The Kingdom and the Power (81 page)

Miss Adler’s work in
The New Yorker
had attracted the attention of Clifton Daniel, Harrison Salisbury, and other editors, but they had been unable to interest her in joining
The Times
until they had offered her the position of film critic, replacing Bosley Crowther, who had held the job for twenty-seven years. Crowther was still in fine health at sixty-three, but the editors believed that contemporary films required a more youthful observer, and thus Renata Adler was hired and Crowther was named a critic-emeritus. Emeritus is a gloomy word at
The Times
, and within a year he had retired from the paper to become an executive consultant for Columbia Pictures.

Miss Adler quickly became, as Crowther had been in his final months, a very controversial critic: Crowther’s protest mail had largely concerned his failure to appreciate the symbolic significance of the casual mayhem in
Bonnie and Clyde
, while Miss Adler was regarded in the entertainment industry as priggish and passionless about films. According to
Variety
, she was happy with only two of the first twenty-seven films she reviewed (
Charlie Bubbles
and
The Two of Us)
;
she had reservations about such widely acclaimed productions as
The Graduate
and
In Cold Blood
, and one producer spent $6,000 for a full-page ad in
The Times
to question her taste after she had panned one of his films. The ad strongly implied that she did not really like films, a contention that she denied to a reporter from
Newsweek
: “I like movies and I like bad movies but that doesn’t mean I have to say they’re good.”

The reaction to her criticism, however, seemed to upset her in the beginning, and when a free-lance writer sought her cooperation to do a personality profile on her for a magazine, she pleaded that the idea be postponed, explaining that she would probably be fired in the near future. But the editors at this point had no such intentions. While recognizing her considerable influence over moviegoers, particularly in the foreign or art-house market, she did not have, like Barnes, the power to make or break a production, and
The Times
’ editors were also in agreement that Miss Adler wrote very well and entertainingly about subjects that often failed to entertain. In reviewing a United Artists release,
The Wicked Dreams of Paula Schultz
, in January of 1968, she wrote:

So Renata Adler passed her trial period at
The Times
and became the latest in a line of young journalists bringing sophistication into the news columns of
The Times
, fulfilling one of Daniel’s aims as the managing editor.

As Clifton Daniel began his fourth year in that position, he could properly take pride not only in the more lively coverage of the arts, and, of course, society, but also in the better reportage emanating from other special departments. The decision to appoint Robert Lipsyte as a sports columnist, alternating with Arthur Daley, had
brought a smooth literary touch to sports writing that had been missing in New York’s morning newspapers since the disappearance of the
Herald Tribune
and Red Smith. Daniel had also played a role in
The Times
’ better obituary writing, having assigned a dedicated specialist named Alden Whitman to that task. Fred M. Hechinger, installed as head of the Education-News department, had succeeded after other men in that position had not. Tom Mullaney had run the Financial-Business department admirably since the retirement of Jack Forrest a few years before; and the department that decides which wedding and engagement pictures will appear in
The Times
was under the capable jurisdiction of a status-conscious, unbribable man named Russell Edwards.

The foreign, national, and local staffs were clearly under the authority of New York, and Daniel seemed more self-assured now than he had in several months. The ungraceful dismissal of Kauffmann, a disturbing experience for Daniel, had been superseded by the success of Daniel’s discovery, Clive Barnes.

Corporate life had seemed better for Daniel, in fact, since the triumphant return of his friend Salisbury from Hanoi in January of 1967; and while Daniel’s relationship with Punch Sulzberger was not as warm as both men might have hoped, they had gotten along reasonably well through 1967, and with the arrival of 1968, Daniel was fairly certain of his place in the hierarchy. Catledge was still lingering in the background, but the executive editor had done considerable traveling of late, and one
Times
reporter who had visited New Orleans had brought back word that Catledge was building a home there. Perhaps Catledge was closer to retirement than most executives thought.

The only unresolved and pressing matter in the newsroom at this point was what to do about the Washington bureau chief. The 1968 political campaigns were already beginning to accelerate, and Wicker would be very busy with his column and often out of the capital; if there was ever a proper moment for Wicker to relinquish the bureau to another man with more time for administrative details, that moment was now. But, as in the past, there appeared to be no acceptable replacement for him. Daniel and most other New York executives, though not Rosenthal, were still resistant to Max Frankel, and no one else in Washington seemed qualified. In New York there had been hints dropped in Rosenthal’s direction, but Rosenthal had not been anxious to vacate the executive mainstream for Washington, and Salisbury was probably still too controversial
a subject in Washington to be able to function agreeably there. The same might be said of the chief London correspondent, Anthony Lewis, whom the Washington bureaumen remembered unsentimentally. If Lewis were given Wicker’s title, it might result in the resignation of Frankel, among others; Frankel had done very well in covering the White House this year, and regardless of the reservations that Daniel, Catledge, and others had about Frankel’s administrative capacities, they did not wish to lose Frankel’s services as a reporter.

So the situation seemed almost unsolvable. Wicker, who possibly did not even want the job at this point, was stuck with it. He had to hold onto it as one must often seem to cherish an unwanted gift from a very important donor. Reston’s vanity was involved, and Wicker was compelled to respect it until some graceful retreat or alternative could be arranged to Reston’s satisfaction. It was obvious to nearly everyone, however, that Wicker was devoting most of his time and energy to the writing of his column, which had become an excellent addition to
The Times
’ editorial page. Even the New York editors privately admitted this. Salisbury, in fact, had lately become a fervent fan of Wicker’s writing, admiring the emotion and perception that Wicker regularly displayed in his reports of shifting moods within the capital and the nation.

And yet, strangely, Wicker was the only columnist who was not being featured by
The Times
in its promotional advertising. Russell Baker, C. L. Sulzberger, and Reston were regularly advertised by
The Times
, often with their photographs, and
The Times
did the same for such specialists as Craig Claiborne and Charlotte Curtis, and for its leading cultural critics. At first Wicker thought it was merely an oversight, although he had felt slighted on the very day that he had replaced Krock as a columnist. The
Times
story that announced Krock’s retirement had rightly recounted at great length the colorful career of the veteran
Times
man; it had failed to mention, however, that Wicker was Krock’s successor. When for the next two years Wicker continued to be omitted from the house ads, it appeared that a Southern vendetta had indeed intruded upon the quiet carpets of
The Times
. Wicker’s pride prevented him from pursuing the matter openly, but within himself he smoldered, and perhaps it was partly this, along with his many other frustrations as the bureau chief, that had driven him more deeply into his column, permitting the bureau to operate largely on its own momentum. He was not the bureau chief by New York’s
choice, but despite it, and he had survived primarily because New York had been unable to produce a substitute. It seemed, too, that the impasse might continue indefinitely. Then, suddenly, this situation changed. Wicker learned that New York had selected James Greenfield to replace him.

The idea had been Rosenthal’s, and it had been endorsed gradually by Daniel, Catledge, and finally by Punch Sulzberger. Greenfield had had relatively little to do since the abandonment of plans for an afternoon edition, and Rosenthal was convinced that Greenfield could make a major contribution to the paper as its bureau chief in Washington. Greenfield still had important contacts in the government and on its fringe, people with whom he had worked during his years in the State Department, and he seemed to be in a very advantageous position both from the standpoint of getting the news and distinguishing it from the official obscurantism that government spokesmen so often emit. Rosenthal had long been impressed with Greenfield’s sophistication and flare as a newsman, and, unlike Wicker, Greenfield would do no writing, devoting himself entirely to the running of the bureau. Greenfield’s personality, a smooth blend of amiability and
politesse
, would also help to win the good will of the bureaumen, Rosenthal thought, overcoming what perhaps no other New York editor could overcome.

So the decision was final, and it was hoped in New York that it could be initiated without delay. But when Reston was informed, he suggested that any personnel changes in Washington be postponed until after the Presidential election. Reston wrote a long memorandum to this effect. When he received no reaction to it, he assumed that his recommendation was being followed in New York. But weeks later, shortly before Punch Sulzberger was scheduled to arrive in Washington to take Reston and Wicker to dinner, Reston learned that Sulzberger was still intent on installing Greenfield in Washington almost immediately. The New York editors saw no reason to wait until after the election, and Sulzberger had sided with them.

