I’m not a fan of the legacy media, although I’ve met good folks who worked or still work in the field, and the modern incarnation of the media has become so much more transparently a PR team for the big progressive wet dreams of bigger and bigger government and more and more centralized control over peoples’ lives. I’ve never met Paul Wells, but he’s respected by some of the media people I’ve met and generally has interesting things to say, perhaps more so that he’s his own boss and publishes on Substack these days:
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One reason I don’t like to play along with subscribers who assume this newsletter is a running critique of “the mainstream media” is that I know too many journalists. The best ones are wonderful and most are fine. Most are better at some part of the craft than I am. They don’t hesitate to make that fourth or fifth call, they’re forever willing to butt their heads against the surreal access-to-information regime, they understand interest rates, whatever. They often (not always!) admit errors publicly, which gives the occasional schoolyard bully a chance to make fun of them for doing what bullies never do. Many have an appropriately tragic sense of what it means to work in an industry that has been collapsing for 20 years.
But as a robust rule, reporters don’t mass well. Three or more reporters, arranged in a scrum — the term of art for an impromptu news conference that the newsmaker can leave at any moment — are dumber together than any of them alone. I caught glimpses of this early on. The first time I ever had to scrum a prominent politician at an important moment, I couldn’t believe how bad most of my more experienced colleagues’ questions were. My National Post column and my first book often featured satirical descriptions of scrum dynamics. But it really got bad when Stephen Harper was prime minister.
Harper was a master at generating dumb scrums. The ingredients for a dumb scrum are (1) pre-existing mutual animosity between newsmaker and reporters; (2) a tight limit on time or the number of permitted questions; (3) a few minutes before the scrum to allow the reporters to work on ways to maximize their advantage. This last is not essential but it’s a tremendous catalyst of dumbness, because reporters who are trying to select the best questions always ask worse questions.
If 10 reporters know they will only have time for two to four questions, their responses become predictable. They will need to “get him” (the newsmaker) on “the story of the day”. That is, they need to collect audio and video clips of the newsmaker talking about a dramatic event that happened within the last several hours. That’s because broadcast has room for fewer words than print does, so broadcast’s needs are more rigid. It’s simply pointless to urge colleagues before a scrum to get the newsmaker reminiscing about his youth, or to drag up some disagreement from 2019 that might be newly relevant, or to debate the fine points of trade law. The questions that work in scrums are of the “Aren’t you …” or “Didn’t you …” kind.
Unfortunately, such questions are child’s play to defuse. A junior staffer can tell her cabinet minister what to expect in a scrum, and in 70 guesses over a month she might be wrong three times. Scrum questions are always narrow and pointed, even though every reporter learned early that it’s their very narrowness that makes such questions easy to dodge. “Aren’t you siding with the convoy protesters when you …?” “Not at all. I’m calling for basic fairness.”
Often, the goal in a scrum is to record the newsmaker confessing to a terrible error, ideally a complete moral breakdown. Sometimes it’s not even personal, although the aforementioned pre-existing mutual animosity definitely helps. It’s just that it would be fantastic radio if the newsmaker did collapse in an audibly self-incriminating heap. This too is an easy bullet to dodge. Once I know you are trying to get me to confess my soulless incompetence, all I have to do is talk about anything else, and I win.
Dumb scrum dynamics are hard to avoid. They’re the product of simple physics — there is no time for a thoughtful exchange — mixed with collegial generosity. Reporters with more complex ambitions have to take one for the team, so the clip people can get their clip. None of the rules I have described is set in stone. In 2015 I spent several days covering Stephen Harper’s last campaign, and my colleagues let me simply ask my questions without telling them what I’d ask. But I had to do it in rotation, which meant I got two questions in a week. Meanwhile most of them worked together to concoct questions he could see coming from a mile away.
