新闻编辑室第三季

最后的最后，Mac莫名其妙担任了Charlie的职位，她不确定自己的能力，究竟能不能忍受得了在每一天都和Pruit因为大大小小的播放形式的分歧上撑过来。所以Will，再一次用他那少有的温柔的眼波，看着Mac，说：

There's a hole in the side of the boat. That hole is never going to be fixed, and it's never going away and you can't get a new boat. This is your boat. What you are going to do is bail water out faster than it's coming in.

舀水行舟。这条船，是Mac的，是ACN的，也是千千万万个从以前到现在的新闻工作者们的。

无论你的生活和新闻的接触有多少，我都强烈建议每一个人都去看这部剧，至少是第一集，至少在看完第一幕的时候，我就觉得这部剧被低估了，它本应该为人们所熟知。

即使这是五六年前的剧了，但这些话至今还是赤裸裸地适用在所有你可以想到的我们，以及美国人在思考美国的态度上。The first step in solving the problem is recognizing there is one.

这部剧对于do the news的刻画，并不是我们平时经常在电影院里看到的 “ we need to fight for the press freedom" 或者 "the press is to serve the public" 那么的单一和片面。通过三季的剖析，从第一季的每一集不同的主题和挣扎、理想主义时不时出现大喊着口号；到第二季因为“Geneva“事件的失败带出媒体说出真相的代价；而第三季更多的是探讨传统媒体和自媒体之间产生的碰撞。点到即止，但却塑造了非常立体的传媒形象。

这或许是第一集吧，就是Mac在大喊她的新闻理想的时候，我心里欣慰，想着现实还没有把索金打倒，还有这样的动力塑造出这样的人物。

我羡慕剧里每一个人的清醒，他们知道他们想要做的新闻是什么，这种清醒是不需要上司的提醒，不需要手把手的教学，而是打心眼里他们的认知就是，我们要做的是新闻啊，不是节目。我们想的是怎么影响观众去认识这个社会，这个政府，和这个国家，而不是怎么促使观众丧失独立判断的能力从而有利于我们从中赚取他们的关注度和我们的收视率。所以他们的每一个人会全身心投入泄密者提供给他们关于政府的“残暴行为”即使这会牺牲Nick（第三季）；他们会最终放下戒备相信彼此支持播报“Geneva”的决定(第二季）。曝光政府使用化学武器伤及无辜百姓，这个挑战真的太大了，这简直就是把媒体公信力赤裸裸地放在悬崖边上，结果的确就是，被人狠狠踢下了大海深渊。但他们还是相信着，仍然义无反顾地保持着清醒，依旧在必要的时候stick together and support each other。第三季就是一个很好的证明

第三季有几个我很爱的对于新闻的诠释的点，不是那么多地被讨论到的。第一个就是Don在处理Princeton校园强奸案的事情（没有证据指控施暴者 并且施暴者说是两厢情愿）。再一次是网络的力量，网络的力量把强奸受害者的victim属性无限放大，令全网给予最大的同情，表达最强烈的憎恶于施暴者，以及各种保护女性的组织相继成立从而确保女性的伤害能够慢慢minimized。真的很耳熟，这种事情感觉每天都在发生，不光是美国了，我们国内对于这种悲剧的网络关注度也是慢慢在提升。然而万恶不赦追求新闻爆点的Pruit居然要求Don把受害者女主和施暴者男主同时请到节目上，Don是拒绝的，用尽所有方式拒绝，甚至到那个受害者女生的家里叫她拒绝这个邀请。我一开始还以为整个重点是放在对于受害者的二次伤害，结果令我更惊喜的是编剧把重点放在了fairness上，这样的coverage方式，对于（疑似）施暴者而言，真的公平吗？在没有concrete evidence，没有目击者的情况下，凭着一个女生的一面之词，这样公开的报道，真的符合公义吗？是的，即使是有90%的可能性这个男孩rape了这个女孩，但媒体也绝不能熟视无睹那10%的可能性这个女孩利用public interest实行报复毁掉这个男孩的一生。女孩说：

The internet is used for vigilantism every day.

