Television: Electronic Politics: The Image Game

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In Texas, a spot shows Lloyd Bentsen Jr., the Democratic senatorial candidate, walking in the woods, informally dressed, chatting about why he wants to be a Senator. The man he is with says nothing; he was paid only to walk and listen. In New York, intimate close-ups in a series of ten-second spots work at two levels for Senator Charles Goodell, who is behind in the race. On the surface, they are intended simply to increase voter recognition. More important perhaps, the camera looks him full in the eye, close up, portraying him as an independent of firmly held, clear beliefs. They do not refer overtly to one of his problems—the charge that he has adopted liberalism only lately out of expediency—but they are intended to neutralize the opposition's attack.

Communal Effort. Clifton White, the political manager who helped engineer Barry Goldwater's nomination in 1964 and now handles one of Goodell's opponents, Conservative James Buckley, recalls how technique has changed. He compares the early days of television campaigning to "radio with a light to read by. At first we came on as if speaking to 50,000 people. Then we realized our message should only be intended for 21 people."

The creation of a political spot is a communal effort among the candidate, his managers and his media experts; if they are expert in politics as well, the media men tend to enlarge their role. Ken Auletta, campaign manager for Howard Samuels in his strong but losing run for the New York gubernatorial nomination, says that he is not sure Samuels even saw all the spots that emerged from hours of filming before they were put on the air. A typical screening session involves the campaign manager, one or two others representing the candidate, and the TV advisers. They may watch hours of film, stopping occasionally on the cry of "That's good!" to mark the attractive footage and argue its merits. When they are done, they hope to have taped together 30 seconds of their man at his best, and discarded perhaps ten hours' worth of their man as he normally is.

In that small band of skillful men who are the new image makers, the impresarios of television electioneering, two are preeminent. One is Charles Guggenheim, an Oscar-winning documentary-film maker who worked in the campaign of Robert Kennedy. The other is Harry Treleaven, an extraordinary advertising man whose most successful account so far has been the Richard Nixon presidential campaign of 1968. They preside over the disposition of as much as 90% of a campaigner's total budget, earn fees in a Senate race ranging from $30,000 to $60,000. Between them they are involved in 13 different campaigns this year. Guggenheim is producing his persuasive films for four Democrats seeking election to the Senate and three running for governorships. Treleaven is, in effect, still handling the Nixon account; he is the man behind one governorship candidate and five Senate candidates—four of them specifically urged by Nixon to run. Guggenheim and Treleaven are meeting this year for the first time in an entirely appropriate manner—not in person but as the men behind opposing senatorial candidates in Tennessee and Michigan.