終于看完S03E06，季終集也是完結(jié)季，心情久久不能平復(fù)。不想跟ACN說再見，但對(duì)于本劇來說，對(duì)于尚未想好該如何處理自己提出的問題的索金來說，在這里停止確是一個(gè)不錯(cuò)的節(jié)點(diǎn)（甚至還有點(diǎn)“戛然而止”的感覺）。記得在一個(gè)采訪里索金說，到了第三季才覺得找對(duì)了感覺，如果有機(jī)會(huì)，他想從第一季開始重寫一遍，從頭開始重新來過。倘若這話有回響，真的很期待《晚間新聞3.0》的華麗轉(zhuǎn)身。 從S01到S03一路看過來的感覺，正如索金所言，有種“漸入佳境”的感覺。第一季鋪陳了場(chǎng)景、環(huán)境、人物關(guān)系，把這群對(duì)職業(yè)有著近乎偏執(zhí)的堅(jiān)持的人們的工作場(chǎng)景乃至信念大致交代了清楚。一集一個(gè)事件，短小精悍，看起來也比較輕松。第二季一共9集，用Genoa事件貫穿始終，平行剪輯的節(jié)奏控制得挺好，并不拖沓。人物的感情、情緒也都刻畫得很細(xì)膩。如果說第二季是“山雨欲來”，第三季變革則真正到來。ACN遭遇拆分、收購(gòu)，Neal因?yàn)樯嫦娱g諜罪為保護(hù)線人逃亡委內(nèi)瑞拉，Will入獄，老Charlie倒在Newsroom這個(gè)他的“戰(zhàn)場(chǎng)”。老查理的倒下為這場(chǎng)傳統(tǒng)媒體與新媒體的較量、兩種不同的新聞?dòng)^的抗衡染上了悲壯的色調(diào)，給了他致命一擊的不是Pruit，不是Sloan，而是他心里過不去的那道坎兒，他的矛盾與掙扎。其實(shí)老查理也意識(shí)到現(xiàn)如今的方式能走不動(dòng)了，可是在新媒體環(huán)境下，又一時(shí)找不到能夠承載他們理想的的新的新聞運(yùn)營(yíng)方式。面對(duì)Pruit這種近乎“褻瀆”了新聞本質(zhì)的做法，他無法妥協(xié)。他本能地堅(jiān)持著他的新聞信仰，力求堅(jiān)持正義、良知、專業(yè)、準(zhǔn)確、真實(shí)，但是為了保護(hù)一眾有著同樣理想的后輩他又不得不做出妥協(xié)的姿態(tài)，走不出這個(gè)困境的查理，即使沒有倒在Sloan的事情上，也會(huì)倒在Don的Princeton事情上，或者在看到Neal重建的網(wǎng)站后猝然離去。 老查理這個(gè)“堂吉訶德”的死（他絕不僅是桑丘啊，Will是打趣說的~），象征著一個(gè)新聞時(shí)代告一段落。ACN要何去何從，也是當(dāng)下許多傳統(tǒng)媒體頭疼的事情。年初的時(shí)候一篇關(guān)于BBC轉(zhuǎn)型策略的深度報(bào)道和一篇《紐約時(shí)報(bào)》的創(chuàng)新報(bào)告（其實(shí)是數(shù)字時(shí)代的反思報(bào)告）瘋轉(zhuǎn)一時(shí)，可見ACN的切膚之痛，索金刻畫得并不夸張，真實(shí)的媒體轉(zhuǎn)型比這來得更加的猛烈。有些媒體已經(jīng)逐漸開始尋摸到了一些不清晰但尚且可行的轉(zhuǎn)型道路，有些則依舊面臨著生存的威脅。所謂新媒體，指的不僅僅是新的技術(shù)與渠道，還是一種新的社會(huì)關(guān)系下的媒介形態(tài)，與日常生活聯(lián)系更加緊密因而要想求新求變，革新技術(shù)、拓展渠道，開微信微博APP只是個(gè)開始，從內(nèi)容到思維都面臨著徹底的變化。 本季提出的問題，從本劇的結(jié)尾——Mc坐上了Reese的位置，Will主播臺(tái)，Neal回歸重建網(wǎng)站，晚間新聞?dòng)瓉砹饲八从械男侣勛灾骺臻g——來看，索金本人還是傾向于新聞專業(yè)主義的解決方案。雖然看似有些理想主義化，但個(gè)人還是比較認(rèn)同。索金雖非新聞人，也是資深媒體人，已經(jīng)對(duì)第一季的定調(diào)感到不甚滿意的他不會(huì)在結(jié)尾又回到原點(diǎn)。尚且做個(gè)善良的揣測(cè)，我認(rèn)為“專業(yè)化”、新聞精英主義的不完全妥協(xié)或許是索金對(duì)未來媒體發(fā)展的一個(gè)預(yù)測(cè)和預(yù)期。眾包新聞也是新聞發(fā)展的一個(gè)階段，可以說是一個(gè)向下的“分”的過程，將新聞的制作權(quán)、發(fā)布權(quán)下放給了普通民眾。有道是“合久必分分久必合”，在“分”進(jìn)行到一個(gè)階段以后，新媒體的優(yōu)勢(shì)發(fā)揮到了一個(gè)瓶頸，而缺陷則開始逐漸暴露。即使已經(jīng)被微信控制但仍然沒有徹底棄掉微博的我們對(duì)眾包新聞的種種再熟悉不過了。它的缺點(diǎn)現(xiàn)在已暴露得很明顯：瑣碎，缺乏深度，虛假信息、失實(shí)謠言等等…對(duì)于一個(gè)普通用戶來說，倘若要獲得準(zhǔn)確可靠全面的信息，可能便需要選擇二次（甚至更多次的）核實(shí)，這樣便會(huì)增加了獲取可靠信息的成本；亦或是選擇不付出這個(gè)成本一笑了之；當(dāng)然也有用戶并不具備足夠的分辨能力，在不自覺的情況下充當(dāng)了謠言傳播的工具。 當(dāng)然隨著新媒體的發(fā)展我們用戶的媒介素養(yǎng)也在隨之提升，同時(shí)隨著環(huán)境越來越嘈雜，為了降低獲取準(zhǔn)確信息的成本，我們會(huì)傾向于選擇可靠的信息源→專業(yè)媒體，畢竟看新聞的目的還是獲取真實(shí)（有用）的信息，用戶對(duì)內(nèi)容的要求也在變得越來越高。新聞在向細(xì)分化、定制化發(fā)展的時(shí)候，也對(duì)專業(yè)化的需求其實(shí)是不減反增的，這種專業(yè)化的新聞生產(chǎn)、篩選、聚合工作，也即分久必合的“合”還是需要由專業(yè)人員來完成。這或可作為索金“新聞專業(yè)主義”不倒的結(jié)尾的一個(gè)善意的、積極的解釋吧。 扯遠(yuǎn)了，再回到本劇。繼續(xù)ACN新聞臺(tái)原來的樣子也并不明智…抱緊電視這個(gè)渠道的做法太傳統(tǒng)，再有錢也不可能就這么一路燒下去→顯然會(huì)越賠越多。Mac們需要新的手段和渠道，如果繼續(xù)寫，Neal的戲份或許要加，Mac和Will或許會(huì)比老查理更頭疼。但無論如何，有著這樣的堅(jiān)持的一群人，他們有堅(jiān)持但不固執(zhí)，堅(jiān)持己見卻不固步自封，在Will決定幫助Neal的那一刻我已經(jīng)隱約看到，Newsroom不會(huì)就此止步待斃，即使會(huì)付出很大的代價(jià)，那個(gè)開始于“堂吉訶德”死后的“3.0時(shí)代”正在到來。 Coming soon… ———————————————————————— 30號(hào)修改 看到哥倫比亞新聞評(píng)論的一篇文章，寫最近索尼被黑《采訪》被迫撤檔的事件的事情，媒體應(yīng)該在實(shí)踐中扮演怎樣的角色。有段話寫的很好，摘錄在此： “The new reality is that journalists simply do not own the news cycle: Even if Gawker, BuzzFeed News, and Fusion decided to stop covering it, others would take up the mantle,” Anne Helen Petersen writes at BuzzFeed. “The new role of journalists, for better or for worse, isn’t as gatekeepers, but interpreters: If they don’t parse it, others without the experience, credentials, or mindfulness toward protecting personal information certainly will.”

Newsroom這部劇在美媒下還是有很大爭(zhēng)議的，這種爭(zhēng)議甚至不是對(duì)這部劇的for being liberal，更多來源于liberals for not doing enough。編劇Aaron Sorkin（如同你能從他的寫作中看到的那樣）常被描述成一個(gè)prick，一個(gè)smug，或一個(gè)chauvinist（比如一個(gè)記者曾寫一篇文章來敘述Sorkin對(duì)她本人采訪時(shí)候的condescension和不尊重，她說“In Sorkinville, the gods are men." 詳見“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?yàn)樗膶懽骶窒薅慌u(píng)（說教性太強(qiáng)、自我陶醉...）

我感覺這些critic比豆瓣上目前看到的影評(píng)要成熟更多，并且也更加有效率、progressive。這篇影評(píng)來源于New Yorker的Emily Nussbaum （她本人在本劇第一季開始就發(fā)表過影評(píng)"Broken News"。見//www.newyorker.com/magazine/2012/06/25/broken-news，或我的轉(zhuǎn)載//movie.douban.com/review/12970899/）。Nussbaum在2016年因?yàn)樗诩~約客寫的影評(píng)獲得普利策獎(jiǎng)。她個(gè)人肯定了第三季的一些進(jìn)步（比如她比較喜歡的Maggie & morality debate on the train），同時(shí)也特別分析批評(píng)了Sorkin對(duì)于Princeton女大學(xué)生 & rape的處理。

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 “l(fā)ive 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 本人在本劇第一季開始就已經(jīng)發(fā)了一篇比較critical的影評(píng)"Broken News"。見//www.newyorker.com/magazine/2012/06/25/broken-news（我的轉(zhuǎn)載//movie.douban.com/review/12970899/）。

在當(dāng)時(shí)，對(duì)此，她同編輯室的New Yorker colleague David Denby也寫了一篇簡(jiǎn)短的回應(yīng)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.