In a society dominated by the production and consumption of images, no part of life can long remain immune from the invasion of spectacle.
—CHRISTOPHER LASCH
THE Frankfurt Institute’s analysis of the totalitarian tendencies of the “culture industry” seems especially relevant to television, partly because it is the mass medium that takes the abolition of the “aura” of older cultural forms to its farthest limits. Television like radio has also invaded that sanctuary of the potentially free individual, the home, monopolizing the communication channels even of privacy. And television has flooded its own channels with propaganda for consumerism, imperializing new psychic markets for the products of “late capitalism.” Summarizing these concerns, Oskar Negt writes that the “bourgeois public sphere,” which is “in an irretrievable process of decay” as evidenced through its invasion by the mass media, “has . . . turned the citoyen, on whom it once relied, into a consumer, who sees the path to the television knob as the way to freedom and autonomy.”1 This is of course the same pattern that Juvenal saw of past rights and responsibilities abandoned in favor of present appetites.
According to all the Frankfurt Institute theorists, television, “even if the explicit surface message of the shows may be antitotalitarian,” tends toward fascism. In similar language, Todd Gitlin, former president of Students for a Democratic Society, writes: “TV programs aim to narrow and flatten consciousness—to tailor everyman’s world view to the consumer mentality, to placate discontent, to manage what cannot be placated, to render social pathologies personal, to level class-consciousness.”2 From the Marxist perspective, all the mass media reinforce bourgeois hegemony and blunt the development of radicalism. In False Promises: American Working Class Consciousness (1973), for example, Stanley Aronowitz denounces “mass art” as “a one-way communication [which] takes on the character of domination.” Modern history has been characterized by a trend “toward the replacement of all the traditional forms of proletarian culture and everyday life . . . with a new, manipulated consumer culture. . . . The institutions of mass culture . . . have become central to the process of reproducing the labor force in proportion to the weaknesses of family, church, and school.”3
From a conservative perspective, television is again likely to be treated as undermining true values, consciousness, society. The attacks made on television and the other news media by the Nixon administration were aimed chiefly at journalists, whom Spiro T. Agnew alliteratively stigmatized as “the nattering nabobs of negativism.” Implicit in these attacks, however, is an indictment of the networks themselves as undemocratic, un-American, decadent. In a Des Moines speech on 13 November 1969, Agnew asked:
What is the end value [of the networks’ endless pursuit of controversy]—to enlighten or to profit? What is the end result—to inform or to confuse? How does the ongoing exploration for more action, more excitement, more drama serve our national search for internal peace and stability?
. . . What has this passionate pursuit of “controversy” done to the politics of progress through local compromise essential to the functioning of a democratic society?4
The “nattering nabobs” themselves are not always quick to defend their medium. Shortly after the demise of his CBS “See It Now” program in 1958, Edward R. Murrow told the Radio-Television News Director Association: “If there are any historians . . . a hundred years from now and there should be preserved the kinescopes for one week of all three networks, they will find recorded, in black-and-white or color, evidence of decadence, escapism and insulation from the realities of the world. . . . If we go on as we are, then history will take its revenge, and retribution will [catch] up with us.” This remark is quoted by Murrow’s colleague on the original CBS news team, Fred Friendly, who in Due to Circumstances Beyond Our Control indicts the television industry for its “inexorable flight from quality” in pursuit of profits. “I think of commercial television like Times Square,” says Friendly elsewhere. “In trying to make more money, the lowest common denominator was catered to. And now TV entertainment, like Times Square, is nothing more than a slum.”5
From its commercial beginnings in the late 1940s, television has been accused more often—and from more ideological perspectives—of causing cultural and political decadence than has any earlier communications medium. Whatever it broadcasts is apt to be interpreted as antithetical to high culture. It appears to be a sort of anticlassical apparatus for automatic barbarization; its characteristics of passive mass spectacle readily lend themselves to Roman analogizing. Recounting Richard Nixon’s 1952 “Checkers” speech, Milton Shulman says that having viewers write to the Republican National Committee stating whether or not they wanted Nixon to remain on the Republican ticket “was, in its way, the electronic equivalent of the mobs in the Roman Colosseum being asked to give a thumbs up or a thumbs down sign about the fate of an intended victim.”6 Similarly, in his New Republic account of the influence of television on the 1965 Watts rebellion, John Gregory Dunne writes: “With its insatiable appetite for live drama, television turned the riots into some kind of Roman spectacle, with the police playing the lions, the Negroes the Christians.”7 In both of these examples, television as a purveyor of news and not just of entertainment is likened to bread and circuses, and in the first one, it appears to be acting to enhance a democratic electoral process—the opposite of what Juvenal meant. Defending television and other forms of mass culture against such criticisms, David Manning White says: “The mass culture critic always insinuates that in some previous era the bulk of men were rational, pacific, and learned. The good old days—like the Roman Empire under Nero? Admittedly, the Romans didn’t have a television set to watch the lions massacre the various unwilling guests during the Coliseum half-time shows.”8 For many of its critics television is the machinery of a universal narcissism, a fake magic mirror on the wall forever distracting, infantilizing, and consequently barbarizing its viewers. The ultimate televiewer may be the zombified housewives who sit narcotized before their wallscreens in Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, which portrays a book-burning society of the near future. Television, despite occasional religious programming, and despite functioning as an ersatz religion by producing a new mythology based on commodity fetishism, is secular, dominated by profiteering, basely and blatantly ideological. “All levels of mass-media ‘realism,’ whether barracks in Stalag 17 or staterooms on the Loveboat,” writes John Phelan, “are dead ends of contemporary nihilism.”9 Television, the most modern and apparently progressive piece of cultural equipment, seems also to be the most decadent.
Any survey of criticisms of the medium will contain many that have to do with content, or with the ideas, values, and prejudices expressed on television programs. Such criticisms often conclude with proposals for reform, such as cutting back on violence in shows consumed by children. Content can at least theoretically be upgraded, although the economic obstacles to improvement may be overwhelming. Only the most sanguine observers expect the commercial television networks to reform themselves. “Because television can make so much money doing its worst,” says Friendly, “it often cannot afford to do its best.” Even “efforts to improve [technical] quality in television films must be made at financial risk.”10 Given this dismal picture of commercial television, proposals for reforming its content invariably sound naive. Whether the blame falls on the cynicism and irresponsibility of the network managers or on the degraded cultural standards of the masses depends, of course, on the critic’s ideological perspective. Another type of media criticism bypasses program content, however, to focus on the general psychological effects of televiewing and on the intrinsic structure of the medium. When the stress is on psychological effects, the results often declare television to be addicting, a “narcotic,” a new “opium of the people,” as in Marie Winn’s The Plug-in Drug (1977). According to the maverick Federal Communications Commissioner, Nicholas Johnson: “Television leaves its addicts waterlogged. Only rarely does it communicate anything meaningful to their lives. No wonder so many Americans express . . . a deep-seated hostility toward television. Too many realize, perhaps unconsciously but certainly with utter disgust, that television is itself a drug.”11 When the stress is on intrinsic structure, the results involve some version of Marshall McLuhan’s thesis that “the medium is the message.” Program content is beside the point. The critic is drawn either toward McLuhan’s sort of technological determinism, though often without his optimism, or toward neo-Luddite demands for the abolition of television itself, as in Jerry Mander’s Four Arguments for the Elimination of Television (1978).
Three out of four of Mander’s arguments seem to stress content rather than structure. These three are entitled: “the mediation of experience,” “the colonization of experience,” and “the inherent biases of television.” The word “inherent” in the last title, however, suggests the structural nature of that argument, and as Mander explains it “mediation” applies largely to the physiological effects of the machinery of television. The first two arguments and much of the fourth are in any case redundant; much of Mander’s ingenuity goes into the third, clearly structural argument, entitled: “effects of television on the human being.” Here it becomes evident that Mander is less concerned about television as a political institution than as a pollutant. He worries about its hypnotic and narcotic effects; about “image emulation” (“are we all taped replays?”); and about “the ingestion of artificial light.” Perhaps his most striking section concerns the experiments in the effects of artificial light conducted by the photobiologist John Ott. “Pink fluorescent light produced the highest rate of cancer in rats; natural daylight the lowest.”12 Other sorts of artificial light produce other nefarious results. Mander concludes that the artificial light of color television (or black and white) must do the same. Radioactivity aside, Mander thinks, television acts as one more environmental poison. Mander’s presentation of all four arguments might be characterized as expressing a sort of reasonable paranoia, according to which almost anything may be poisonous until proved safe.
Though he emphasizes the hypothetical effects of television, Mander does not neglect politics. He interprets nearly every antidemocratic tendency in modern society as a result of television, at times sounding like Horkheimer and Adorno: “There is considerable evidence that the science fiction vision of arbitrary reality inevitably leading to autocracy has already begun to materialize. We can see it in action in the quasi-religious philosophies that are now sweeping the country, gathering in millions of devotees” (99). Thus we are given to understand that the new Dark Age is the product of television. In any case, under the rubric of “the mediation of experience,” Mander lists “eight ideal conditions for the flowering of autocracy,” among which the third involves the “separation” of people “from each other” (or massification). To effect this “autocratic” goal, Mander says, “spectator sports are excellent, so are circuses, elections, and any spectacles in which focus is outward and interpersonal exchange is subordinated to mass experience” (98). Bread and circuses here merges with its opposite, political responsibility and participation; any notion that television can convey intelligent and useful information is cancelled by the identification of elections with entertainments.
When he emphasizes politics, Mander agrees with the critique from the left, according to which true political consciousness is drowned out by mass media distraction, ideology, compensatory vicarious experience. Among other authorities, Mander cites the mass culture theories of the French “situationist” Guy DeBord, who in Society of the Spectacle (1967) writes: “The spectacle is the existing order’s uninterrupted discourse about itself, its laudatory monologue. It is the self-portrait of power in the epoch of its totalitarian management of the conditions of existence.”13 “Spectacle” and “spectacular relations” are DeBord’s versions of such concepts as false consciousness and ideology. His stress is on the production of an all-absorbing imagery that, like Caesar Augustus’s Res gestae, reflects only its own glory. “Spectacle” is the ultimate result of commodity fetishism, a narcissistic self-reflection that is the social form of the equally narcissistic psychic privatization of the individual in mass-capitalist society. “This society which eliminates geographical distance reproduces distance internally as spectacular separation” (sec. 167). Watching replaces living, as in spectator sports and televiewing. Reality retreats behind the façgade of an imagery shaped by the mass media and the ad industry, which is “the material reconstruction of the religious illusion” (sec. 20). Bread and circuses reappears on the scene of history as the ultimate production and self-defense of the empire of capital. “The spectacle is capital to such a degree of accumulation that it becomes an image” (sec. 34, my emphasis).
DeBord’s elaboration of the concept of “spectacle,” with its evocation of Roman imperial spectaculi, is similar in several ways to the numerous recent American analyses of “image making” and the impact of television on electoral politics. DeBord himself cites Daniel Boorstin’s The Image (1961), which, he says, “describes the commercial consumption of the American spectacle but never reaches the concept of spectacle because he thinks he can exempt private life, or the notion of ‘the honest commodity,’ from this disastrous exaggeration” of the power of mass culture imagery. But despite his liberalism, Boorstin’s concept of the “pseudo-event” is close to DeBord’s “spectacle,” perhaps especially because of its pervasiveness, deluging all aspects of social life. “The making of the illusions which flood our experience has become the business of America,” writes Boorstin.14 Though he defends much of this mass production of imagery as necessary, respectable, and democratic, Boorstin also associates it with ideas of decadence, and particularly with the notion that the mass media substitute the phony for the real, untruths for truth: “What ails us most is not what we have done with America, but what we have substituted for America. We suffer primarily not from our vices or our weaknesses, but from our illusions. We are haunted, not by reality, but by those images we have put in place of reality” (6). Boorstin’s argument leads to a call for self-reform (“each of us must disenchant himself”) which DeBord finds unrealistic, but the critical aspects of their analyses almost coincide. And both “spectacle” and “image” have special theoretical resonance in an age of television, in which information so often threatens to degenerate into an uninterrupted and unanalyzed flow of pictures so realistic that they seem almost as good as “being there.”
Boorstin’s essay bears comparison to such recent general works of social criticism as Richard Sennett’s The Fall of Public Man (1977) and Christopher Lasch’s The Culture of Narcissism (1978). Narcissism as Lasch defines it is an all-encompassing category like DeBord’s “spectacle,” which is one reason why Lasch’s criticism of The Image approximates DeBord’s. “Even Boorstin,” Lasch writes, “minimizes the degree to which appearances—‘images’—dominate American society. Backing away from the more disturbing implications of his study, he draws a false distinction between advertising and propaganda, which allows him to posit a sphere of technological rationality—one that includes the operations of the state and much of the routine of modern industry—into which the irrationality of image making cannot penetrate.”15 In contrast to Boorstin’s “pseudo-event” and “image,” which do not account for all contemporary cultural phenomena, Lasch’s “narcissism” is an all-pervading psycho-social equivalent of DeBord’s “spectacle” and of other Marxist versions of false consciousness.
Lasch offers one of the most complete—and repetitious—catalogues of social decadence made by any recent social critic. A sampling of his table of contents yields such dismal items as “the void within,” “the spread of stupefaction,” “the atrophy of competence,” “the eclipse of achievement,” “the collapse of authority,” “the abdication of authority,” “the degradation of sport,” “the trivialization of athletics,” “the flight from feeling,” and “the trivialization of personal relations.” Whether explicitly or only as background, the mass media—the machinery of narcissism—are ubiquitous in his analysis. Boorstin’s idea that we live in a world of pseudo-events and quasi-information reappears in Lasch’s belief that the media are undermining such traditional gauges of meaning as truth and falsehood.
