by Sean MallenThere was a lightly reported, but revealing moment at the end of Rupert Murdoch’s testimony to the Leveson inquiry on media and ethics this week. After inquiry counsel Robert Jay concluded his questioning, other lawyers were given a crack at the media baron. Stepping up with alacrity was John Hendy, the representative for the National Union of Journalists.
He fairly lit into the founder of News International, citing reports that journalists working for his papers were routinely bullied into using questionable, even illegal tactics in pursuit of stories.
“Never heard of it,” deadpanned the media baron. Suddenly the 81-year-old seemed decades younger. Nothing seemed to energize him more than another joust with the press unions, having waged and won epic battles with them in the 1980s.
And the unions relished a chance to grill him. There was no love in the room.
Mr. Hendy cited the case of one particular reporter who had claimed atrocious abuse.
“Why didn’t she resign?” said the tycoon.
There was a stunned pause. Here was vintage Murdoch.
The judge leading the inquiry, Lord Justice Brian Leveson, gently, and tellingly, intervened: “Maybe she needed a job.”
Titters resonated through the hall.
Rupert Murdoch being driven from The High Court in London with his wife Wendi Deng Murdoch and son Lachlan after giving evidence to the Leveson inquiry on April 26. Photo by Ben Cawthra, Rex Features, via The Associated Press.While Rupert Murdoch in his Leveson testimony was by turns apologetic, forgetful and dismissive of the widely-held perception that he has had generations of British prime ministers wrapped around his finger, he was unapologetically proud of how he pummeled the press unions into submission. He believes his victories saved the print media in the UK, although he now fears the web poses an even greater threat.
Even though vilified and somewhat drained by the phone hacking scandal (he claims it’s cost him $300 million, not counting the loss of the
News of the World and the scrapping of his multi-billion dollar bid for controlling interest in the British cable company BSkyB, he remains by far the most powerful media proprietor in the country, if not the world.
But not quite so powerful as he once was.
It was fascinating hearing him talk this week about his relations with UK prime ministers going back to Margaret Thatcher. Remarkably, he claimed to have little memory of his meeting with the Iron Lady at Chequers where he discussed plans to buy the Times group of newspapers. One would think that having tea with one of the transformative figures of the 20th century at an historic residence might stick in the mind.
Not Rupert Murdoch.
Similarly at the end of phone conversation with former British Prime Minister Gordon Brown where they exchanged pleasantries about waging war on each other (a call Brown claims is fictitious), Mr. Murdoch signed off with: “Thanks for calling, Gordon.”
There is no parallel in our history for the British breed of press baron, even if two of the most notable, Lords Thomson and Beaverbrook, were Canadian-born. All week we saw archival pictures and video of the smiling Mr. Murdoch posing with Thatcher, Brown and Tony Blair.
Hard to imagine Brian Mulroney or Jean Chretien doing the same for, say, Conrad Black. Especially Mr. Chretien. Nor would we ever hear about Mr. Black being invited regularly 24 Sussex Drive for tea and consultation with the PM.
The list of meetings Mr. Murdoch has had at Number 10 Downing Street is lengthy, and crosses party lines. Those dates are now likely to diminish even not completely disappear in the wake of the hacking scandal.
The relationship between press and politician in the UK is in transition. But some aspects will undoubtedly prevail.
A panel discussion on BBC Radio opened this week with a searing quotation from the noted American journalist H.L. Mencken: “Journalism is to politician as dog is to lamppost.”
It is a credo among British reporters. In my previous gig in Canada, I hosted the political talk show
Focus Ontario, and liked to think that I was an incisive interrogator of our decision makers. But I usually would let them finish their sentences before interrupting to challenge.
In the UK, I would be considered hopelessly timid. Here, talking over top of a politician is not only common practice, but evidently considered essential.
The exemplar of the art is the BBC’s Jeremy Paxman, who has mastered a look of studied disdain as though the politician undergoing his coruscating examination is both criminally incompetent and disgustingly smelly.
For a taste of Mr. Paxman at his best, I invite you to go to YouTube and search for his matches with Boris Johnson, the famously eccentric, unkempt and witty mayor of London.
In an interview this past fall, Mr. Paxman introduced Mr. Johnson as “hairdresser’s despair” and then in the midst of a joust over British taxation policy interrupted the mayor with, “You’ve gone completely off the point...does it bother you that the treasury clearly regards you as an eccentric irrelevance?”
In Canada, this would be the point where the interviewee would be removing his microphone and stalking off the set, perhaps depositing a cup on water on the host’s head along the way.
Not in the UK. Mr. Johnson carried on and good naturedly gave as good as he got, later chiding Mr. Paxman as using “schoolyard” tactics.
Similarly this week, Prime Minister David Cameron gave a live interview to BBC Radio, where he was regularly interrupted, although not so aggressively as Mr. Paxman might do. At the end of the interview, the BBC’s lead political correspondent gave an instant analysis of what Mr. Cameron had just said and what it really meant, while the Prime Minister was still sitting at the table!
Prime Minister David Cameron in London on April 25. Photo by Stephen Simpson, Rex Features via The Associated Press.And the PM seemed to think nothing of it, even politely asking at one point if he could intervene to correct the analysis.
It is hard to imagine Stephen Harper undergoing a tough interview with
Global National's
Dawna Friesen, then staying in place while our
Tom Clark deconstructed the hidden meaning behind his words.
Rupert Murdoch and whoever succeeds him as the preeminent press baron in the UK might never again be able to get so cozy with political leaders, nor be capable of such intimidation.
But the front line reporters will undoubtedly carry on the tradition of fearless, even bumptious interrogation of decision makers.
Sean is Global National's Europe Bureau Chief, based in London. Follow him on Twitter: @SMallenGlobal.