"All the President's Men"

Alan J. Pakula's 1976 movie All the President's Men is a good and bad example of how to do journalism. It is a great testament to the discipline of verification mentioned by Kovach and Rosenstiel in The Elements of Journalism as it highlights the importance of persistence, preparation, and asking the right questions. The movie also wrestles with journalists' "obligation to exercise their personal conscience," another element of journalism discussed by Kovach and Rosenstiel, but in this area the heroes do not always excel.

Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein are flawlessly disciplined in the art of verification (the "essence" of journalism according to K&R). They track thousands of tips, leads, and names to break the Watergate story, following trails one would only expect Sherlock Holmes to find. Librarians and old acquaintances from social events become valuable sources of information. Woodward risks his own safety to meet with his informant, Deep Throat, who gives him specific instructions to keep their contact a secret, while Bernstein is unafraid of tarnishing his reputation by acting pushy if it means tracking down the truth. Together they sort through a year's worth of library records in search of one man's history to confirm that he did research on Senator Kennedy. Although many informants turn them away and the editor wants to kill the story, Bernstein recognizes that "this is a goddamn important story!" and perseveres.

We can also glean from this film the value of preparation. Woodward perpetually has a notepad ready and records even the minutest details in case he should need them later. When the two journalists visit informants at home, they arrive with background knowledge of names, professions, connections, and other relevant information. They never waste time on basic questions; this would be disrespectful of the people whose stories they cover and, especially in the midst of a scandal like this, would fail to get them through the door. Revealing that they have some knowledge prompts some people, such as Kenneth Dalhberg, whose $25,000 check ended up in one of the burglars' accounts, to reveal more information.

Woodward and Bernstein also show us the value of asking the right question. I often find myself going into interviews with a list of questions, thinking it may be a contrived conversation, but at least I'll have something to write about later. Woodward and Bernstein have a knack for choosing just the right question, often on the spot. Sometimes that question can even be the leverage that opens further discussion. "You're a lawyer," Woodward says to Markham in the courthouse. "If no one asked you to be here then why are you here?" Later, when a woman tells Bernstein "people sure are worried," he instantly responds, "which people?" The questions seems so logical and obvious coming from another reporter's mouth, yet I know in the same situation I would not say such a sensible thing.

But the heroes of the film are flawed journalists, too. They both persist in asking questions of informants who insist, often multiple times, that they have nothing to say. This appears to be good reporting until one considers the feelings of the people being questioned. They are uncomfortable and even afraid to reveal their knowledge. Which is more important, respecting the people you cover as you yourself would want to be respected, or serving the greater public by getting the story no matter the cost? K&R say a journalist's first responsibility is to the citizens, but does that eliminate the need for personal sensitivity? K&R also say that "practitioners have an obligation to exercise their personal conscience." It seems Woodward and Bernstein err on the side of insensitivity, as a coworker tells them "I don't have the taste for the jugular that you guys have."

Woodward and Bernstein are also guilty of listening in on phone conversations via a second line and bluffing to get informants to confirm information. They even outright lie, telling one person's wife that their questioning is for her husband's own good. She and they knew that wasn't the case and she called them on it. Both of them draw conclusions very quickly, and while they may be logical and wise conclusions, they're still hastily made. As their editor pointed out, they need facts; the newspaper can't simply print deductions made by reporters based on people's refusals to speak.

Yet overall, these two reporters go far beyond the requirements of the profession (or perhaps just set a standard for the rest of us) in the way they "serve as an independent monitor of power" - yet another essential element of journalism by K&R's standards. In the end they've got more going for them than strikes against them... and one can't forget the fact that they broke one of the biggest stories in journalism's history.

Oh, and everything else aside... the cinematography is really something, so I definitely recommend this film if you have an artistic eye!

Ain't no Passim craze

When I first walked into Club Passim, located in a cobblestone back street of Harvard Square, I was skeptical. Sitting room only? Can this truly be a club? The Passim experience may not be your typical night on the town, but therein lies the charm of this established “folk music and cultural center.”

From its size, you’d think the place was a basement – not to mention the floor and one wall are made of bricks. But the atmosphere is anything but cold. Soft yellow lighting invites patrons to come and enjoy an evening of music and food together. Square tables and mismatched chairs, soon to be replaced, are arranged Tetris-style to accommodate the greatest number of guests possible.

If you want to sit at a table, buy your tickets in advance or get there early. You’ll be obliged to order at least $5 worth of food from Passim’s daytime alter ego and nighttime sidekick, Veggie Planet, whose menu is one hundred percent vegetarian. Entrees can be ordered on white rice, brown rice, or pizza dough.

Even carnivores will enjoy snacking on doughy garlic knots or fair trade brownies with regular or soy ice cream. If you’d rather just get a drink, there’s coffee and organic soda. Though it has traditionally been an alcohol-free setting, Passim recently started offering beer and wine to patrons at tables.

“It’s a nice service to offer,” said manager Matt Smith. “Of course we want to maintain the listening room atmosphere – there’s no open bar – but it helped keep the doors open when the economy fell apart.”

The listening room atmosphere is definitely still there. Passim isn’t just a place people go to see a show; it’s a place they go to be in community with one another. They often know the artists’ music from previous shows at the club since a lot of artists cycle through, playing one or two shows there each year.

There’s a connection between the address, the artists, and the audience that you don’t find in most venues. Singers take song requests from patrons and converse with the crowd as if they were old friends. And, in some way, they are. Passim has been a cultural crux for music lovers since 1958, when it was called Club 47. It makes a point of nurturing new artists from openers to headliners.

Even though the club panders to the folk folks, Smith said, “People shouldn’t be afraid of the word folk. They’ll be surprised if they come with an open mind toward something they wouldn’t normally experience.”

The blend of personalities and generations seated around the tables show Smith’s theory holds water. So, if you’re looking for a cozy, coffee-shop kind of setting some night, I encourage you to be open to the Passim experience, which you’ll find at 47 Palmer St. in Cambridge. You might be surprised.