David Strathairn as Edward R. Murrow in director George Clooney’s Good Night, And Good Luck.
A Warner Independent Pictures release. Photo Credit: Melinda Sue Gordon.
©2005 Good Night Good Luck LLC. All Rights Reserved.

“This instrument can teach, it can illuminate; yes, and it can even inspire, but it can do so only to the extent that humans are determined to use it to those ends. Otherwise it is merely wires and lights in a box.”
- Edward R. Murrow; RTNDA Convention, October 25, 1958

There is a debate, which continues to this day, over whether journalists should center on reporting or editorializing the news. Edward R. Murrow’s answer was to editorialize, but defend one’s opinion armed with facts, “If what I say is responsible, I am the one who will be responsible for saying it.”

After the opening scene of this film, set at the 1958 RTNDA convention dinner honoring his distinguished career, there’s a roll of words on the screen that inform us over 200 people were personally accused of un-American activities by Senator Joseph McCarthy.

Producer Joe Wershba (Robert Downey, Jr.) and his wife, Shirley (Patricia Clarkson), have a conversation about papers they’ve been asked to sign by CBS enumerating any activities they may be engaged in that could be perceived as un-American. This and a litany of McCarthy’s indictments across the spectrum of American citizenry, are peppered throughout the film without great fanfare or aplomb—just enough to perhaps remind us that history can, and does, repeat itself.

There’s an excellent shot of Murrow (David Strathairn) reviewing McCarthy footage, hunched over, cigarette in hand, in a darkened room. The lamp next to him is shining brightly, but not on him. He is, instead, bathed in grey shadow, reflecting perhaps his mood regarding the inevitable. As a journalist of integrity, often accredited with the greatest degree of integrity of any since, Murrow must go on with it and confront the inequity of McCarthy’s perversion of American ideology. He must editorialize… but to voice one’s opinion, while a right, is simply not enough. It takes, in Murrow’s mind, an educated, informed opinion, to convince the public. Lay out the cards for all to see.

In 1953, Murrow was determined to proceed with an investigation into the case of Milo Radulovich for his weekly program, “See It Now,” produced by Wershba. Radulovich had been discharged from the Air Force under then Air Force Regulation 35-62, Policy on Fraternization and Professional Relationships, because his mother and sister were suspected of being Communist sympathizers. In the film, Murrow’s comments predict a future of journalism rife with Talking Head Syndrome, “I simply cannot accept that there are two equal and logical sides to an argument.” He’s being pushed by the network to present an equally-compelling argument in McCarthy’s defense.

My use of the term “Talking Head Syndrome” is referring to, as some of you may have anticipated, the phenomenon in contemporary journalism involving two or more pundits of equally insufficient credentials to speak on a subject so as to fabricate the impression that more than one expert point of view is being represented. The average viewer may forget perhaps, all else being equal, that none of them are legitimate authorities on the matter remains a distinct possibility.

Murrow decides to pay for the airtime to relieve the studio of the burden of losing Alcoa’s advertising spots as the creep of corporate dread coerces their sponsor back into the closet of withheld viewpoints.

Maybe Murrow is wrong, and maybe there is a defense for McCarthy. But, to his point, is that the journalist’s job, or McCarthy’s? If there’s a defense for him, surely McCarthy has a good one. Military brass argue with Fred Friendly (George Clooney, who also co-wrote and directed this film), Murrow’s friend and producer, over the broadcasting of the Radulovich case.

“You know, it occurs to me we might not get away with this,” Murrow suggests.

What fascinates me about Edward R. Murrow, at least in the context of Strathairn’s portrayal of him, is his steady, staccato tone and scientific, almost computer-like delivery. Before the onslaught of so-called “investigative journalism” (a term probably first attributed to Murrow’s pioneering style, but falsely imbued upon sensationalistic nonsense today), there came journalists like Murrow, Walter Cronkite and, my father’s personal favorite, Peter Jennings, who emphasized conent over sales pitch.

Of Murrow’s style, Wershba wrote in the Fall 2005 issue of Eve’s Magazine, “His writing was simple, direct. He used strong, active verbs. On paper, it looked plain. The voice made the words catch fire. He regarded the news as a sacred trust. Accuracy was everything. And, always, fairness.”

Murrow’s piece on Radulovich essentially concluded with these words:

Whatever happens in this whole area of the relationship between the individual and the State, we will do ourselves; it cannot be blamed upon Malenkov, Mao Tse-tung or even our allies.

One of the interesting buildups is the observation that practically every journalist at CBS is a chain-smoker. I suppose it came with the territory in the days before corporate environmental policy (or the pretense thereof). There’s a hilarious commercial segment about cigarettes that one cannot but admire for its irony: The company’s market research suggests the viewers of Murrow’s program are educated, intelligent and therefore cannot be easily swayed by advertising.

As what is clearly a form of punishment, Murrow is relegated to interviewing guests like Liberace for his program, “Have you given much thought to getting married and settling down?”

I was captivated by the production and set design. There’s a fantastic two-shot of Strathairn’s profile, close-up, along with the camera view of him in a monitor behind. The camera switches focus between the two. I may not be interpreting this as Clooney intended, but what I derive from it is Murrow’s philosophy that a single journalist ought to do his homework and defend his own viewpoint from as many angles of fact as possible.

The sets, especially at the CBS building, are an intriguing contrast to the humans that inhabit them. I’m certain many of the geometric shapes that occupy the structure of the interiors are wood, but they might as well be carbon-fiber artifice of muted, dull grey as they appear on the black & white print. As soon as television became a commercialy-viable medium, its downward spiral into cultural worthlessness began… and the architectural style of the emerging network conglomerates strongly reflects a future of conformity.

Also, I have to compliment the sound design of the film. There isn’t much of a score overlapping most of the dialogue… in fact, the dialogues go for long stretches, uncluttered by sounds. Instead, there are musical interludes courtesy of Dianne Reeves cut in after key scenes, to give you some time to digest the characters, the conversations, the ideas and the setting.

The tension couldn’t be broken with a jackhammer as, in near-silence, producers, writers and Murrow prepare in the minutes and seconds leading up to each live broadcast. For them, this is their meditation. In most films today that deal with the subject of journalism, this activity would be depicted as frantic–the chatter of machines and voices everywhere. Often, just before he takes the chair for his show, or just before a confrontation with CBS chief William Paley (Frank Langella), we hear a laconic voice-over–Murrow, Hollenbeck, sometimes Friendly. Thought was, in Murrow’s view, central to a higher aim for this emerging medium. Without it, television would, he feared, become nothing more than a device for escapism rather than education and information. After he finishes his segments on Radulovich and McCarthy, the look on his face is not one of arrogant satisfaction. Instantly, his mind seems to shift toward contemplating uncertainties–the proficiency of his research and preparation as well as the magnitude of consequences and controversy that lie ahead.

After the Reid-Harris hearings, and following the Radulovich piece, McCarthy provides his own rebuttal to Murrow’s sharply-worded indictment. Murrow publicly offered McCarthy the opportunity for an uninterrupted rebuttal, to which Murrow agreed to withhold immediate comment. McCarthy must not have been particularly bright, because no one as paranoid as he should have failed to see what was coming.

McCarthy cites Shakespeare, “On what meat does this our Caesar feed?”

On March 9, 1954, with McCarthy’s own words, Murrow buried him in the public opinion. The colossal mistake, that is captured beautifully, and summarized when Murrow notes the words that follow shortly thereafter Shakespeare’s work, “The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in the stars, but in ourselves.” McCarthy had underestimated the magnitude of Murrow’s credibility with the American public. McCarthy doesn’t realize he’s just attacked an American institution.

What’s doubly fascinating is that Senator McCarthy himself appears in the film, courtesy of CBS archival footage. In other words, just as Murrow chose to, the director, Clooney, opts to let McCarthy provide the best argument against himself.

