. In the muted elegance of the Pope's library, Johnson gave the Pope a present. Reynolds watched as His Holiness unwrapped the gift, lifted it carefully from its packing, then stood nose to nose with a plastic bust of L.B.J. "Am I seeing what I think I'm seeing?" Reynolds asked, grinning from ear to ear at the marvel of it all. Had Reynolds been around for his own funeral services, he surely would have displayed the same amusement and asked the same question: "Am I seeing what I think I'm seeing?" This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.