而Don说：It is, but in fairness, the law wasn't built to serve victims

媒体不是审讯过程，媒体不是法律，媒体不会揪出谁是凶手，但媒体是一个平台，这个平台需要所有媒体人清晰的认知：我们要做好这个平台，让所有有资格、有能力发表出有意义的言论以及自身经验的人在这里探讨，并且引导群众思考。

第一季令我爱上Don的高光时刻！！！

每一个角色都非常出彩，Will的civilize mission 复杂纠结人格和心底最最最柔软的部分在三季慢慢被Mac挖掘出来；Mac天天嚷嚷新闻理想主义但干起活来却比谁都靠谱深思熟虑并且成功把ACN带回正轨；Sloan慢慢认识到什么是爱，怎么去爱，怎么调整调动自己和他人的情绪（不过希望pljj你的语速慢点哦）。还有Jim，Nick，慢慢成长起来的Maggie......我说过，他们心中都有牢牢牵引着他们的原则，不会轻易妥协的原则。当然，其实他们还是有着一个精神领袖，Charlie，在引导他们。他总是自诩自己是堂吉诃德，我觉得这个比喻太精确了，因为他抓住了很重要的一点，就是 一个看似疯癫但却志在开化世间愚昧的骑士。Sloan说，没有想到Charlie有一天居然会为了违背他理想的东西而死。但其实并没有的，他对于pruit的迎合，是希望你们更强烈的反击，这样才能把你们留下。

Charlie的葬礼 Will的悼词

之前自己一直舍不得看完这部剧，也迟迟舍不得执笔写下自己的感受，因为它带给我的东西实在太宏大了。其实还有很多很多关于这部剧的话想说，每一集都足以令我写下一篇ethics of journalism的essay。s3e1的波士顿马拉松爆炸事件，推特和其他social media的力量正正就是反映着所有媒体形式以及大众对于媒体认知的现下的问题，无辜的人遭到最最最恶劣的攻击，民间舆论的肆意无责任的引导和煽动。我们无法抵御这个看似无可救药的浪潮，但或许我们可以做的，就是拼命地把水舀出来，这污浊的水，这无法映射出我们的倒影的浑浊的水，让更多人一起把它舀出来吧。

最后的最后，我不敢说我对于我的专业的解读有多深，但我只是希望大家都能思考多一些。我也没有mac的底气说，journalism is a calling，时代的不允许，环境的不允许，很多时候我们只能认知那些违心的认知，但是，at least，我们要学会辨别，学会去指出和抵抗现在这个时代浪潮里的种种不合理。而作为新闻者，这种使命感更重了，无关职业，无关金钱，it‘s your duty, do the news, no one stops you.

Newsroom这部剧在美媒下还是有很大争议的，这种争议甚至不是对这部剧的for being liberal，更多来源于liberals for not doing enough。编剧Aaron Sorkin（如同你能从他的写作中看到的那样）常被描述成一个prick，一个smug，或一个chauvinist（比如一个记者曾写一篇文章来叙述Sorkin对她本人采访时候的condescension和不尊重，她说“In Sorkinville, the gods are men." 详见“How to get under Aaron Sorkin’s skin (and also, how to high-five properly)” //www.theglobeandmail.com/arts/television/how-to-get-under-aaron-sorkins-skin-and-also-how-to-high-five-properly/article4363455/），并且因为他的写作局限而被批评（说教性太强、自我陶醉...）

我感觉这些critic比豆瓣上目前看到的影评要成熟更多，并且也更加有效率、progressive。这篇影评来源于New Yorker的Emily Nussbaum （她本人在本剧第一季开始就发表过影评"Broken News"。见//www.newyorker.com/magazine/2012/06/25/broken-news，或我的转载//movie.douban.com/review/12970899/）。Nussbaum在2016年因为她在纽约客写的影评获得普利策奖。她个人肯定了第三季的一些进步（比如她比较喜欢的Maggie & morality debate on the train），同时也特别分析批评了Sorkin对于Princeton女大学生 & rape的处理。

newyorker.com/culture/cultural-comment/the-newsroom-crazy-making-campus-rape-episode

By Emily Nussbaum

As this review indicates, I wasn’t a fan of the first four episodes of Aaron Sorkin’s “The Newsroom.” In the two years since that blazing pan, however, I’ve calmed down enough to enjoy the show’s small pleasures, such as Olivia Munn and Chris Messina. When characters talk in that screwball Sorkin rhythm, it’s fun to listen to them. As manipulative as “The Newsroom” ’s politics can be, I mostly share them. There are days when an echo chamber suits me fine.

For the first two seasons, the show stayed loyal to its self-righteous formula, which many viewers found inspirational. Sorkin’s imaginary cable network, Atlantis Cable News, would report news stories from two years before, doing them better than CNN and Fox News and MSNBC did at the time. Characters who were right about things (Will McAvoy, Sloan Sabbith, the unbearable Jim Harper, the ridiculously named MacKenzie McHale) strove for truth and greatness, even when tempted to compromise. They bantered and flirted. And each week, they debated idiots who were wrong. These fools included Tea Partiers, gossip columnists, Occupy Wall Street protesters, and assorted nobodies enabled by digital culture—narcissists, bigots, and dumbasses. Sometimes, the debates included sharp exchanges, but mostly, because the deck was stacked, they left you with nothing much to think about.

Often, the designated idiot wouldn’t even get to explain her side of an argument: she’d get to make only fifteen per cent of a potential case, although occasionally, as with an Occupy Wall Street activist, the proportion climbed closer to fifty per cent. There were other maddening aspects of the show—a plot in which a woman who worked in fashion believed that she wasn’t good enough to date a cable news producer, the McAvoy/McHale romance, the Season 2 Africa-flashback episode. So, you know, I had complaints. But I tried to stay Zen and enjoy Munn and Messina. And, in all sincerity, I was happy when the third and final season débuted, because it was such an obvious step up. The early episodes were brisk and self-mocking. There was a nifty, endearingly ridiculous grandeur to the story arc about McAvoy going to jail to protect a source. Even more satisfying, the show's debates with idiots had undergone a sea change. In Season 3, the people who were wrong were allowed to be actively smart (like Kat Dennings’s role as a cynical heiress) and funny (as with B. J. Novak’s portrayal of a demonic tech tycoon who ended up taking over ACN). In certain scenes, they got to make seventy-five per cent of an argument, leading to fleet and comparatively complex debates.

In the single best scene of the whole series, the number jumped to a hundred per cent. Maggie (Allison Pill)—now rehabilitated from last season’s horrible post-Africa, bad-haircut plot—took an Amtrak train from Boston. In a plot cut-and-pasted from the headlines, she overheard an E.P.A. official's candid cell-phone conversation, sneakily took notes, and then confronted him with follow-up questions. Both sides made a solid case: she pointed out that he was in public and her obligation was to be a reporter, not a P.R. conduit. Also, had Maggie gone through “official” routes, he would have lied to her. He argued that by quoting an unguarded, personal discussion, she was making the world a less humane, more paranoid place. So when Maggie threw her notes away, it wasn’t as simple as, “He was right and she was wrong”—she’d made a real moral choice. Given the kind of show that “The Newsroom” is, there was plenty of wish-fulfillment—Maggie got the interview anyway, plus a date with an admiring ethicist—but those elements felt fairy-tale satisfying.

After the Amtrak scene, I turned downright mellow, even fond of the series, the way you might cherish an elderly uncle who is weird about women and technology, but still, you know, a fun guy. My guard went down. So when I watched Sunday’s infuriating episode, on screeners, I wasn’t prepared. What an emotional roller coaster! I will leave it to others to discuss the mystical jail-cell plot, the creepy reunion of Jim and Maggie, the fantasy that even the worst cable network would re-launch Gawker Stalker, and, more admirably, the way that B. J. Novak’s evil technologist character seems to have broken the fourth wall and stepped into reality to disrupt The New Republic. Someone should certainly write about Sorkin’s most clever pivot: he’s taken the accusations of sexism that are regularly levelled at his show and pointed the finger at Silicon Valley, in a brilliant “Think I’m bad? Well, look at this guy” technique.

Yet when it comes to disconcerting timeliness, no scene from this episode stands out like the one in which the executive producer Don Keefer pre-interviews a rape victim. When Sorkin wrote it, he could not have known that CBC radio host Jian Ghomeshi and, later, Bill Cosby would be accused of sexual assault by so many women, some anonymous, some named. He couldn’t have known that an article would be published in Rolling Stone about a gang rape at the University of Virginia or that this story would turn out, enragingly, to have been insufficiently vetted and fact-checked. The fallout from the magazine’s errors is ongoing: it’s not clear yet whether Jackie, the woman who told Rolling Stone that she was gang-raped, made the story up, told the truth but exaggerated, was so traumatized that her story shifted due to P.T.S.D., or what. The one thing that’s clear is that the reporting was horribly flawed, and that this mistake will cause lasting harm, both for people who care about the rights of victims and people who care about the rights of the accused. Key point: these aren’t two separate groups.

Anyway, there we are, with Don Keefer—one of the few truly appealing characters on the show and half of the show’s only romance worth rooting for, with Munn’s Sloan Sabbith—in a Princeton dorm room, interviewing a girl, Mary, who said she’d been raped. In a classic “Newsroom” setup, she wasn’t simply a victim denied justice. Instead, the woman was another of Sorkin’s endless stream of slippery digital femme fatales; she created a Web site where men could be accused, anonymously, of rape. The scene began with an odd, fraught moment: when Don turned up at her dorm room, notebook in hand, he hesitates to close the door, clearly worried that she might make a false accusation. But since this is Season 3, not 1 or 2, the Web site creator isn’t portrayed as a venal idiot, like the Queens-dwelling YouTube blackmailer on a previous episode, who wrote “Sex And The City” fan fiction and used Foursquare at the laundry. The Princeton woman got to make seventy-five per cent of her case, which, in a sense, only made the scene worse.

Before describing the scene between Keefer and the Princeton student, it’s important to note that the scene’s theme of sexual gossip about powerful men has been an obsession since this show began. For a while, Will McAvoy was tormented by a Page Six reporter who first got snubbedby him, then placed gossip items in revenge, thenslept with him, then blackmailed him. There was a similar plot about Anthony Weiner; just last week, Jim’s girlfriend Hallie sold him out in a post for the fictional Web site Carnivore. You’d have to consult Philip Roth’s “The Human Stain” to find a fictional narrative more consistently worried about scurrilous sexual gossip directed at prominent men. It’s a subject that replicates Sorkin’s own experiences, from “The Newsroom” on back to “The West Wing.”

The scene between Don and the student takes place in four segments, as Don reveals to her why he was there: not to talk her into going public, but to talk her out of it. His boss, under pressure to appeal to Millennials and go viral, insisted that the segment be done in the most explosive way possible—as a live debate between the student and Jeff, the guy she claims raped her. As Don and she talk, the woman tells him her story. She’d gone to a party, took drugs, threw up, passed out—and then two men had sex with her while she was unconscious. The next morning, she called “city police, campus police, and the D.A.’soffice.” She can name the guys; she knows where they live. She had a rape kit done. “That should be the easiest arrest they ever made,” she says. At every juncture, Don is sorrowful, rational, gentlemanly, concerned about not hurting her feelings, and reflexively condescending, in a tiptoeing, please-don’t-hurt-me way. Eventually, he tells her that Jeff, the accused rapist, has also been pre-interviewed: Jeff told Don that she wasn’t raped—in fact, she’d begged to have sex with two men.

Back and forth they go, discussing a wide range of issues—legal, moral, journalistic, etc. The dialogue conflates and freely combines these issues. First, there is the question of anonymous accusations, online or off. There is also the question of direct accusations, like the one this student made against a specific guy, in person, using her own name—in a police station and the D.A.’soffice, and then online. There is the question of how acquaintance rape is or isn’t prosecuted in the courts; there is the question of how it's dealt with, or covered up, within the university system; and there is a separate question about how journalists, online and on television, should cover these debates. But a larger question hovers in the background, the one hinted at when Don came in the door: Does he believe her?

When I first watched the scene, I was most unnerved by the way their talk mashed everything together, suggesting that there were only two sides to the question—a bizarrely distorted premise. It’s possible, for instance, to believe (as I do) that a Web site posting anonymous accusations is a dangerous idea and to also think it’s fine for a woman to describe her own rape in public, to protest an administration that buries her accusation, and to go on cable television to discuss these issues. It’s possible to oppose a “live debate” between a rape victim and her alleged rapist and to believe that rape survivors can be public advocates. There was also something perverse about the way the student was portrayed, simultaneously, as a sneaky anonymous online force and also an attention-seeker eager to go on live TV. (And, given the way that Rolling Stone’s Jackie is now being “doxxed” online, it’s grotesque that the episode has the Princeton woman praise Don for tracking her down, “old-school.”) The actress was solid, but the character behaved, as do pretty much all digital women on the show, with the logic of a dream figure, concocted of Sorkin’s fears and anxieties, not like an actual person.

“The kind of rape you’re talking about is difficult or impossible to prove,” Don tells her. It’s not a “kind of rape,” the woman responds sharply. She argues that her site isn’t about getting revenge, that it’s “a public service”: “Do not go on a date with these guys, do not go to a party with these guys.” Don cuts her off: "Do not give these guys a job, ever." He argues that she’s making it easier for men to be falsely accused, but the woman says that she's weighed that cost and decided that it’s more important that women be warned. “What am I wrong about?” she asks. “What am I wrong about?”

I’d love to see a show wrestle with these issues in a meaningful way, informed by fact and emotion. But eventually, the “Newsroom” episode gets to the core of what’s really going on, that shadow question, and this is when it implodes. The law is failing rape victims, says the student. “That may be true, but in fairness, the law wasn’t built to serve victims,” argues Don. “In fairness?” she says. “I know,” he says, sorrowful again, eyes all puppy-dog. “Do you believe me?” she asks him suddenly. “Of course I do," Don tells her. “Seriously,” she presses. He dodges the question: “I’m not here on a fact-finding mission.” She pushes him for a third time: “I’m just curious. Be really honest.”

Finally, he reveals his real agenda. He’s heard two stories: one from "a very credible woman” and the other from a sketchy guy with every reason to lie. And he’s obligated, Don tells her, to believe the sketchy guy’s story. She's stunned. “This isn’t a courtroom,” she points out, echoing the thoughts of any sane person. “You’re not legally obligated to presume innocence.” “I believe I’m morally obligated," Don says, in his sad-Don voice. WTF LOL OMFG, as they say on the Internet. Yes, that's correct: Don, the show’s voice of reason (and Sorkin, one presumes), argues that a person has a moral obligation to believe a man accused of rape over the woman who said he’d raped her, as long as he hasn't been found guilty of rape. This isn’t about testimony, or even an abstract stance meant to strengthen journalism. (“Personally, I believe you, but as a reporter, I need to regard your story with suspicion, just as I do Jeff’s.”) As an individual, talking to a rape survivor, Don says that on principle, he doesn’t believe her.