Murrow eventually follows McCarthy’s miscalculation with caution, as the phones remain silent, “Maybe nobody watched.”

Murrow and his associates gather in a diner. Shirley grabs the morning edition while the others are smoking and drinking. I was moved by the way in which this scene (as well as many others) gave you intimate, contemplative moments without other visual or auditory interruptions. The camera, for example, would hold on their collective anticipation. A lesser director, and a lesser film, might have been chomping at the bit to break up the scene with clips of other people in the diner, or the kitchen, or anything else to break up an otherwise perfect scene for the sake of artificially-inseminated drama.

Without relying upon pedestrian, overt techniques, the cinematography subtly suggests a documentarian style. You can almost smell the scotch and cigarette smoke. While Hollenbeck is demolished in the papers for a brief statement he made supporting Murrow’s piece on McCarthy, Talbot, Secretary of the Air Force, we are informed, determines it’s in their best interests to retain Lt. Radulovich instead of discharging him.

As history has recorded, the Senate did investigate McCarthy and voted to censure him. Still, to this day, Murrow’s concerns, regarding the state of journalism and our essential liberties as a nation, are not allayed. The style and substance of the kind of journalism pioneered by Murrow, Cronkite and Sevareid appears to be giving way with the departure of Rather, Brokaw and Jennings. In their place stand swarms of paparazzi and “investigative journalists” who do nothing remotely resembling investigation, television shows like “Access Hollywood”, gossip networks like “E!”, and the like…

I suppose it is an ironic footnote to this production that Murrow’s message would finally find its way to the current generation not through the medium of television, but cinema. This film, whether it is commercially successful or not, stands out as an astonishing achievement for Clooney, Strathairn and company… and for Murrow.

George Clooney has the wisdom and understanding of his subject to treat the scenes with the kind of meticulous organization and uncluttered simplicity that characterized Murrow’s broadcasts.

Unlike many writers, Clooney doesn’t make the fatal mistake of attempting a biography of Murrow’s entire life. Instead, like a seasoned pro (this is Clooney’s second directing effort, his first screenplay), he narrows his focus on one aspect of Edward R. Murrow the journalist, and relates it to us in the form of a well-arranged narrative, without emphasizing plot over character study. This is, in fact, the greatest movie I have seen thus far in 2005.

Some will reprimand me for not ruminating more on Strathairn’s performance. Who is Strathairn, though? As I sat and watched this film, I saw only Edward R. Murrow.

As the film returns to its present, 1958, to the RTNDA dinner, Murrow concludes his speech. In the film, the speech is edited to end on these words:

This instrument can teach, it can illuminate; yes, and it can even inspire. But it can do so only to the extent that humans are determined to use it to those ends. Otherwise it is merely wires and lights in a box. There is a great and perhaps decisive battle to be fought against ignorance, intolerance and indifference. This weapon of television could be useful.

The actual speech ended with these words that followed the aforementioned:

Stonewall Jackson, who knew something about the use of weapons, is reported to have said, “When war comes, you must draw the sword and throw away the scabbard.” The trouble with television is that it is rusting in the scabbard during a battle for survival.

I would like to add for you some of the most haunting words from Murrow’s speech, and I would like for you to remember them, to yourself, your children and theirs:

Our history will be what we make it. And if there are any historians about fifty or a hundred years from now, and there should be preserved the kinescopes for one week of all three networks, they will there find recorded in black and white, or color, evidence of decadence, escapism and insulation from the realities of the world in which we live. I invite your attention to the television schedules of all networks between the hours of 8 and 11 p.m., Eastern Time. Here you will find only fleeting and spasmodic reference to the fact that this nation is in mortal danger. There are, it is true, occasional informative programs presented in that intellectual ghetto on Sunday afternoons. But during the daily peak viewing periods, television in the main insulates us from the realities of the world in which we live. If this state of affairs continues, we may alter an advertising slogan to read: LOOK NOW, PAY LATER.