Cronkite, voice of authority are gone

By TED ANTHONY

WASHINGTON — “And that’s the way it is,” he’d say.

It wasn’t, but we wanted that reassurance. The idea that someone could wrangle the world each night and boil it down to a sensible, digestible half-hour was so comforting.

Barely a generation has passed since Walter Cronkite disappeared from our evenings. But the notion of one man — a single, authoritative, empathetic man, morally reassuring and mild of temper — wrapping up the world after dinner for America seems incalculably quaint in the technological coliseum that is 21st-century communications.

Many of the network farewells to the CBS anchorman, who died Friday at 92, seemed built around the notion of the father figure. Anchors and reporters who are part of another age — a still-unfolding era of community feedback, viewer outreach and social-media interaction — struggled to summon the idea of anchor as monolith.

“We’d all let him watch our kids when we went out to the supermarket if we had the chance,” NBC anchorman Brian Williams said. Hard to imagine Bill O’Reilly or Keith Olbermann, vigorous though they are, as national baby sitters.

We are confronted with a rushing, 24-hour river of information, much of it chaotic and raw, with no one to shepherd us through it.

Though network TV news remains popular, its demographic is older and it has struggled, losing about 1 million viewers a year since Cronkite retired as anchor in 1981.

At the end of last year, according to Gallup, 31 percent of Americans considered the Internet to be a daily news source, a 50 percent gain since 2006.

At the same time, people now want a stake in their news and direct attention from the people who deliver it. They’re demanding it, and they’re getting it.

NBC’s Williams, for example, does a daily blog. CNN anchor Rick Sanchez has built his midafternoon show around feedback from followers on Twitter and Facebook. News has become a two-way street, something to create community around.

That can be at once productive and perilous.

It gives an exhilarating voice to the voiceless. Yet it also can encourage consensus reality. If enough of us say it loudly enough, it must be true. In the 1960s and 1970s, Cronkite was accepted as the everyday incarnation of empirical truth.

Cronkite’s legendary assessment of Vietnam’s quagmire — the one that led Lyndon Johnson to lament, “If I’ve lost Cronkite, I’ve lost Middle America” — is often cast as a barometer of the anchor’s power at the time. What shouldn’t be ignored is that, even then, the waning of that kind of power had begun.

“Middle America” then generally meant white and over 30, the very people that the young, energetic game-changers of the late 1960s were insisting shouldn’t be trusted. Power to the people was upending the national hierarchy, and the Age of Many Voices was approaching.

Four decades later, cacophony reigns. What room is there for the conscience of a nation, for history’s anchorman, for the father we all wanted?

Nightly American comfort, Cronkite style, is a thing of the past, if it ever really existed at all. Perhaps, in the Age of Many Voices, comfort and reassurance is not meant to be our lot. Maybe that’s just the way it is.