The role of the mass media in the manipulation of public opinion has received a great deal of anguished but misguided attention. Much of this commentary assumes that the problem is to prevent the circulation of obvious untruths; whereas it is evident, as the more penetrating critics of mass culture have pointed out, that the rise of mass media makes the categories of truth and falsehood irrelevant to an evaluation of their influence. Truth has given way to credibility, facts to statements that sound authoritative without conveying any authoritative information. [74]
Propaganda for consumerism—that is, advertising—is the main product that the media are structured to convey. And consumerism is nothing more than the economic reflection of narcissism. “The media give substance to and thus intensify narcissistic dreams of fame and glory, encourage the common man to identify himself with the stars and to hate the ‘herd,’ and make it more and more difficult for him to accept the banality of everyday existence” (21). The apparently public culture of the mass media vampirizes private life and the family, but it also vampirizes public life, substituting image making for politics, the cult of personalities and stars for issues. Citing DeBord, Lasch writes, “The attempt to civilize the masses has now given rise to a society dominated by appearances—the society of the spectacle. In the period of primitive accumulation, capitalism subordinated being to having, the use value of commodities to their exchange value. Now it subordinates possession itself to appearance and measures exchange value as a commodity’s capacity to confer prestige—the illusion of prosperity and well-being” (72). Spectacular mass culture is commodity fetishism carried to such an extreme that the illusion of value derived from wanting and possessing a thing replaces both the exchange and the use values of the thing itself. Only the machinery of illusion, the mass media, could effect this ultimate hollowing out of value.
Lasch’s concept of narcissism and DeBord’s of spectacle are categories for other recent social critics as well. Richard Sennett’s thesis of the gradual disintegration of the public realm in industrial society, for example, leads him to both narcissism and the mass media as interrelated causes of contemporary decadence. What fills the emptied public realm is a false privatization of self-absorption intensified by the psychologizing and consumerism of mass culture. Sennett traces “the erosion of public life” to factors well prior to the development of the electronic media, but television, movies, and radio exacerbate the trend. “Electronic communication is one means by which the very idea of public life has been put to an end.”16 Television gives the illusion of involvement in public affairs, but televiewing is a “passive” and “intimate” activity that instead diminishes involvement. “The mass media infinitely heighten the knowledge people have of what transpires in the society, and they infinitely inhibit the capacity of people to convert that knowledge into political action” (283).
Sennett rejects as silly the idea that “just as moral rottenness is supposed to have sapped Rome’s power to rule the West, it is said to have sapped the modern West’s power to rule the globe.” He nevertheless offers his own version of Juvenal’s tenth satire: “As in Roman times, participation in the res publica today is most often a matter of going along, and the forums for this public life, like the city, are in a state of decay” (4). Sennett suggests that the decadent Romans may have been better off than we are; they were able to turn to religion, whereas we have only the narcissistic hollowness of our secularized mass culture to substitute for public life.
The difference between the Roman past and the modern present lies in the alternative, in what privacy means. The Roman in private sought another principle to set against the public, a principle based on religious transcendence of the world. In private we seek out not a principle but a reflection, that of what our psyches are, what is authentic in our feelings. We have tried to make the fact of being in private, alone with ourselves and with family and intimate friends, an end in itself. [4].
This is another way of saying, of course, that the modern republic has been transformed into the psychological society. As Sennett puts this theme: “Masses of people are concerned with their single life-histories and particular emotions as never before; this concern has proved to be a trap rather than a liberation” (5).
In all of these studies—Lasch, Sennett, Mander, DeBord, Boorstin, the Frankfurt theorists, as well as the critiques of psychological society mentioned in Chapter 5—a central paradox is that the highly public mass media erode the public sphere by subjectivizing or privatizing it.17 But as the public sphere is hollowed out, so is the individual, the meaning of whose existence depends upon participation in a public community. The isolated, narcissistic ego becomes the hero or heroine of every mass-mediated experience, the source and aim of the grandest, most glamorous daydreams and wish fulfillments, in an infinite hall of mirrors. The ideas of image, spectacle, and narcissism share a regressive visual element, moreover, which itself helps to explain how the most progressive cultural techniques can lead to results that point to decadence and barbarism. In his analysis of the concept of reification, Joseph Gabel argues that false consciousness emphasizes space at the expense of time. So, he adds, does schizophrenia, which he treats as the psychological form of the social catego-ry of false consciousness.18 So, too, I would add, does television, at least as it is most often employed, for immediate sensation and immediate commercial gain. Even television journalism—the “news” (the antithesis of “history”)—tends to reduce everything to immediate visual experience, time into space and words into pictures (the quantity of words in a television news story as compared to a newspaper account of the same event will ordinarily be quite small). In the electronic mass media, seeing becomes believing. The domination of visual imagery in any cultural medium will perhaps always evoke questions about what is not shown, about the reality behind the apparitions on the surface. On a philosophical level, these questions echo Platonic doubts about physical appearances and about all the arts as third-hand reflections of the ideal. On a less abstract level, they may merely express a loss of depth or of temporality. The visible is only surface and present, never so vast as the invisible or as the past and future, which are infinite.
Dependence on the visible thus entails a paradoxical blindness, which in turn subverts the power of the visual mass media. Here is one way, I believe, in which “the medium is the message.” Quite apart from the brutality and degradation of human life involved in the Roman games, the fact of their spectacularity was often held against them, especially by their early Christian critics. Salvianus condemns “the amphitheaters, the concert halls, games, parades, athletes, rope dancers, pantomimes and other monstrosities” as offering “pictures of vice” through which “the whole people commits fornication mentally.” For Salvianus, to see is also to participate in what is seen, and to lose track of what is unseen. On similar grounds, Tertullian writes that the public shows, including all theatrical performances, are “idolatry”; they “belong to the devil, his pomp and his angels.”19 Tertullian condemns the mobs of spectators at arenas, abosrbed in “spectacle,” both for their cruelty and for their “blindness” to everything of true worth (271–73), and says: “Ears and eyes are the servants of the spirit, nor can the spirit be clean whose servants are dirty” (277). And at the end of De Spectaculis, citing 1 Corinthians (2:9), he asks: “But what are those things which eye hath not seen nor ear heard, nor ever entered into the heart of man? I believe, things of greater joy than circus, theatre or amphitheatre, or any stadium” (301). Because the invisible surrounds and in some sense transcends the visible, the reduction of experience to visual imagery by any cultural medium will seem to liquidate essence, leaving only the hollow forms of an idolatrous liturgy or of a narcissistic self-worship behind.
Spectacularity, at least partly intrinsic to the machinery of television itself, seems also to be the essence of most mass culture. According to Daniel Bell:
Mass entertainments (circuses, spectacles, theaters) have always been visual, but there are two distinct aspects of contemporary life that necessarily emphasize the visual element. First, the modern world is an urban world. Life in the great city and the way stimuli and sociability are defined provide a preponderance of occasions for people to see, and want to see (rather than read and hear) things. Second is the nature of the contemporary temper, with its hunger for action (as against contemplation), its search for novelty, and its lust for sensation.20
“Temper” begs the question of what shapes it, so that Bell’s second explanation must be referred to the first one, or to other sources of the contemporary emphasis on the visual, such as television. In any case, the tendency toward the visual and consequently toward the superficial and immediately apprehensible is strong in many cultural formations that come to be widely shared, from plays and circuses to cinema and television. Commercial television, in fact, aims just at this quality of superficiality: anything deeper or more difficult will fail to hold the attention of large audiences for long periods of time. This tendency has nothing to do with the intelligence or sophistication of the audience (despite Bell’s assertion about the weaknesses of the “contemporary temper,” which are not very different from Ortega’s strictures against the mindlessness of the masses). Superficiality (a near synonym for spectacularity) is rather the result of deliberate commercial attempts to produce cultural forms that are consumable through minimum effort by the maximum number of people—just the opposite, of course, of what is valued by those classicist theories that stress difficulty, profundity, and “aura” as elements of cultural worth.
Jerzy Kosinski’s fable about an illiterate gardener who soars to media and political stardom can be read as a study of spectacularity. At the start of Being There, Chance has never ventured beyond the confines of the Old Man’s house and garden; his only source of information about the outside world has been television. He is like those cases of “wild children” so fascinating to psychologists, only instead of having been lost in the wilderness and reared by animals, he has been lost in the city and reared by television. Educated electronically, he cannot read and write; he is a complete “videot”; and he himself has no more reality than the TV image that he mimicks. But it is as an image that he functions and succeeds in the real world, after he has been evicted from the Old Man’s house. The perfect student of the mass media, Chance soars to stardom once the media discover him, and by the end of the tale he is being touted as the perfect candidate for the vice-presidency (in the movie, the presidency). Throughout most of the story, however, Chance’s only ambition is to become even more thoroughly an image and a media creature than he already is. It is his way of belonging, because he can relate to other people only through television. “Chance . . . wanted to see himself reduced to the size of the screen; he wanted to become an image, to dwell inside the set.” And yet: “Television reflected only people’s surfaces; it also kept peeling their images from their bodies until they were sucked into the caverns of their viewers’ eyes, forever beyond retrieval, to disappear. Facing the cameras with their unsensing triple lenses pointed at him like snouts, Chance became only an image for millions of real people. They would never know how real he was.”21 The fear of the mass reproduction of images, reducing people themselves to the unreal status of phantoms, is here brought to a paranoid extreme; the tube sucks the life’s blood from individuals and leaves them with even less authenticity than images on glass. Kosinski sums up those theories, running from Lasch, DeBord, and Mander back to Ortega, Eliot, Jaspers, and beyond, that see all manifestations of mass culture in terms of psychological vampirism. Chance’s videocy is the hollowness of all previous “mass men” writ large. And his unwitting political triumph reflects the connection made in both conservative and radical theories between the mass media and the demise of democratic institutions. “For me,” writes Kosinski, “imagining groups of solitary individuals watching their private, remote-controlled TV sets is the ultimate future terror: a nation of videots.”22 In Being There, Kosinski offers an updated version of 1984, with television playing the role of Big Brother.
Kosinski’s novel can also be read as a negative version of the theories of Marshall McLuhan. Different though they seem, Kosinski and McLuhan share several assumptions about the impact of the mass media on present culture and future society. First, they both attribute enormous influence to the media, giving them primacy or near primacy among causal factors in contemporary social change. Second, they both tend to assume that “the medium is the message,” or at least that form in communications is more important than content. Third, they both believe that the electronic media are causing a decline of verbal literacy. And fourth, they both assume that the mass media are capable of reshuffling the cards of identity, or that television can erase the personal characteristics of individuals and replace them with others—“mass” characteristics in Kosinski and “tribal” ones in McLuhan. On the same set of assumptions it is clearly possible to construct visions of the future that are either bleak or utopian. Viewed in this light, Kosinskism is a pessimistic version of McLuhanism, in which the mechanical optimist’s future global village is replaced by a global Buchenwald.
To put it the other way around, the mass culture theories of both Kosinski and McLuhan can be understood as versions of negative classicism. Though McLuhan is a technological optimist, he often seems merely to be putting a cheerful face on the apocalyptic fears of writers like Kosinski and the Frankfurt theorists, who perceive mass-mediated culture as involving the destruction of enlightenment (or enlightenment committing suicide, as in Adorno and Horkheimer), the decline and fall of past high culture, and the death of freedom. The communications machinery that McLuhan places at the center of history seems to run on its own momentum, without human agency. The machines talk to us, concoct our dreams, flood our minds with images, and we do their bidding. Such a reified treatment of technology sounds dystopian, but McLuhan’s gospel of communications is full of utopian anticipations.
In Understanding Media (1964), McLuhan observes that “each new technology creates an environment that is itself regarded as corrupt and degrading. ”23 Perhaps this is the law governing all classicisms: the difficulty of accepting the new casts a utopian glow over the old. McLuhan adds: “When writing was new, Plato transformed the old oral dialogue into an art form. When printing was new the Middle Ages became an art form. . . . And the industrial age turned the Renaissance into an art form.” (UM viii) McLuhan’s argument should serve as a warning against any easy condemnation of a new technology, communications medium, or art form as decadent. Socrates, he reminds us, was opposed to writing because he thought it would erode memory. Similarly, many contemporary culture critics are opposed to television, radio, and cinema because they think they will erode literacy. Not that they are wrong: McLuhan himself announces the death of verbal literacy in terms nearly as dramatic as Nietzsche’s announcement of the death of God in The Gay Science. Perhaps McLuhan’s is the more disturbing declaration, at least for intellectuals who turn to books rather than to the supernatural for both social and personal salvation. McLuhan appears almost to be announcing the death of culture.