At this point, Don gets to make his win-the-argument speech about the dangers of trial by media, lack of due process, etc. “The law can acquit; the Internet never will. The Internet is used for vigilantism every day, but this is a whole new level, and if we go there, we’re truly fucked,” he says. He warns her that appearing on TV will hurt her: she’ll get “slut-shamed.” She begins to cry and tells him that, while he may fear false accusations, she’s scared of rape. “So you know what my site does? It scares you.” Her case will be covered like sports, he remarks with disgust. “I’m gonna win this time,” she replies with bravado. And so Don goes back to ACN and he lies, telling his producer Charlie that he couldn’t find the woman at all—and then Charlie throws a tantrum and dies of a heart attack, but that’s a matter for a different post.

Look, “The Newsroom” was never going to be my favorite series, but I didn’t expect it to make my head blow off, all over again, after all these years of peaceful hate-watching. Don’s right, of course: a public debate about an alleged rape would be a nightmare. Anonymous accusations are risky and sometimes women lie about rape (Hell, people lie about everything). But on a show dedicated to fantasy journalism, Sorkin’s stand-in doesn’t lobby for more incisive coverage of sexual violence or for a responsible way to tell graphic stories without getting off on the horrible details or for innovative investigations that could pressure a corrupt, ass-covering system to do better. Instead, he argues that the idealistic thing to do is not to believe her story. Don’s fighting for no coverage: he's so identified with falsely accused men and so focussed on his sorrowful, courtly discomfort that, mainly, he just wants the issue to go away. And Don is our hero! Sloan Sabbith, you in trouble, girl.

Clearly, I’ve succumbed to the Sorkin Curse once again: critique his TV shows and you’ll find you’ve turned into a Sorkin character yourself—fist-pounding, convinced that you know best, talking way too fast, and craving a stiff drink. But after such an awful week, this online recap might be reduced to: Trigger warning. The season finale runs next week and thank God for that. Like poor old Charlie Skinner, my heart can’t take it anymore.

Emily Nussbaum 本人在本剧第一季开始就已经发了一篇比较critical的影评"Broken News"。见//www.newyorker.com/magazine/2012/06/25/broken-news（我的转载//movie.douban.com/review/12970899/）。

在当时，对此，她同编辑室的New Yorker colleague David Denby也写了一篇简短的回应as counterargument.

In Defense of Aaron Sorkin’s “The Newsroom” //www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/in-defense-of-aaron-sorkins-the-newsroom

I loved Emily Nussbaum’s negative review of Aaron Sorkin’s new HBO series, “The Newsroom,” which had its première last Sunday night, but I also enjoyed the show—certainly more than she did—and, afterwards, I felt a kind of moviegoer’s chagrin. Movie audiences get very little dialogue this snappy; they get very little dialogue at all. In movies we are starved for wit, for articulate anger, for extravagant hyperbole—all of which pours in lava flows during the turbulent course of “The Newsroom.” The ruling gods of movie screenwriting, at least in American movies, are terseness, elision, functional macho, and heartfelt, fumbled semi-articulateness. Some of the very young micro-budget filmmakers, trying for that old Cassavetes magic (which was never magical for me, but never mind) achieve a sludgy moodiness with minimal dialogue, or with improvisation—scenes that can be evocative and touching. But the young filmmakers wouldn’t dream of wit or rhetoric. It would seem fake to them. Thank heavens the swelling, angry, sarcastic, one-upping talk in “The Newsroom” is unafraid of embarrassing anyone.

在Charlie的葬礼上，回溯了第一季的史前史，宣布了Will和Mackenzie的孩子即将诞生，编辑室的大家伙和Charlie的孙子们一起奏乐合唱，响起了诗意怀旧的《That's how I get to Memphis》，太喜欢这种表现方式了，死亡和新生之间的巧妙转化，温情写意，就像这部剧虽然结束了，但星辰大海，理想主义的光束已经散播开。The Newsroom好多人都是一开始谈不上喜欢，后来在更全面认识后，赞叹到不行，不知是不是编剧的有意引领，先缺点展示，再一点点填背景缘由，让人物更立体。会再刷的～