News and politics

The political commercial

Some optimists in the early 1950s saw television as a potentially powerful force in achieving the Jeffersonian ideal of an informed electorate. The medium held the possibility of educating the entire voting population on the candidates’ stance on the issues of the day. Citizens who might never have the chance to listen to a whistle-stop speech or have their hands shaken by a presidential candidate now had the technology to see and hear those candidates in the comfort of their own homes. But the fast-paced, entertainment-oriented, commercially sponsored nature of broadcasting was already too entrenched to allow political candidates to turn the medium into a forum for civics lessons every time an election rolled around. Political-advertising consultants quickly decided that complex issues were going to be difficult to communicate on a medium already known as a source of entertainment.

Eisenhower’s 1952 campaign commercials set a tone and style that still prevails today. The candidate was packaged and sold on television in the same style that other products were being advertised. The most memorable commercial of that election season featured a group of elephants and donkeys, animated by the Disney studios, singing and dancing to a tune written by Irving Berlin, “I Like Ike.” The advertisement contained virtually no information, but it created a mood that fit perfectly with the style of television and, it seemed, with the mood of the public. Eisenhower won the election handily against Democrat Adlai Stevenson, who would significantly intensify his own TV campaign four years later when he ran against Eisenhower for a second time.

Nixon’s “Checkers” speech

Television’s political power proved itself in other ways in 1952. After vice presidential candidate Richard Nixon was accused of having a secret trust fund for his campaign, his presence on the Republican ticket became a serious threat to Eisenhower’s chances of victory. Nixon took his case to the American people in a nationally televised speech, for which his party bought time in the slot following the popular The Texaco Star Theatre. The choice of time slot and the speech itself exhibited a stunning level of acumen regarding the power and workings of television. Nixon brought his wife onto the stage to remind the audience that he was an upstanding family man and then neatly disposed of the campaign-fund issue. As the speech was winding down, Nixon confessed to yet another “crime” (in effect demonstrating his honesty and integrity) but announced that he was going to stand firm on his decision to keep the questionable contribution he was about to disclose. It seemed the Nixons had been given a gift that, as Nixon explained, had never been reported:

You know what it was? It was a little cocker spaniel dog in a crate that he had sent all the way from Texas. Black and white spotted. And our little girl—Tricia, the six-year-old—named it Checkers. And you know the kids, like all kids, love that dog, and I just want to say this right now, that regardless of what they say about it, we’re going to keep it.

The speech was a success, and it was clear that Nixon had learned the extraordinary ability of television as an instrument of “spin control,” long before that term for manipulating public opinion was in circulation. The intimacy of TV and its ability to reach such a huge audience was clearly going to change the rhetoric of politics in the United States forever.