September 11th and Anna Nicole Smith
While the rest of the country honored the fifth anniversary of September 11th, I was ringing Anna Nicole Smith’s doorbell.
It was 3pm. As far as the morning news shows were concerned, the page had already flipped to September 12th when the strange life of a strange star was once again newsworthy. Can I call Anna Nicole Smith a star?
Winding through the hills toward Anna Nicole’s house, all that our crew knew was that her 20-year-old son, Daniel, had suddenly died in The Bahamas the day before—just three days after she gave birth to a baby girl. No one from her circle had made any formal statements but Bahamian authorities claimed the cause of Daniel’s death was mysterious.
We were following a tip that Anna Nicole was possibly back in Los Angeles. It seemed improbable—even in Anna Nicole Land—that she would return so quickly, but the information was urgently whispered to us in the offices of an internet tabloid site. We bit.
Newspapers were scattered on the front steps, the curtains were drawn, and the dusty cars in the driveway probably had not moved in weeks. The mailbox was wide open so I peeked in and saw an electric bill addressed to Anna N. Smith. The house looked empty but tips from tabloids cannot be taken lightly.
The camera crew and correspondent waited up the street while I stood on the porch of the hillside home and pushed the button on the intercom by her front door. My stomach sent tortured signals to my brain, reminding me that this is the part of producing segments for a morning show that always killed me.
I left four years ago to pursue a job outside of television but I now do some freelance producing when my schedule allows. My recent assignments have me on the bizarre celeb beat—Tom Cruise’s split with Paramount, Paris Hilton’s suspected DUI, and now Anna Nicole Smith’s son’s death. I can’t tell if morning television has taken a deliberate turn toward the sensational or if I’ve just hit a bad cycle.
I had no idea what to say if someone actually answered the door. Umm, hi. I know this is a very tragic time for everyone but is there any chance you feel like opening a vein and bleeding on national television? Besides, September 11th is over; we need a new headline.
I wondered if we would be covering the story if it was about anyone else. Anna Nicole has made a lovely living off exploiting her body and her life. There is nothing reluctant about her fame—she’s sought it, embraced it, and flaunted it. She’s more famous for being a ditzy, speech-slurring diet wonder than for any actual artistic contributions.
I waited about a minute and then turned and walked back toward the street. The tension in my shoulders released.
We shot an on-camera stand-up with the correspondent in front of the house before leaving. Then, as we started back down the hill, I recognized the driver of a car coming up toward the house. It was a reporter for Star Magazine. We had interviewed her about Paris Hilton the week before.
I pulled up to say hello and asked whether she had heard Anna Nicole was home. She said no, but I didn’t believe her. She changed the subject and introduced her parents who were visiting from out of town and riding along. How sweet, a family stake-out at Anna Nicole Smith’s house.
Following the same story as Star Magazine proved we had sunk too low. Weren’t we respectable journalists, after all? I’ve traveled the country covering forest fires, politics, national security, and stories of missing children with this crew. I couldn’t help but contrast the day’s ceremonies in New York, Washington and around the country. My soapbox was getting taller by the minute. I was ready to address the state of morning television, of network news, of the craft of all of journalism!
Late into the night, I sat with the editor putting soundbites and images together for our piece. We packed a lot into two minutes—the known facts of the story, a statement from a Bahamian police officer, the footage we shot in front of her house, and an interview with our source over at the tabloid website (because he’s great on camera). I picked video of some of Anna Nicole’s wackier moments—we had plenty from which to choose—and then at the end, the very last shot of our story, we laid in a photo of Anna Nicole kissing her son’s cheek. It was classic Anna Nicole—posed, over-the-top, glamorous and corny at the same time. But it was tender, too, and for the first time, I saw things differently. She was a mother who deeply loved her son.
It wasn’t that I felt above covering a woman whose child had tragically and mysteriously died. I felt above covering Anna Nicole Smith. It bothered me to think I was operating on the same level as the tabloids and paparazzi. Yet, the real parallel was not in the story I was covering, but how I was covering it. I had reduced Anna Nicole to an object—someone whose loss wasn’t worthy of my time. I imagine some rather colorful people were killed in the 9/11 attacks, too, but we still validate the weight of their absence. Loss doesn’t discriminate.
Regardless of the assignments that come my way, the value I give the people involved cannot be negotiable. If I lose that, if I lose my ability to see people as people, tragedy as tragedy, then this business has gotten the best of me.
Posted on November 1, 2006 12:00 AM
