Hugo Young Lecture What Are Newspapers For? Alan Rusbridger
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Hugo Young Lecture What are newspapers for? Alan Rusbridger Sheffield University, March 9h, 2005 It’s now 18 months since Hugo Young died, leaving a really gaping hole, not just in the Guardian, but in British and European journalism generally. Many journalists have some of the things Hugo had - keen intelligence, avid curiosity, a deep knowledge of the subject matter he tackled, an astonishing range of contacts, a prodigious memory, a clarity and toughness in his ability to think and in his writing – but very few journalists have them all. We miss him – colleagues, readers, friends, family – here in Sheffield and elsewhere. It’s particularly good that Hugo’s mother, Diana, is here tonight. It is great honour to be giving this inaugural lecture on journalism in his memory. Hugo died just before a significant moment in recent journalism in this country: the decision of the Independent - and, within weeks, the Times - to change shape, breaking the traditional link between broadsheet size and a certain style of quality journalism. That change in size brought increased circulation for the two papers and demanded a response – if only a defiant refusal to change – from the three remaining broadsheet dailies. And this moment happened at a time of unprecedented change, challenge and churn everywhere within the newspaper business. - Newspaper publishers, alarmed by falling sales, were increasingly experimenting with free newspapers, produced by much smaller teams of journalists, some of them relying largely on agency copy. - The Internet effect was finally felt in boardrooms as well as newsrooms, with readers and advertisers drifting – sometimes rushing – online. The future reading habits of the younger members of this audience are of deep interest to newspaper publishers. - Some of the biggest, most respected news organisations in the world – including the NYT, the BBC, le Monde, CBS and USA Today – were hit by scandals or controversies about journalistic methods and ethics. At the Guardian we were - directly or tangentially – affected by all these squalls or storms. The Independent and Times were taking some of our readers, especially those journeying to work on cramped public transport. Some of them undeniably found the tabloid size altogether more convenient. The London Metro – a quick, free read on the way to work - was taking some more. We were thrilled to find our website amongst the most popular in the world – with 10 million unique readers a month. The Guardian was now, as they say, a global brand, one of the biggest. But, along with that excitement and success, there gnawed away a suspicion that the internet Guardian was to some extent cannibalising the core print 1 product. And the big ethical journalistic debates raging elsewhere found an echo in our own newsroom, as in all others. As we considered our response we found ourselves having some very fundamental debates about what, in a crowded media hypermarket, a newspaper was for? What task should it set itself? And how should it measure its success? For generations there had been a quiet understanding about what newspapers were for. They were there primarily to tell a society about itself, to act as a pollinator of information. To be a conduit between subjects and rulers, citizens and legislators, legislators and citizens, citizens and citizens. The Enlightenment brought with it an understanding that decent liberal democracies relied on having a sufficient number of adequately, or reasonably informed citizens. The contrary was also true: that it would be difficult to maintain a liberal democracy - in all its subtlety and with all its finely-tuned balancing acts – if the people were ill-prepared, ill-informed, or, worse-still, mis-informed. Of course, newspapers sought to entertain as well. And they were also there to challenge power - to hold it to account. And, in this country as elsewhere, there has for 200 years or more, been a tradition of robust, unfettered comment. Some papers worked harder than others at the separation of comment and fact. But – in the story we told to others in our attempts to win our freedom of speech, not to mention additional privileges and protection - there was at its heart the civic value of news-telling. Just recently decent, thoughtful, liberal voices have begun to question that unfettered freedom. In her 2002 Reith Lectures, and since, Professor Onora O’Neill has questioned whether freedom of speech deserves its sacred cow status. Why, for instance, should there be a freedom to mis-inform people, she asks? Is there not a vast gulf between protecting small voices threatened by powerful institutions – monarchs or despotic governments, for instance – and protecting vast, wealthy and powerful modern media organisations, which may be as much concerned with entertainment and profit as informing citizens about the society in which they live? Other legal scholars have begun to ask whether entertainment speech deserves the same protection as political speech. There are some clear amber lights out there if we want to see them. But what if the citizens don’t want to be informed? Or, rather, that there’s a level of surface news-grazing which is enough for their purposes? News is all around – the radio headlines in the morning, a 10 minute scan of Metro on the way to work, text alerts for breaking headlines, the internet, numerous 24-hour news TV channels. That’s fine for more and more people, it seems. How much more do I honestly need to read to be informed enough? It’s all very well to talk about the compact between citizen and legislator, but voting doesn’t seem to change much. And the real power in the modern world – and the real problems - lie way beyond my ability to do anything about them. Please tell me: why do I need to know all this stuff? The apathetic voter is a cliché of modern politics. Perhaps we’re now facing the apathetic reader? As with politics, the apathetic reader may not be apathetic about everything. They’ll have their own passions, obsessions and causes. But it’s just possible that the internet does passions, obsessions and causes better than newspapers. People can bury deeply into their own subjects, engage with communities of other equally engaged people. And, as for the rest, well, a 10 minute skim will do. What should an editor do, faced with legions of apathetic readers? 2 - One reasonable response is to say, we’ll give them what they want. If they don’t want difficult stuff, we won’t give them difficult stuff. - Another response might be to turn the volume up. Make the news seem more exciting, striking, pumped up. Try to shock and energise them out of their apathy. - A third avenue is to paraphrase the BBC producer who said, “Don’t give the public what they want. They deserve much better than that.” So what does an editor do? Is there still some notion of duty that goes with the privilege of mediating the news and the argument? Or is that for the birds? Do we have any kind of responsibility to tell our readers things they may not think they want to know? Would it matter if all newspapers started turning up the volume..to shout, rather than talk? Would public debate be improved, or become impossible? If readers don’t have the time, or appetite for much complexity, does that mean we shouldn’t give it to them? Running a health service in 2005 (or an Army, or a police service or a large public company) is intricate, complicated and – except to those involved – perhaps not very interesting. Not many people on their ride to work are going to want to bury themselves in the difficult detail. So, shall we pension off the correspondents who know these subjects inside out? And if we did, what would that do to the political process? Would we end up reinforcing a pattern of ignorance, or carelessness about things that actually matter to us all, when we choose to think about it? How would that affect the political process? At its mildest it might simply frustrate politicians, unable to get their message across. Or it might create a breed of politicians who felt they could get away with more or less anything because the main medium of political communication had abandoned the territory. Is any of that our business? Or do we just concentrate on the task of selling more copies? These are big, challenging questions. And, as we’ve sat down and grappled with them over the past 18 months we’ve been struck by how muted the debate was out there, in society at large. Most commentators within the industry saw an increased circulation figure at the papers that had shrunk or gone partly free and made a straight correlation with success. And, of course, the monthly ABC figures are one important measure of how a newspaper is doing – not least because they can affect the price the paper charges for its advertising. No editor minds selling more copies. No editor likes selling fewer. If market forces were all that mattered, that would be the end of the story. But, of course, there’s a part of us that knows that, where the media is concerned, figures alone can actually be dangerous indicators. The most trusted and serious newspaper in Britain – the Financial Times – sells easily the fewest copies. The Sun and the News of the World sell the most. The BBC’s least admirable periods have, in many minds, been when it’s chased ITV for eyeballs. Newsnight and C4 News are the best there is in current affairs journalism.