Like Kosinski, most writers look upon the alleged decline and fall of literacy with dismay. This is John Simon’s reaction, for example, in Paradigms Lost: Reflections on Literacy and Its Decline (1980). Similarly, in Strictly Speaking: Will America Be the Death of English? (1974), Edwin Newman (of all people! one of television’s “talking heads”) tells us everything we ever wanted to know about “the decline in language”—especially other people’s language—blaming it at least partly on television. If there are more linguistic Cassandras now than ever before in history (and they have always existed), that is in part a result of the influence of McLuhan, a reformed English teacher. But the facts showing a decline in literacy are either slim or nonexistent. College entrance exam scores and similar evidence may show declines in levels of reading and writing skills among some groups compared to previous generations, but they also show increases among some other groups. And they do not show an increase in actual illiteracy. Moreover, figures showing how little the average person reads as compared with how much television the same statistical abstraction watches have no bearing on the idea of a decline in literacy: the same average person today may be reading more—as well as watching 100 percent more television—than the average person five or ten decades ago. And as Walter J. Ong has noted, McLuhan is simply mistaken in arguing as though each new communications medium pushes aside all previous ones. Print did not eliminate writing, and television is not abolishing the book. Each new medium alters the ways in which earlier ones are needed and used, but without obliterating them. Thus, the idea that television is causing the death of verbal literacy is illogical from several angles.24
But illogical ideas often have great influence, especially when they achieve the status of myth. This is true of negative classicism in most of its forms, and it is also true of the idea of a decline of literacy—one of the many minor variations of negative classicism. Though aware that most intellectuals will view the idea of the demise of verbal literacy with horror, McLuhan himself is sanguine about the future. He reverses most of the judgments about mass culture made by the Frankfurt theorists. Far from a classicist in any ordinary sense, McLuhan is, with some reservations, a cheerfully apocalyptic modernist. For one thing, the old verbal literacy will be replaced by a new visual literacy, based on the electronic mass media. For another, McLuhan views the dying book-based culture as something less than worthy of preservation. The “Gutenberg galaxy”—book-oriented, linear, alphabetic—blinded its creators and participants to much and also isolated them from each other, leading to nationalism, imperialism, and modern global warfare. In contrast, the new visual culture (which, McLuhan thinks, is even more “tactile” than visual, at least in the case of television) will put us back in touch with each other, restoring lost community and uniting us harmoniously in one “global village.” Print “detribalizes”; television “retribalizes.” By “retribalize,” McLuhan does not exactly mean “barbarize,” but neither does he dodge the primitivistic implications of his theories. As he says in Take Today: The Executive as Dropout (1972), “The new avant-garde is the primitive.”25 By avant-garde, McLuhan appears to mean not experimental artists, but the new generation of media addicts about whom Nicholas Johnson, Jerry Mander, and others are concerned. This latest generation is even classicist in a crazy way, because it retreats into the past to find the form of the future: “The mystery of retrieval of ancient forms amidst innovation has been universally manifested in the recovery of the Middle Ages in many of its forms by the young TV generation” (TT 167). In his book on careers in television, Bob Shanks remarks that cave dwellers made gathering around the fire a ritual that has lasted through the ages: we repeat it today by gathering around the “cool fire” of television. Shanks adopts this image from McLuhan, “a kind of media messiah” who has prophesied that “all the tribes of the world will one day gather around the cool fire in a common ‘global village.’”26
McLuhan’s retribalization theory may not offer an exact parallel to conservative and Marxist ideas of regenerative barbarism, but there is another reason for comparing McLuhanism at least with Marxism. Marx asserts the causal primacy in history of economic modes of production, which have a formative influence (although not, for Marx, a completely determining one) over all other manifestations of social life, including culture. The economic “base” supports and in some large, vague way shapes the cultural “superstructure.” Though communications technology replaces economic base in his essays, McLuhan offers much the same kind of argument. Communications technology itself may be viewed as part of the economic base (though it may also be seen as an ambiguously mixed category, somewhere between base and superstructure). Given the centrality of “the culture industry” for the Frankfurt Institute Marxists, McLuhan’s stress on the mass media as causal factors in history might almost be mistaken for a Canadian version of Horkheimer and Adorno. But the differences are obvious. Even the most deterministic variety of Marxism still leads to an insistence on the need for political action to achieve social change. McLuhan, however, suggests that the program of history is fixed from the beginning, that political action is pointless because the real causes of social change are beyond human control, and anyway that the goal of history is a utopian (albeit “tribal”) harmony, so that there is no reason to seek change. Despite the fact that his theme is violent social and cultural upheaval, McLuhan is an apologist for the mass media and for the ever-changing status quo.
McLuhan’s philosophy of history is based on the neo-Darwinian theology of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin and on the ideas of Harold Innis, who in Empire and Communications (1950) and The Bias of Communications (1951) argues that large-scale social changes are “facilitated” if not exactly “caused” by innovations in communications technology. Tracing the effects on social structure of stone, papyrus, parchment, and paper, Innis concludes that light, portable media (papyrus, paper) facilitate extension in space, whereas heavy, less portable or less reproducible media (stone, parchment) facilitate extension in time. The “space-binding” media lead to imperial expansion and secularization; the “time-binding” media, to decentralization and the development of social institutions focused on religion. Applied to television, Innis’s idea of “space-binding” media might approximate Joseph Gabel’s analysis of the substitution of space for time in false consciousness and schizophrenia. At any rate, a combination of two media—papyrus and parchment, for example—also favors the rise of empires. According to Innis:
Concentration on a medium of communication implies a bias in the cultural development of the civilization concerned either towards an emphasis on space and political organization or towards an emphasis on time and religious organization. Introduction of a second medium tends to check the bias of the first and to create conditions suited to the growth of empire. The Byzantine empire emerged from a fusion of a bias incidental to papyrus in relation to political organization and of parchment in relation to ecclesiastical organization.27
All of Innis’s arguments have an after-the-fact quality: because both papyrus and parchment were used in Byzantium, he suggests that they facilitated its rise; because mainly papyrus was used in Rome, he suggests that it facilitated its rise. Innis also explains the decline of Rome as a result partly of the loss of the Egyptian papyrus industry. Despite his use of vague terms like “facilitated” rather than unequivocal ones like “caused” and his attempt to adduce evidence in a responsible, scholarly manner, Innis offers a monocausal theory of the rise and fall of empires hardly distinguishable from explanations of Rome’s fall by lead poisoning, or by climactic change, or by the neurotic foibles of this or that emperor.
Innis’s theories undergo both an expansion and a loss of scholarly rectitude in McLuhan. Perhaps it would be fair to say that McLuhan plays Engels to Innis’s Marx. Just as Engels’s popularizations rendered Marx’s theories more deterministic than they in fact are, so McLuhan transforms Innis’s soft technological determinism into something much harder. Innis likes the vague term “bias,” suggesting that a particular communications medium gives a society a tendency or direction toward a certain kind of organization. McLuhan foregoes vagueness for the capricious certitude of headline rhetoric: “HEIDEGGER SURF-BOARDS ALONG ON THE ELECTRONIC WAVE AS TRIUMPHANTLY AS DESCARTES RODE THE MECHANICAL WAVE,” reads one of the headlines (for that is what McLuhan is mimicking) in The Gutenberg Galaxy.28 Another one reads: “PRINT, IN TURNING the VERNACULARS INTO MASS MEDIA, OR CLOSED SYSTEMS, CREATED THE UNIFORM, CENTRALIZING FORCES OF MODERN NATIONALISM” (GG 199). The strident quality of this assertion contrasts sharply with its original in Innis, who writes: “With printing, paper facilitated an effective development of the vernaculars and gave expression to their vitality in the growth of nationalism. ”29 McLuhan asserts far too much. Innis, despite contrary appearances, asserts very little.
