Serial: a new kind of journalism

Shortly before Thanksgiving, my daughter told me about Serial, a podcast exploring a nonfiction story over multiple episodes (thus the name). It’s a spinoff of the radio program This American Life. First released last October, the episodes ran weekly for 12 weeks. The final episode was released on Dec. 18.

In early December, I went online and listened to the podcasts, and I was hooked. I understood why it ranked number one on iTunes for several weeks.

Sarah Koenig, who created and hosts the series, investigates the 1999 murder of Hae Min Lee, an 18-year-old student at Woodlawn High School in Baltimore. Lee’s ex-boyfriend, Adnan Musud Syed, was arrested and charged with first-degree murder. After a six-week trial, Syed was found guilty on Feb. 25, 2000, and given a life sentence, despite pleading his innocence.

Koenig’s journalism is not especially new. She does what other journalists do in newspaper articles or TV “newsmagazines” that explore a topic in detail in order to get at the truth.

But what makes Koenig’s reporting in Serial unique, besides the format, is her transparency. As Joyce Barnathan notes in “Why Serial Is Important for Journalism” (Columbia Journalism Review, cjr.org), Koenig shares her thoughts and views as she researches the story. She talks about her anxieties, her soul searching, as she ponders whether or not Syed is guilty.

This openness, writes Barnathan, “adds tremendous credibility to our field.” We identify with Koenig because she’s expressing what we also feel.

The podcasts move us emotionally. At times we believe, or want to believe, that Syed is innocent. At other times we wonder if he’s playing us.

Koenig not only tells a gripping story, however. She raises interesting questions that connect to our lives and help us understand how complex situations are. For example, she asks people, “Do you remember the details of a day six weeks ago?”

Serial also teaches us about how journalists or lawyers or detectives investigate a murder. And we learn about the criminal justice system, how fickle it can seem. We learn how imprecise people’s memories are, how events get interpreted in multiple ways.

When we watch a fictional murder investigation on TV, it usually is tied up neatly in an hour. In real life, it doesn’t work that way.

Koenig works hard to find people more than a decade later who were involved in the case, people who knew Syed or Lee. She also interviews experts in various fields.

Serial is more than entertaining and educational. It has uncovered evidence that the prosecution and the defense in this case failed to produce. People connected to the case have contacted Koenig and provided their perspectives.

Before the final episode aired, some criticized it for being produced if it wasn’t going to reach a clear conclusion about Syed’s innocence or guilt. But this is not a Dickens novel with a clear, melodramatic ending.

As a result of the podcast, however, there is some movement toward possibly solving the murder. The UVA Innocence Project is poised to ask a court to test an old physical evidence recovery kit that was used on Lee’s body to test for possible sexual assault in 1999 but was never tested for DNA. This could provide evidence showing Syed’s guilt or innocence, but the courts need to allow it.

 Like life, the story is ongoing. Meanwhile, journalists can draw lessons from Serial about reporting with transparency.  

Health-care disaster in Mississippi

Access to affordable health care in the United States has been a major problem for years. Perhaps nowhere has it been worse than in Mississippi. And the Affordable Care Act (ACA), often referred to as Obamacare, has not made health care more accessible or affordable in Mississippi, according to two journalists there.

Writing for Columbia Journalism Review, Trudy Lieberman praises Sarah Varney, a senior correspondent for Kaiser Health News, and  Jeffrey Hess of Mississippi Public Broadcasting, who contributed research and reporting, for a “Letter from Mississippi,” which thoroughly and poignantly details “how the poorest, sickest state got left behind by Obamacare.”

Their account, published in the November/December issue of Politico Magazine and on the Kaiser Health News website, analyzed “Obamacare’s year-long struggle for respectability and viability in the poorest state in the union,” writes Lieberman.

They asked the following question: Can a private system of health insurance and subsidies for buying coverage work in a state with very poor people who have high rates of disease, lack education, and for whom buying insurance is like learning Turkish? “Add to that an uncooperative political infrastructure,” writes Lieberman, “and the answer at this point seems to be no.”

Given that Mississippi suffers from a high incidence of diabetes, heart disease, obesity and the highest mortality rate in the nation, Obamacare barely registered there. In fact, according to one analysis Varney cites, “Mississippi would be the only state in the union where the percentage of uninsured residents has gone up, not down.”

Varney blames many factors on this failure, including “political infighting, an overwhelmed federal agency and a surprise decision from the Supreme Court.” Only about 20 percent of the state’s residents eligible for Obamacare coverage have signed up. The “most significant drag on sign-ups,” Varney writes, “was Mississippi’s decision not to expand Medicaid,” which left some 138,000 low-income residents, most of whom are black, without insurance options.

Varney also points out inequalities that are part of the ACA, such as high deductibles and other high cost-sharing requirements. A 54-year old waitress got a policy for $129, Varney writes, only to discover she first had to pay $6,350 out of pocket. She cancelled the policy.

