42 TV SEPTEMBER 16

Trud-7, 16.9.99
TELE-ACCENT

At dawn on Monday, the television programs of the two most popular Russian channels—"Good Morning" (ORT) and "Good Morning, Russia" (RTR)—as they began their broadcasts, were ashamed of their radiant names. The morning was not good. Another explosion shook the capital. Television reporters, to their credit, established a dialogue with viewers from the scene of the tragedy in the shortest possible time.

PEOPLE AND NON-PEOPLE

Despite the bad weather, the crowd of onlookers, and the police precautions that kept people away from the ruins, journalists managed to create a sense of presence at the scene for the audience. We heard eyewitness accounts, comments from officials, and saw the tears of relatives and loved ones of those who lived in the house on Kashirskoye Highway.

The rescuers worked even better. On their actions depended whether the few who remained alive under the rubble would receive help in time. It so happened that on this morning, the same Tsentrospas brigade of the Ministry of Emergency Situations was on duty that had worked at the site of the residential building explosion in Pechatniki last week. The guys did not spare themselves.

S. Alekseev's program "Emergency Call," placed on the morning air of ORT outside the schedule, turned out to be very timely. Dedicated to the guys from the capital's Tsentrospas, it told the story of the tragic death of one of them—the high-altitude climber Maxim. Three weeks ago, he was descending from a roof to open a metal door on the eleventh floor that had accidentally slammed shut, leaving a two-year-old child alone inside.

Maxim and his colleagues had video cameras. They filmed a lot both at work and at home. Therefore, the authors of the program had a lot of material dedicated to the deceased at their disposal. We see him in action, observe him at rest, and communicate with his relatives and friends. We see his body sprawled on the ground near the ill-fated house. I imagine it was unbearably painful for his comrades from the squad to make these recordings, but the camera in their hands did not tremble. They worked for us, the viewers, so that we would know the price of rescue.

The rescuers' filming turned out to be so professional, and the dramaturgy of the episodes making up the whole so consistent and complete, that at some point it began to seem as if we were watching a feature film rather than a documentary. But then you notice how careful the rescuer-cameramen are in telling the terrible, bloody details of what is happening. How restrained they are in showing bodies mangled by death and suffering.

The broadcast of the program—at the point where the story of the hero reached its tragic climax—was interrupted by an emergency news bulletin. On the screen, we saw Maxim's colleagues—MChS personnel and their minister, S. Shoigu. Having seen many terrible things "by virtue of his office," he seemed shaken by what had happened. About the organizers and perpetrators of the terrorist attack, he said succinctly: "These are non-humans!"

And again I noticed how the theme of the victims of terror was presented on the screen. The camera tactfully, from a distance, without emphasizing shocking details, told about the dead. Terrible details (corpses mutilated beyond recognition, body fragments) were heard only in the verbal sequence, giving way in the "picture" to figurative solutions. A carpet runner, which as a result of the explosion ended up thrown onto the branches of a tall tree, became a kind of screen metaphor for the destructive blast.

I speak in such detail about seemingly external circumstances for a reason. Soul-chilling bloody details affect millions of viewers not only depressingly, not only by evoking compassion. They often give rise to a blind thirst for revenge. On the streets, I have already heard more than once these days decisive proposals to turn repressions against Chechens living in Moscow. TV, fortunately, broadcasts these opinions very cautiously. However, in the program "Together" on the day of the explosion, information was heard from one regional center where a "witch hunt" had already begun.

Representatives of the authorities these days are carefully formulating their accusations. They do not forget to repeat that crime has no nationality. They dismiss religious motives. TV strictly adheres to such a position. But until recently, this unwritten rule of mass broadcasting was crudely violated. In one of the issues of "Segodnya" (Today), journalist V. Grunsky, with harsh commentary, showed terrible footage from Chechnya. Before the television camera, a militant shot through the palm of a hostage. In another frame, a man in a red shirt, who found himself in the hands of Chechens, pleaded for help. He said that a large ransom was required, otherwise he would not live. And a moment later, a militant with a huge axe cut off his head in one stroke. I confess, it is scary for me even to recount this—let alone watch it. Nevertheless, such a civilized television company, which knows the rules of the game perfectly, as NTV, showed this "extreme" scene.

Last Saturday, in the program "Fourth Estate," dedicated to our media, there was an attempt to react to the sensational television story. The host asked the opinion of a British journalist from the BBC Moscow bureau. He was unequivocal: "Under no circumstances would such footage be shown on TV in our country." But O. Dobrodeev, general director of NTV, remained unperturbed: "Sometimes such things must be shown."

No clear explanations: when exactly, under what circumstances, for what purposes? The questions remained hanging in the air.

Anri VARTANOV.