On the 'Firing Line'
Andrew Ferguson on Buckley.
Mar 10, 2008, Vol. 13, No. 25 • By ANDREW FERGUSON
I came to him when I was still a teenager, through television. You might be surprised at how many people found him this way. He published millions of words of commentary and rumination, on a startling range of subjects, in high-circulation newspapers and the slickest magazines. He pulled off a dozen widely publicized stunts--running for mayor of New York, deep-sea diving to the remains of the Titanic, playing Bach with the Phoenix Symphony Orchestra. Over a span of 30 years he let loose a stream of novels, many of them bestsellers. Yet what really made him famous--what made him the butt of impersonators like David Frye and Robin Williams, set him up for the cover of Time and the bold-face celebrity treatment in the gossip columns--was a TV show.
Firing Line debuted in 1966, when all that America's TV-starved youth had to choose from were the three networks, maybe a local station or two, and an outlet for what was still called "educational television." By the time of Firing Line's final episode, in 1999, the whiskers were showing. The original running time of one hour had been reduced by half. As viewership fell and "pick-up"--the number of local PBS stations that aired the show--declined, producers tried a number of gimmicks to freshen it up and revive interest, without much success. Various interlocutors, among them the TV journalist Jeff Greenfield and the leftwing politician Mark Green, were brought in, to serve as quasi-hosts. For a time, the pundit Michael Kinsley anchored the show and reduced Buckley to the role of mere interviewer. When your liveliest gimmick involves Michael Kinsley, the end is near.
The show by then was an anachronism, both in its format and its ambition. Firing Line was a creature of the middlebrow--that long-gone impulse of the mid-20th century popular culture that tried to orient a mass audience toward learning, intellectual sophistication, and cultural uplift. The airwaves were filled with middlebrow fare, in between showings of Leave it to Beaver and The $64,000 Question. A lot of middlebrow stuff was dopey--try, if you dare, to watch such earnest, humorless teleplays as 12 Angry Men all the way through. Some of it proved provocative in conception and deadly in execution--the TV host David Susskind once had a weekly show called Open End, in which he would convene a panel of guests and engage them in conversation for several hours, with no set time limit, till everyone got bored and stopped talking.
But a lot of the middlebrow was wonderful, reflecting a high, if implausible, opinion of the public's taste and aspirations. Leonard Bernstein's Young People's Concerts were one example and Firing Line was another. Buckley's original format was stripped bare: two chairs, a table, Buckley himself, with his clipboard and pen, and a guest, who would carry on a conversation for the full hour, at (in retrospect) an almost unimaginable level of cleverness. Unavoidably, there was punditry and commentary on the crises of the day--Vietnam, Czechoslovakia, Afghanistan, Watergate, Jimmy Carter--but Buckley and Firing Line also brought us Rebecca West talking about the nature of treason, Stephen Spender on poetry, Eudora Welty on southern literature, Kingsley Amis on humor, Fulton Sheen on Augustine, and Gunnar Myrdal and Malcolm Muggeridge and B. F. Skinner and Walker Percy . . . for an hour at a time, without commercials.
A particular favorite was Mortimer Adler, the freelance philosopher and Great Books maven, himself the purest embodiment of the middlebrow impulse of the fifties and sixties. When Buckley published a book of Firing Line transcripts in 1989, he closed its 500 pages with Adler discoursing on the traditional proofs of God's existence. Imagine Bill O'Reilly sitting across from Mortimer Adler: