Home
Help

Latest News

Your Views Join a discussion about topics in the Sunday Magazine


Back to Globe Magazine contents


Click here for a table of contents and a list of special online features

Search/Archives

Search the Globe:

Today
Yesterday


Sections Boston Globe Online: Page One Nation | World Metro | Region Business Sports Living | Arts Editorials Columnists Calendar Discussion Forums Classifieds Latest news Extranet Archives

Low-graphics version

The Boston Globe OnlineBoston.com Boston Globe Online / Metro | Region April 5, 1998

The electronic soapbox - continued

Five nights a week, Lovett, the deadpan, slightly rumpled former editor of the Dorchester Argus-Citizen, delivers what NNN news director Charles Rasmussen calls a ``thoughtful but gritty program.'' It is not exactly an elaborate operation. But NNN brings Boston residents news they won't see elsewhere in TV land: an intelligent in-studio interview with Civil Liberties Union of Massachusetts executive director John Roberts on the battle over Internet censorship at the Boston Public Library, for example, or a story about Roslindale residents fighting trailer-truck traffic through their neighborhoods. ``We're here to do what we do,'' says Rasmussen, describing the show as a ``neighborhood-issue narrowcast.''

A few miles west, that same role is filled by Newton News, a weekly community television show that approximates the quality you'd see on a standard newscast - with three notable exceptions. The program is devoted strictly to news of the Garden City. It's produced by college interns. And the anchor, John Frassica, is a local radio news director who does the job gratis.

Local public affairs programming seems a perfect match with local-access television, particularly given the erosion of the local news landscape in recent years.

Independent owners have stampeded out of the community journalism business, leaving the weekly newspaper field to a mutual funds giant, Fidelity Investments. Boston talk radio, a venue in which people like Jerry Williams, Gene Burns, and Ted O'Brien and Janet Jeghelian once regularly chewed over local issues, has devolved - with a few exceptions - into a pie-throwing contest. Boston television news, once distinguished by sophisticated coverage of regional politics and government, has deserted that mission for an odd hybrid of blood-and-guts and lifestyle-oriented ``news you can use.''

Add to that the disappearance of communal debate, as Americans cocoon themselves off from civic involvement, and there's a crying need for a community meeting place that fits the demands of the electronic age. Local-access television - already in the business of cablecasting local city council, selectmen's, and school committee meetings - could, in theory, answer the call.

But if the need and opportunity are there, the programs often seem to come up short, blurring that fine line between being earnest ... and being deadly earnest. An edition of Brookline's WBRK, hosted by former selectman Chris Crowley, falls into the latter category. On a sparse set that includes one table, three chairs, one coffee cup, and one notepad, with a dark background that makes it appear as if the participants are speaking from deep space, Crowley devotes one show to a discussion of affordable housing in the town. Unfortunately, it would anesthetize all but the most fervent policy wonk.

Certainly, these talking- head shows could potentially be a welcome respite from mindlessly glib shoutfests like The McLaughlin Group and Crossfire. But the somnolent pacing, excruciating politeness, and lack of probing inquiry often render these public-access shows toothless and useless. Instead of Pat Buchanan, Geraldine Ferraro, and two guests all yelling at the same time, you can get 20 seconds of conspicuous silence at the end of each utterance. Somewhere, there must be a happy medium.

Unfortunately, you don't get it in an installment of The Dick Cooke Show. Cooke tackles a potentially explosive topic: allegations that Cape Cod Hospital discriminates against patients with AIDS and HIV. But the show fizzles. Only one of the four panelists, a therapist, is willing to ask tough questions of the hospital officials on the program, and Cooke is unwilling or unable to bring the issue to a head. ``You are really helping,'' he says to his panelists, capturing the feel-good karma of the program. ``There is a very positive spin to this unfortunate story.''

An evening with two ex-mayors on the Salem show Foresight is reminiscent of the bull sessions around Floyd's barber shop on the old Andy Griffith Show. Former chief executive Jean Levesque says he really misses passing out diplomas at high school graduation. Anthony Salvo laments a failed effort to start a compost center. As the credits finally roll on what has certainly been a pleasant if unenlightening evening, Salvo is heard to ask - with a relief no doubt shared by viewers - ``It's over?''

None of this should be construed as a knock of local-access television's more endearingly folksy qualities: Rika Welsh, of Malden Access Television, rightly calls it a ``great mirror of the community.'' Nor does this criticism represent a call for more of the blow-dried blowhards who often populate television's chattering class. But there is a way of melding the virtues of vox populi with genuine viewing value. The successful formula is evident in a modest but somehow compelling program called Newton Roll Call.

Hosted by longtime alderman Richard McGrath, this is the embodiment of Ross Perot's mythical electronic town meeting. During the program, residents are invited to use e-mail, voice mail, or a fax to cast their votes on the issue at hand: in this case, the city's tax on water used to irrigate lawns and gardens. McGrath moderates a debate on the topic between George Foord, a citizen gardener, and John Patota, Newton's director of utilities. Each man says his piece, gets a rebuttal, and is then questioned by the host.

There's nothing contrived here, just civic-minded citizens trying to influence their neighbors. For his part, McGrath oozes such even-keeled expertise that there's even something winning about his slightly sheepish announcement that there will be a break in the program to rearrange the set.

Saving its soul

The closest thing to ratings in the world of public- access television - culled from a series of unscientific studies - seems awfully bullish. A Shrewsbury survey of 200 people finds 80 percent saying they watch public access - although it's unclear how often or for how long. In Boston, nearly 40 percent of the 51,000 subscribers say they catch Boston Neighborhood Network, or BNN, programming and typically watch twice a week. A Newton survey of city residents reveals that almost 60 percent of cable viewers claim to watch an hour or more of local-access television a week. And about one-third of the subscribers who can watch Cape Cod Community Television say that they regularly do.

Whatever the numbers, it's fair to say that public-access programming rarely dominates the water-cooler conversation. After all, this is a medium designed more for the participant than the viewer, an ideal more than an art form. In some cases, such as its eager celebration of ethnic and cultural diversity, the ideal succeeds. In others, such as with public affairs programming, the emphasis on meeting the needs of the performer rather than the audience has hindered the realization of access's true potential as a community sounding board.

And as for the citizens who just want to strut their stuff on the electronic soapbox, public-access television has little choice but to function as the modern-day version of Ted Mack's Original Amateur Hour. Viewers can hope the talent gets better. But in the end, the genre really is more about Craig Upton than Maris D'Vari.

D'Vari, a glamorous blond woman who was a TriStar film executive in Hollywood, calls herself the ``Aaron Spelling of public access.'' That's because she's busy with BNN productions: the Marisa D'Vari Presents book show, featuring interviews with such notables as Alan Dershowitz; The Karma Connection, a satirical dating show; a sitcom based on a novel she wrote; and other programs, including a food show. Her resume is impressive, her press packet thick, and her ambition apparently boundless.

Upton, the host of Falmouth's Talking Comics program, is a rugged 30-something man with a ponytail, goatee, work boots, and Kiss baseball cap, who looks more like a TV repairman than a TV star. Sitting on the studio floor, Upton spends his entire program hurriedly running through dozens of new comic book releases and occasionally offering terse comments like ``Resurrection Man No. 1 was an awesome book.'' The one moment of high drama occurs when he addresses a viewer offended by a previous show. ``Change the channel if you don't like it,'' he grunts.

Talking Comics may be no more than a cult classic. But it is truer to the public-access mission than someone aiming to become the medium's Aaron Spelling. And God save us if public access isn't the one place where you're more likely to see Spider-Man than Alan Dershowitz.