McLuhan’s headline translations of Innis’s vague hypotheses involve both a hardening of their deterministic implications and an emphasis upon their apocalyptic features. Innis is an economic historian, more concerned with the past than with present or future. It has been left to his disciple to apply his theories to modern communications media such as television. Despite numerous historical pronouncements, McLuhan is essentially a prophet, riding the waves of “future shock” on the same surfboard as his version of Martin Heidegger—or, more appropriately, as his version of Teilhard de Chardin. For it is from Teilhard that McLuhan draws the idea that, beyond turning the world into a “global village,” the mass media are evolving into an immense “overmind” or “noösphere.” Extensions of people as are all tools and technologies, the electronic media are forming a world brain or collective consciousness that will translate us into ultimate evolutionary perfection. But some of McLuhan’s language describing Teilhard’s theory falls short of utopian optimism, sounding instead like negative classicism:
This externalization of our senses creates what [Teilhard] de Chardin calls the “noösphere” or a technological brain for the world. Instead of tending towards a vast Alexandrian library the world has become a computer, an electronic brain, exactly as in an infantile piece of science fiction. And as our senses have gone outside us, Big Brother goes inside. So, unless aware of this dynamic, we shall at once move into a phase of panic terrors, exactly befitting a small world of tribal drums, total interdependence, and superimposed co-existence. [GG 32]
Perhaps the present trends toward negative classicism and apocalyptic dread correspond to the “phase of panic terrors” McLuhan warns of. But it is difficult to distinguish McLuhanism itself from negative classicism, except that the former cheerfully embraces the mass media and mass culture despite occasional ominous language about the internalization of Big Brother.
McLuhan shares with negative classicism a sense of the violent disruption of past culture and society by the mass media. His rosy vision of the future beams through a rhetoric of “bomb culture” violence and imagined endings, alphas and omegas, a version of history that “explodes” and “implodes” in response to technological innovation:
We know from our own past the kind of energy that is released, as by fission, when literacy explodes the tribal family unit. What do we know about the social and psychic energies that develop by electric fusion or implosion when literate individuals are suddenly gripped by an electromagnetic field such as occurs in the new Common Market pressure in Europe? Make no mistake, the fusion of people who have known individualism and nationalism is not the same process as the fission of “backward” and oral cultures that are just coming to individualism and nationalism. It is the difference between the “A” bomb and the “H” bomb. The latter is more violent, by far. [UM 50]
History is not clearly cyclic for McLuhan (despite “retribalization”), as it is for most negative classicists; rather, it is both progressive and catastrophic, as it tends to be in Marx. Each new communications medium “explodes” or “implodes” society into a new phase. Because there are many media (clocks, clothes, bicycles, movies, etc., down to television and computers), history goes by jolts and leaps. But the cosmic collision between the Gutenberg galaxy and the onrushing media galaxy is especially violent, transforming all the terms of social life even as it offers the prospect of peace and harmony in the global tribal village of the future. McLuhanism involves a sort of big bang theory of history and the mass media. And the main electronic medium involved in the smash-up with print and past culture is television.
Perhaps nothing has contributed more to McLuhan’s success than the fact that he offers a cheerful version of negative classicism, a prophetic and total reading of past and future according to which all will be well because all will be well. His vision offers hope to anyone who would like to believe that technology will rescue the world from the traps and disasters that technology has helped produce. “There is a deep faith to be found in this new attitude,” McLuhan writes of his old Panglossism, “a faith that concerns the ultimate harmony of all beings” (UM 5–6). McLuhan offers descriptions and indictments of decadence, but these are associated with the past rather than with the future. Innocence was lost when Gutenberg fell: with the printing press, mankind was thrust out of its tribal garden into the harsh world of typographical literacy, and things have been in an unhealthy state ever after. “Since nearly all our technologies and entertainment since Gutenberg have been not cool, but hot; and not deep, but fragmentary; not producer-oriented, but consumer-oriented, there is scarcely a single area of established relationships, from home and church to school and market, that has not been profoundly disturbed in its pattern and texture” (UM 312). Thus McLuhan reverses the diagnosis of most mass culture critics, who see decadence in our falling away from the book and who discover “videocy” and losses of political freedom in the cultural domination of the electronic media. McLuhan’s version of Roman decadence also attributes an unhealthy influence to verbal literacy in the evolution of the “bread and circuses” syndrome. Arguing that the separation of producer and consumer caused by the division of labor leads to decay, an idea that again approximates Marxism, McLuhan says:
Before Roman literate bureaucracy, nothing comparable to the Roman consumer specialists had been seen in the world. This fact was institutionalized in the individual known as “parasite,” and in the social institution of the gladiatorial games. (Panem et circenses.) The private sponge and the collective sponge, both reaching out for their rations of sensation, achieved a horrible distinctness and clarity that matched the raw power of the army machine. [UM 100–101]
McLuhan here obviously parts company from Harold Innis, who attributes the rise of the Roman Empire largely to the development of a literate and efficient bureaucracy and its fall largely to the harm done to that bureaucracy by the demise of the papyrus industry.
McLuhan’s version of the Roman experience leads him to deny rather than to assert parallels with the modern experience. Mankind was traveling a Roman road before the advent of the mass media, but the global village that McLuhan foresees will be the antithesis of imperialism. There is an obvious way, of course, in which the world is shrinking through new communications and transport technologies (as well as through overpopulation, which McLuhan ignores). Many studies of the international impact of television and the communications industries, however, do not present happy pictures of a global village in which lion shall lie down with lamb, but dismal pictures of what Alan Wells has called “picture tube imperialism.” No doubt print did provide a spur to the growth of national consciousness in and around the sixteenth century in parts of Europe, but nationalism and imperialism both reached their ugly apogee in the twentieth century, unhampered—in fact, abetted—by radio, telegraph, telephone, airplane, steamship, and efficient postal service. Television as a mechanism does not add anything to the peace- and village-making powers of these other world-spanning technologies. As Herbert Schiller says in Mass Communications and American Empire:
Unavailable to expansionists of earlier times, modern mass communications perform a double service for their present-day controllers. At home, they help to overcome, by diversion in part, the lack of popular enthusiasm for the global role of imperial stewardship. Abroad, the antagonism to a renewed though perhaps less apparent colonial servitude has been quite successfully . . . deflected and confused by the images and messages which originate in the United States but which flow continuously over and through local information media.30
If Schiller’s analysis of the international impact of American mass media is added to Lasch’s or Mander’s vision of the psychological and social vampirism of television, any notion of a utopia throbbing euphorically to the rhythms of electronic tom-toms must be condemned as naive or as a new version of fascism.
At the same time, more clearly than any other recent cultural theorist, McLuhan recognizes the utopian potentiality of the mass media. He too readily assumes that the mere existence of television and computers is breaking down nationalism and other blindnesses that, he believes, print-based culture has caused. But he provides an important counter to the mythology of negative classicism which dominates recent culture theory and which obscures certain liberating forces, at least some of which are—as McLuhan insists—inherent in the technology of mass communications. The electronic “noösphere” or international culture now evolving continues to reflect nationalism and to be controlled by commercial, ideological, imperialistic interests, but in his dramatic way McLuhan points to possible uses of the mass media that lie beyond and would subvert those interests. These uses will remain mere potentialities, however, so long as the present institutional structures of the mass media remain unchanged.