When Punch Sulzberger walked into the Washington bureau, on the day of his dinner date with Reston and Wicker, Reston was solemn and distant. Reston could not support the New York plan, and he told Sulzberger that he would not be joining the publisher
for dinner; Sulzberger and Wicker should dine alone. Sulzberger was somewhat surprised by Reston’s reaction, although he had sensed in advance the delicacy of the decision; that was why Sulzberger had come to Washington himself to present the plan officially, and had not sent Turner Catledge. Sulzberger also considered Wicker to be a close personal friend, and he thought that at a dinner meeting in Washington there would be less risk of a misunderstanding—it could be handled in the easy informal way that Sulzberger had often discussed business in the past with Wicker and Reston. Wicker had not fallen from grace in Sulzberger’s eyes; instead Wicker would be free to do what he did best, and would be detached from the travail and trivia of office work. Sulzberger had previously been told by the New York editors that Wicker was quite willing, and possibly eager, to step down as the bureau chief, and Sulzberger had proceeded on the assumption that this was true.

But during Sulzberger’s dinner with Wicker, he realized that this was not exactly so. Wicker was tense and obviously upset, agitated by the forces of his loyalty to the bureau, to Reston, to himself. Wicker felt bullied by New York’s determination to replace him quickly with a bureaucrat of their own choosing; and his private suspicion was that Rosenthal, who probably saw Wicker as a future rival for the managing editor’s chair, now wished to eliminate him from the running, simultaneously installing in Washington a less challenging and very indebted ally. Whether or not Wicker would ever be lured by such goals as the managing-editorship was inconsequential to his mood and rationale as he dined with Sulzberger. Wicker felt now that he was being pressed, pushed, and undercut—and he was angry.

After Sulzberger had said what he had come to say, assuring Wicker that Greenfield’s appointment would make life easier for everyone, he flew back to New York on the following morning in his plane, being bumped and jostled during the journey by a storm which he thought he would never survive. After dining with Sulzberger, Wicker spent an uneasy evening, staying up all night in a fuming state of frustration and bitterness.

The next day Wicker telephoned Sulzberger and said that he was about to announce to the staff his resignation as bureau chief, but Sulzberger pleaded with him to delay it. There were other details that had to be completed first, Sulzberger said, adding that he had not yet had time to inform Anthony Lewis in London or Max Frankel. Wicker, aware of how quickly gossip travels in
Washington and wishing to spare himself further humiliation, had hoped that his own announcement in Washington might imply that he had perhaps initiated the decision, or at least had been an agreeable part of it—he did not want it to appear to have been an ignominious, unconditional surrender to the editors in New York. But Sulzberger continued to urge that Wicker do nothing, and Wicker complied, although his discomfort was perceived and understood by his friends in the bureau, and soon Max Frankel and others were sharing Wicker’s despair and were contemplating their own resignations.

James Greenfield was unsatisfactory to them not only because he was a New York appointee and his presence in the bureau would be an affront to Wicker and Reston, but because they truly considered him unqualified. He had been a
Times
man for only seven months, and before joining the paper, he had worked as an airline executive, a position obtained through his friendship with Pierre Salinger. He was seen by the bureau as a “Bobby Kennedy man,” and it was felt that his political loyalties would, if he were put in charge of the bureau, cast doubt upon
The Times
’ entire political coverage of Washington. They also recalled incidents in which Greenfield, working in the office of Undersecretary of State George W. Ball, had been less than candid with the press, and it was alleged that he had once tried to suppress information from a
Times
correspondent in the Congo and had then favored a reporter from
Time-Life
(Greenfield’s former place of employment) on the same Congo assignment. A few bureaumen were opposed to Greenfield because they considered him a bit too suave, a name-dropper, an individual who seemed to be inordinately infatuated with the glamorous side of government life, what little there was of it. In short, they considered him unfit to represent
The Times
as its bureau chief in Washington.