In what could work as a Coen Brothers' "Fargo," "Raising Arizona" or "Oh, Brother, Where Art Thou?" monologue by one of their whimsical crooks, Russell Yates droned on about his lovely wife, Andrea, murderess of their five young children. He assured that their deceased children, or as her defense lawyers put it, "children whose lives were interrupted" (as if they missed a round of Chutes & Ladders for time-out), loved their mother dearly and most certainly understood vie interrompre.
The Russell Yates lecture series invaded via car radio. Not sure who was indicting doctors and the justice system and yammering about Twinkie-like defenses, I listened until an announcer broke in, as if it were a pending birdie shot on the 17th hole of the Masters, "We're listening to Russell Yates' press conference."
What manner of man offers up such claptrap? What compels a father who is hardly blameless in the death of five innocents to stand before cameras and deflect responsibility? Who is composed enough in such circumstances to even speak?
Blame it on Oprah, Rosie, Sally Jessy and even Ted Koppel and David Letterman. They have harvested 15 minutes from every seedy camera grabber, no matter what the underlying infamy. Malcontents, psychotic defenders and feel-good gurus have occupied their interview chairs to quench the nation's thirst for the bizarre and/or trivial. Whether news or talk show, they are the same genre: exposure without merit, fame without shame. No line of demarcation exists between tabloid and Pulitzer. Time's March 4 cover featured a triple-pierced Bono, clothed in the U.S. flag, with this query: "Can Bono save the world?" Maybe, but he hasn't had a hit in 12 years.
The hosts/anchors themselves bombard us with their inner children and outer loves. Oprah's Stedman. Oprah's childhood. Letterman's heart surgery. Letterman's negotiations ad nauseam. Greta's eyelift. Dan Rather blubbering because his secretary got an anthrax letter. We passed "too much information" in the Arsenio years.
Rosie O'Donnell currently enjoys kudos and coverage for her decision to "come out." The delusional O'Donnell failed to grasp that nary a soul on the planet capable of making change was unaware of her sexual orientation. The less gifted were momentarily duped by the Tom Cruise crush. This fraud was explained in People magazine by O'Donnell's spokesperson, "After all, she is a woman." I confess some confusion on where conservative views on sexual orientation differ.
Nothing could be more apropos than the news/talk show war running parallel to the Andrea Yates trial. In the Letterman battle, the high and mighty, including his deanship Koppel, hooted over the loss of "Nightline" as two networks each proffered $31 million for Letterman, whose talent is describing trips to the hardware store or dropping melons from the Sullivan Theater. Letterman can offer breezily bright wit, but he himself said, "Can you believe there are two networks fighting over this crap?"
While Koppel may have been our daily source of insight during the bleak Carter Iranian hostage crisis, his program evolved to the same old Oprah et al nonsense: the Yates trial, Monicagate, French ice skating judges, Hillary. Only the host and set change. Insights have no discernible differences in quality, whether offered by Heather Locklear on Leno or Paul Begala on Greta Van Susteren. Andrea Thompson left "NYPD Blue" to become a CNN anchor and now heads back to acting. Blurry lines, blurry news.
Journalistic dignity disappeared from the radar screen when Geraldo invaded Al Capone's empty vault. Now Monica is back on HBO. Ah, for an occasional Joe DiMaggio, someone who, despite claims to fame via sports or spouse, declines interviews. But, Russell Yates' performance does not bode well. There is no shame.
Shame took leave during the Clinton administration, and Fox rides its departure to the top of the network heap. Witness the Paula Jones/Tonya Harding brawl on Fox's "Celebrity Boxing." The unlicensed Mike Tyson would have brought it up to barbaric.
When Mr. Yates appeared on his front lawn in June 2001, tearless, I complained that we could sink no lower. I stand corrected. His performance following his wife's sentencing, in which he told us to demand more from our doctors, used the media as pawns. As surely as my hands strike these keys, Mr. Yates will file suit against doctors, health plans and perhaps bathtub manufacturers for their failure to warn. He will sue those same doctors and counselors who offered a cure they ignored: no more children. A pox on him and the "news" people who gave him audience. His whining is for Jerry Springer, but he gets Ted, Dan, Peter, Tom, Wolf, Greta and the whole gang of news types who carry the airs of CSPAN, but the content of Fox.
There is no longer a Tiffany network, unless, of course, Tiffany is a transsexual interested in an on-camera confession or brawl.
Marianne M. Jennings is a professor of legal and ethical studies at Arizona State University. Her e-mail address is mmjdiary@aol.com