From the heady, apocalyptic patterns of thought that television inspires, it seems anticlimactic to turn to practical questions of the improvement of program content and the reform of cultural institutions. But most theoretical perspectives—whether Marxist, conservative, McLuhanist, or something else—seem to lead to one form or another of historical determinism and therefore to short-circuit practice. Because television cannot be isolated from its institutional contexts and uses, it is illogical to argue that the medium by itself is leading us down either a rosy path to a utopian global village or a rocky path to a totalitarian videocracy. Government-dominated television in the Soviet Union is already totalitarian, but not because of the medium. But what about the business-dominated television of the United States? There are two main obstacles in the way of feeling optimistic about television as it has evolved in this country. One is that the commercialization of culture co-opts, blurs, or just drowns out criticism of the status quo. To use the language of Adorno and Horkheimer, what the three commercial networks produce is “ideology” and “hegemony,” not “enlightenment.” The second obstacle is that the television industry operates as a virtual monopoly subject at best only to “imperfect competition.” The enormous power that both its critics and its defenders attribute to television rests in America in large part with the three commercial networks, which decide what viewers see, hear, and to some indefinable but obviously very large extent think. In the case of totalitarian socialism, the problem for democracy is clear enough. In the case of capitalist society, the problem may be shadowed by various illusions of freedom, but is just as clear: to break down monopolistic patterns of ownership and decision making and to make communications systems as flexible and responsive to local, democratic, and individual needs as possible. The history of cable television in the United States offers a good example of how a democratic potential, inherent in a new technology, can be deflected by existing institutions. Cable promises diversification and local control. While it has meant more channels to watch, however, local cable companies have been bought up or controlled by the networks and program content follows the old patterns.
The entrenched power of the television networks and the other mass media causes reform efforts to look quixotic and deflects theory into deterministic paths. In this context, negative classicism often seems truer than cautiously hopeful pronouncements about increased “accessibility” and the application of mass communications to community uses. The historian of American broadcasting, Erik Barnouw, might therefore be pronouncing the last word on television when he writes: “In this sense the overwhelming absorption of tens of millions of mid-twentieth century Americans in football games and struggles against cattle rustlers was a political achievement. Along with welfare legislation, it seemed an American equivalent of the Roman ‘bread and circuses.’”31
Barnouw is aware, however, that for all their similarity to Roman spectacles, the modern mass media are historically without precedents. Television provides free “spectacle” for the masses, and it clearly also acts to reinforce hegemony. But it acts in other ways, too, and suggests still more uses that could involve worldwide increases in understanding, knowledge, political accommodation, and cultural growth of the kind McLuhan foresees. These improved uses will not come about automatically, as a result of some inherent tendency to enlightenment in the machinery of television itself. On the contrary, partly because of its visual-spatial nature, the machinery seems to have an opposite tendency. It must be used with great care if it is to enhance enlightenment. How far short television now falls of its potential for enlightenment can be seen in the large number of pessimistic and deterministic theories it spawns, or in other words in its present obvious affinity for negative classicism.
The spectacular qualities of television seem to cry out for Roman analogies. According to Umberto Eco in his essay, “Are We Going Towards a Visual Civilization?”: “A democratic civilization will save itself only if it will make the language of the image into a stimulus to critical reflection, not an invitation to hyponosis.” Eco’s remark points to a possible program of reform through semiological analysis—a program perhaps like Roland Barthes’s critique of mass culture “mythologies,” coupled with some institutional manner of making such a critique effective, perhaps through the schools. But for those who believe that imagery is inevitably linked to myth, false consciousness, schizophrenia, and the substitute dream work of artful propagandists, Eco’s observation can offer no hope. Elèmire Zolla, who sees mass-mediated imagery as the cause of “the eclipse of the intellectual” and consequently of the downfall of civilization, declares that Eco’s remark is like saying: “If we can find alcohol that makes us sober and temperate, we will be saved from alcoholism.”32 Given a world of hollow mass men and “somnambulists” whose heads have been stuffed with the industrialized dreamwork of Hollywood and Madison Avenue, Zoila thinks there is little for it but a retreat into stoicism. Intellectuals should not “collaborate in our own ruin by making ourselves into what the barbarians have not yet succeeded in making of us,” says Zolla. “We can break the spell of the movie house, just as Marcus Aurelius escaped the mimes and the gladiators” (202). But meanwhile the world at large—the masses, and possibly “we” intellectuals as members of the masses—surrender to the latest products of industrialized romanticism:
So we are flung into a world of dreams produced by industry, no longer fabricated individually by the addicts. We are obliged to make a distinction not only between dream and authentic reality but also between contaminated and uncontaminated reality, and if we ever manage to free ourselves from this clinging mud, we are seized by horror before the mob of somnambulists who hem us in on every side. But just as only peoples weakened by decay are overcome by the barbarians, so only a humanity that has renounced reality in favor of the dream could succumb to the industry of the dream. [219]
In his remarks on industrialized dreamwork and somnambulism, Zolla offers a modern version on a mass scale of Augustine’s story about the seduction of Alypius by the games, with a moral for intellectuals close to Seneca’s belief that “Nothing is so ruinous to good character as to spend time at any spectacle.”33 For the masses, Zolla thinks, there is no question of “good character.” But for the intellectuals, their very existence is at stake—the seductions of the modern circuses, the mass media, are powerful and pervasive—and if the intellectuals fall, who then will defend true culture from the barbarians? This fear underlies Zolla’s account of the corrosive effect of bread and circuses on ancient civilization, which is being repeated and intensified by the mass media today:
Ancient tragedy began to decline from the times of Andronicus and Lucius Accius because of the circuses, but disgust was always vivid among liberal men. Cicero expressed it to Atticus, and Pliny approved of Mauricius, who hoped for the abolition of the games, while the pedagogues taught Marcus Aurelius not to degrade himself by siding with the circus factions. The Spartans forbade the helots and perioeci to sing the lyrics of Ademan and Terpander, leaving them only vulgar dances and ridiculous songs: an inhuman and horrifying standard of conduct which, however, contained the distinction between human and vulgar recreation. Today this distinction is being destroyed, and to the circuses that corrupted the Roman nation are added the willfully vulgar spectacles of the radio, television, and movies. So the pressure is greatly increased. What is even worse, this industry that fixes the mass in its subhuman characteristics is no longer isolated by a reaction of horror. [161]
If television is making the world a smaller place, it is doing so through the production of spectacularity in the form of mediocre (or worse) programs that stimulate narcissism rather than true self-reflection and public involvement. It undermines a possible enlightenment by exchanging its brilliant, insistent imagery and its brazen consumer ideology for our vague ideas. Joseph Conrad, who knew something about civilization and savagery—who knew especially how easily civilization can revert to savagery—might have been describing the social effects of television when he wrote about the “civilizing zeal” of Mr. Kurtz—or, better, when he wrote about the mercenary zeal of the Eldorado Exploring Expedition: “Their talk . . . was the talk of sordid buccaneers: it was reckless without hardihood, greedy without audacity, and cruel without courage; there was not an atom of foresight or of serious intention in the whole batch of them, and they did not seem aware these things are wanted for the work of the world. To tear treasure out of the bowels of the land was their desire, with no more moral purpose at the back of it than there is in burglars breaking into a safe.” Light comes from the boxes in our living rooms and there seems to be no distinction just now between it and the light of Western civilization. But this is only another way of saying that this also is “one of the dark places on the earth.” Marlow adds: “I was thinking of very old times, when the Romans first came here, nineteen hundred years ago”—but he is also thinking, of course, about the modern world.
