The reporters covering the campaign would have no role whatsoever. “Let’s face it, Nixon did not have good press,” Ailes later said. “They were still playing, ‘Would you buy a used car from this guy?’ His only hope was to go around the press and go directly to the people.” But Herb Klein, the campaign’s press secretary, had been fielding complaints from journalists and warned that the campaign risked a backlash if they weren’t invited. Treleaven was inclined to listen, but Shakespeare told him that under no circumstances would they be allowed in.
Ailes sided with Shakespeare. “I agree with Frank,” he said. “Fuck ’em. It’s not a press conference.”
At The Mike Douglas Show, colleagues did not hear Ailes express antipathy toward the media. But in the crucible of the ’68 campaign, Ailes adopted a new view: journalists were the enemy. Ailes warned Treleaven that reporters would point out all the crafty television techniques that went into the show. They might reveal for instance that the hopped-up studio audience had been primed by a jowly warm-up man named Jack Rourke. “The audience is part of the show,” Ailes told him. McGinniss stood by listening. “And that’s the whole point. It’s a television show. Our television show.” As McLuhan had theorized, the image on-screen was what mattered. Anything else was a distraction. “The press has no business on the set.… This is an electronic election. The first there’s ever been.… TV has the power now,” Ailes said. Like the voters at home, the press would watch the proceedings from a separate studio.
At 9:00 p.m., viewers tuning in to The Dom DeLuise Show were greeted instead with news footage of Richard Nixon receiving a hero’s welcome on the streets of Chicago. Like a freak summer snow, confetti fluttered down on the thousands of smiling faces in the crowd. The title credits “NIXON IN ILLINOIS” flashed on the screen in bold yellow lettering. A baritone-voiced announcer intoned: “This afternoon, Richard Nixon arrived in Chicago and received one of the warmest and most enthusiastic welcomes in this city’s history.” It was Treleaven’s idea to open the broadcast with clips of Nixon, standing in an open-air limousine, arms thrust victoriously in the air, making his trademark V. For the audience at home, the jubilant scene would contrast starkly with that of a week earlier, when Democrats had brought insurrection to the streets. When Richard Nixon came to town, there was a parade.
Ailes watched the introduction unfold on monitors in the control room as the director cued the next shot: Nixon bounding onto the stage. The studio audience jumped to their feet applauding vigorously, as Jack Rourke had coached them. The director cut back and forth between the candidate and the crowd. Nixon was beaming, seeming in that moment as warm and as human as Mike Douglas. He even had his own gag man onstage with him: former Oklahoma football coach turned ABC announcer Bud Wilkinson, one of the few celebrities backing Nixon in ’68. Moments earlier, Wilkinson had greeted the audience and introduced the panel. “I’d like to stress the point that Mr. Nixon has absolutely no idea what questions will be asked,” he said, sounding like a color commentator before a big game. “There could not have been any prior preparation.”
Except Nixon had done nothing but prepare for this moment. And Ailes had helped him. Before the broadcast, Nixon honed a series of stock answers that he could deploy at will, artfully tailoring the response to whatever question was posed. “If the material he is presenting can be made more succinct and memorable, there is no doubt that he can control this medium in the upcoming election,” Ailes wrote in his July 1968 memo to Garment and Shakespeare. Because the broadcasts would be seen only in their local markets, Nixon could repeat his answers in one city after the next. He could also calibrate his response to the sensibilities of different audiences. Thus he would affirm civil rights in Chicago but hedge on school integration weeks later in Charlotte. (Years later, Ailes would advise his clients to use the same trick: “On an index card you can keep in your wallet, list the key phrases of ten stories that will entertain audiences for the next ten years,” he wrote in his book, You Are the Message, “because you rarely speak to the same audience twice.”)
Nixon followed Wilkinson’s introduction with a monologue—it really was a talk show. “I’m not trying to filibuster before we go to the questions,” he quipped, before turning sincere. “I would like to say a word about the pictures you saw a moment ago of the arrival in Chicago. Those pictures brought back many memories to me.” The camera zoomed in tight: “Sixteen years ago in 1952, I was nominated for vice president in Chicago at the Republican National Convention. And then eight years ago, I was nominated for president of the United States in Chicago at the Republican National Convention. And today, as I begin this campaign tour, I would have to say I’ve received the greatest political reception that I’ve ever received in my life in Chicago.” Over and over, a half dozen times, he repeated that code word for Democratic lawlessness: Chicago.
Jack Sundine, editor of the Moline Dispatch, asked the first question. “Yes, Mr. Nixon, George Wallace has said that, and others I suppose have said this, that there isn’t a thin dime of difference between the two parties nor between the nominees of the two parties. Would you, sir, in specifics, recite what you think the differences are between you and the nominee of the Democratic Party?”
The camera flashed back to Nixon.
“How much time do I have?”
The audience provided the laugh track. Nixon picked up right where his monologue ended. “At the convention last week in Chicago, I think the American people received there a picture of the choice that they have, and I think it’s probably the most decisive choice and the greatest difference you have between two candidates in this century.” He went on for almost two minutes. He spoke of “new leadership” and a “new foreign policy” and “new policies to deal with the domestic economy.” There wasn’t a specific to be had.
The director switched to a camera positioned at the back of the studio. From this perspective, the room resembled an arena. Even though every member of the audience was on Nixon’s team, the image suggested a candidate bravely facing threats from all sides without a podium or teleprompter to defend him. The viewers at home could sympathize with his position.
The director panned to the next questioner. It was Morris Leibman, the Jewish lawyer, and a Democrat to boot. The camera filmed Leibman from the front. Almost entirely bald and wearing thick plastic frame glasses, he had to tilt his head back to make eye contact with Nixon. It looked as if Leibman was gazing up in admiration.
“Mr. Nixon, would you comment on the accusation that’s been made from time to time that your views have shifted, and that they’re based on expediencies?”
Nixon showed no discomfort. The camera captured him looking down at Leibman, arms clasped loosely behind his back. More comedy: “Well, I suppose, Mr. Leibman, that what you’re referring to in more the vernacular is, is there a ‘New Nixon’ or is there an ‘Old Nixon’? I suppose I could counter by saying, which Humphrey should we listen to today?”