Dear Readers:
Dr. Ink found no surprise on the front page of the Feb. 23 edition of the New York Post. No, there was no photo of a weasel representing the leader of France or Germany (that was confined to the editorial page).
The big headline was “Hand of God,” followed by “My Miracle Rescue From Club Inferno.” This, beside a photo of a crying Erin Marie Pucino who was “snatched from certain death in the Rhode Island nightclub inferno by a stranger.”
Afficionados of tabloid journalism will recognize some familiar features of the form, including the use of language such as “snatched from certain death” and the “nightclub inferno.” The use of “miracle” as an adjective is a staple, as in miracle rescue (cf. “miracle cure” or “miracle diet”). There’s the lure of a first-person account: “My Miracle Rescue,” even though the story uses the third person.
The Post devotes all of pages four and five to coverage of the fire, which killed 97 and injured 187.
Let it be known that Dr. Ink relates to this terrible tragedy. Doc has played in rock bands for most of his life, including venues all over the state of Rhode Island. He’s stood on the tiny stages of smoky bars, looking onto crowds packed beyond capacity. These were fire traps, pure and simple.
The history of nightclub fires is a long one, going back at least to the 1942 tragedy at the Cocoanut Grove in Boston, where folks could not escape because the exit doors opened inward. Each big fire brings reform of the fire codes, and it is the duty of the journalist to be part of the solution.
Which leads the Doc back to page five of the Post. In a story about nightclubs in New York City, the Post unleashed reporters for a “spot check” of a dozen of the “hottest nightclubs,” perhaps an unfortunate choice of words.
While some clubs appeared safe to the reporters, most failed a cursory inspection. “If a fire broke out at B’Lo … hundreds of patrons would be forced to squeeze through a narrow brick passageway to get to two cramped stairways up to the street.”
Another short item reveals how budget cuts have hurt efforts to enforce fire codes.
The Post is known more for its smarmy gossip and its zingy headlines than for its enterprise. But here, under the byline of Jeane MacIntosh, is some real live journalism.
Yo, Mr. Murdoch, it appears that even a blind dingo can sniff out a meal.
It’s been a while since readers have heard from Mama Ink, the irrepressible matron from whose birth canal Dr. Ink slid like a luge down an icy trail in the Italian alps.
It seems that Mama Ink is angry at the television news coverage of the Rhode Island nightclub fire.
Here’s her gripe in her own words, more or less: “How many times do they have to show the video of that fire inside that nightclub? What if my child or husband was in that club? You can see their faces, for God’s sake!”
Now the Doc has learned, the hard way, not to go against the news instincts of Mama Ink, but how could she ignore the obvious news value of the video footage?
From a news point of view, the video captures documentary evidence of an impending disaster, perhaps even a crime. It would be as if we had an underwater photo of the Titanic hitting the iceberg.
So much is revealed by the footage:
- The cramped and crowded environment
- The points of ignition and the speed with which the fire spreads up the wall and across the ceiling
- The cluelessness and confusion of the audience and the stage performers
So, Mama Ink, your little Inkala is inspired by your passion and compassion. But he says, with what little moral courage he can muster in your presence, that you are wrong.
Are TV media showing too much of the video? Do you agree with Mama Ink or her son the Doctor?