1. Oskar Negt, “Mass Media: Tools of Domination or Instruments of Liberation? Aspects of the Frankfurt School’s Communications Analysis,” New German Critique, 14 (Spring 1978), p. 65.
2. Todd Gitlin, “Sixteen Notes on Television and the Movement,” in George Abbott White and Charles Newman, eds., Literature in Revolution (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1972), p. 345.
3. Stanley Aronowitz, False Promises: The Shaping of American Working Class Consciousness (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1973), pp. 100 and 95. Perhaps the most interesting development in recent Marxist media theory is Jürgen Habermas’s concept of “distorted communication,” which draws on both Freud and the Frankfurt Institute analysis. See Habermas, Knowledge and Human Interests (Boston: Beacon, 1971), pp. 214–45, Communication and the Evolution of Society (Boston: Beacon, 1979), and Legitimation Crisis (Boston: Beacon, 1973).
4. Spiro T. Agnew, “The Des Moines Speech,” in Michael C. Emery and Ted Curtis Smythe, eds., Readings in Mass Communication: Concepts and Issues in the Mass Media (Dubuque, Iowa: William C. Brown, 1974), p. 504.
5. Edward R. Murrow quoted by Fred W. Friendly, Due to Circumstances Beyond Our Control (New York: Vintage, 1968), p. 99. And Friendly quoted in “Why Is TV So Bad?” Newsweek, 16 February 1976, p. 72.
6. Milton Shulman, The Ravenous Eye (London: Collins, 1973), p. 54.
7. John Gregory Dunne, “A Riot on TV,” New Republic, 11 September 1965, p. 27.
8. David Manning White, in Bernard Rosenberg and David Manning White, eds., Mass Culture Revisited (New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1971), pp. 13–14.
9. John M. Phelan, Disenchantment: Meaning and Morality in the Media (New York: Hastings House, 1980), p. 42.
10. Friendly, Due to Circumstances Beyond Our Control, p. xii.
11. Nicholas Johnson, “What Can We Do About Television?” in Emery and Smythe, Readings in Mass Communication, p. 22. See also Nicholas Johnson, How to Talk Back to Your Television Set (New York: Bantam, 1970).
12. Jerry Mander, Four Arguments for the Elimination of Television (New York: Morrow Quill, 1978), p. 174.
13. Guy DeBord, Society of the Spectacle (Detroit: Red and Black, 1977), section 24. First published as La société du spectacle (Paris: Buchet-Chastel, 1967).
14. Daniel Boorstin, The Image: A Guide to Pseudo-Events in America (New York: Atheneum, 1971 [1961]), p. 5. In a later essay, Boorstin writes: “Television has conquered the nation with blitzkrieg speed and has received unconditional surrender. A bewildered America still hasn’t found its bearings. For television has brought us Too Much Too Soon. Without anybody having planned it so, we feel our heads swimming with instant experience. We get our news before anybody (including the commentator) has had a chance to reflect on what it means or whether it’s worth being called news. If our TV myopia is not to become an incurable history-blindness, an inability to see beyond this evening’s screen, we must find antidotes for Too Much Too Soon” (Democracy and Its Discontents: Reflections on Everyday America [New York: Vintage, 1975], p. 22).
15. Christopher Lasch, The Culture of Narcissism: American Life in an Age of Diminishing Expectations (New York: Norton, 1978), p. 75.
16. Richard Sennett, The Fall of Public Man: On the Social Psychology of Capitalism (New York: Vintage, 1978 [1977]), p. 282.
17. Compare Jürgen Habermas, Toward a Rational Society: Student Protest, Science, and Politics, tr. Jeremy J. Shapiro (Boston: Beacon, 1970), pp. 42–43, quoted in Chapter 1, pp. 41–42.
18. Joseph Gabel, False Consciousness: An Essay on Reification, tr. Margaret A. Thompson (New York: Harper and Row, 1975 [1962]).
19. Salvianus, On the Government of God, tr. Eva M. Sanford (New York: Columbia University Press, 1930), pp. 162–63. Tertullian, Apology and De Spectaculis, tr. T. R. Glover (New York: The Loeb Classical Library, 1931), p. 243.
20. Daniel Bell, The Cultural Contradictions of Capitalism (New York: Basic, 1976), pp. 105–6.
21. Jerzy Kosinski, Being There (New York: Bantam, 1972 [1971]), pp. 50 and 54. For a vivid expression of many of Kosinski’s fears about television, see Gunther Anders. “The Phantom World of TV,” Dissent, 3 (1956), 14–24, reprinted in Bernard Rosenberg and David Manning White, eds., Mass Culture: The Popular Arts in America (Glencoe, Ill.: The Free Press, 1957), pp. 358–67.
22. Jerzy Kosinski, “A Nation of Videots: An Interview with David Sohn,” Media and Methods, 11 (April 1975), 24–31, 52–57.
23. Marshall McLuhan, Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1965 [1964]), p. viii. Abbreviated as UM in the text.
24. Walter J. Ong, Interfaces of the Word: Studies in the Evolution of Consciousness and Culture (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1977), p. 82.
25. Marshall McLuhan and Barrington Nevitt, Take Today: The Executive as Dropout (New York: Hareourt Brace Jovanovieh, 1972), p. 263. Abbreviated as TT in the text.
26. Bob Shanks, The Cool Fire: How to Make It in Television (New York: Norton, 1976), pp. ix–x.
27. Harold A. Innis, Empire and Communications (Oxford: Clarendon, 1950), p. 216.
28. Marshall McLuhan, The Gutenberg Galaxy: The Making of Typographic Man (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1965 [1962]), p. 248. Abbreviated as GG in the text.
29. Innis, Empire and Communications, p. 216.
30. Herbert I. Schiller, Mass Communications and American Empire (Boston: Beacon, 1971), p. 2. See also Alan Wells, Picture Tube Imperialism? (Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis, 1972).
31. Erik Barnouw, Tube of Plenty: The Evolution of American Television (London: Oxford University Press, 1977 [1975]), p. 367.
32. Elèmire Zolla, The Eclipse of the Intellectual, tr. Raymond Rosenthal (New York: Funk & Wagnalls, 1968), p. 222.
33. Seneca, Ad Lucilium Epistulae Morales, ed. L. D. Reynolds (Oxford: Clarendon, 1965), letter vii: 2, vol. 1, p. 12.