These articles focus on Mississippi, which also has the highest rate of leg amputations in the country (for African Americans, this number is particularly “startling,” Varney writes) and a high rate of breast cancer deaths despite a low incidence rate. However, many of the problems with health care apply as well to many other states.

Lieberman makes the point that this story is not being told many places. She writes: “Several of the issues Varney details—like inequality, the loss of federal funds for safety-net hospitals, and the continuing political hostility to health insurance for the uninsured—are not unique to Mississippi and merit attention from reporters around the country.”

In my own state of Kansas, for example, where Medicaid is not being expanded, health care is not being addressed adequately.

While politicians play political football with Obamacare, health-care costs continue to rise.

One culprit (of many), according to an article in Pacific Standard (July/August) notes the overuse of CT scans, often done before doing a simple physical exam. When one patient whose problem was already identified objected to having a scan done because of the exorbitant cost, the doctor said, “Why do you care? Your insurance will cover it.”

The trouble is, too many of us don’t care. And those making the decisions seem to care even less about these costs.

Life and art in two recent films

Among the many well-made, one-word films out this year (Boyhood, Interstellar, Fury, Nightcrawler), two recent ones stand out: Birdman (though it has that curious parenthetical addition: or The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance) and Whiplash.

 

Let’s begin with Birdman (and we’ll leave off the playful, if not pretentious, part of the title.

It’s about a washed-up Hollywood actor who 20 years earlier played a superhero called Birdman in three films. Riggan Thomsen (Michael Keaton, in an outstanding performance) wants to be considered a serious actor and has written a play he is directing and starring in, an adaptation of Raymond Carver’s short story “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love.”

The film combines humor with serious themes. Director Alejandro González Iñárritu is playful in many ways, but he infuses the film with profound questions we all face to some extent. He also uses various means to present these themes.

The camera follows the actors around like a documentary, and Iñárritu loves closeups. We viewers are intimately involved with these actors. We also get to see what goes on backstage during a play as well as what leads up to its being performed at all. The cuts between scenes are so smooth that the entire film feels like one long take. Again, this places us in the action, in present tense.

Throughout, Iñárritu satirizes both Hollywood and the New York theater scene. He does this not only through dialogue but with some fantastical special effects  that show Riggan’s thoughts. He also employs some magical realism, giving Riggan the ability to levitate and use telekinesis, usually when he’s angry.

Riggan’s daughter, Sam (Emma Stone), is a recovering drug addict and a reminder of Riggan’s failure as an absent father while she was growing up. She confronts him at one point with the question of why he’s trying to make his life meaningful by being considered a serious actor.

The film also uses the play, in which the main character feels he doesn’t exist because his wife doesn’t love him, to display its themes.

These themes or questions about how we try to find meaning are there, yet they don’t overwhelm the action or hinder the humor. They are subtly made, as is the satire, which also works on several levels. In the end, we’re left with the question turned back on us. What do we hold up as worth pursuing for meaning. And is it?

And now to Whiplash, which was the opening film at the Sundance Film Festival in January and won the audience award there.

When you hear it’s about a young jazz drummer and his emotionally abusive teacher, you may shrug and say, What’s the big deal? But it, too, works on several levels and grabs us right away with its storytelling and pacing.

Andrew Neiman (Miles Teller), 19, is accepted into the Shaffer Conservatory and soon wins a spot in the jazz ensemble led by the school’s premier teacher, Terrence Fletcher (J.K. Simmons). Fletcher at first is nice to Andrew, but soon his verbally abusive treatment of his students comes out and gets directed at Andrew when they play the song “Whiplash.”

Andrew wants to be a great drummer like his idol, Buddy Rich. He’s so dedicated that he gives up dating his girlfriend. The whiplash of emotions and confidence move back and forth throughout the film, and it goes directions you don’t expect.

The main question the film raises is, How much should one sacrifice for one’s art? But it goes beyond the creative arts. Is it good to push ourselves (or be pushed) beyond our perceived limitations in order to reach our full potential?

The film is well-shot. The drumming scenes are gripping. I’m still not sure how they did it. And J.K. Simmons’ performance is excellent.

Don’t be surprised if he (for supporting actor) and Keaton (for actor) are Oscar nominees.

Birdman and Whiplash deal with the tension between art and life. It’s an age-old theme, but they tackle it in new, creative ways.

Another masterpiece by Robinson

Marilynne Robinson, whose previous novels include Housekeeping (1980), Gilead (2004), which won the Pulitzer Prize, and Home (2008), is a master of creating a character and giving that character a unique narrative voice.

In Lila (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2014, $26, 272 pages) the titular character is taken from an abusive home as a young child by a woman who calls herself Doll. Robinson’s language captures the child’s age and environment: “Her arms were all over scratches.” “The people inside fought themselves quiet.”

Robinson never offers dates, but it’s probably around 1920. Doll raises Lila with the help of another woman. Then, when Lila is a teen or older, they join a group moving from place to place, looking for work and food. She captures the feel and detail of the 1930s Depression without giving dates or other historical information.

The narrative moves back and forth, always from Lila’s perspective, though written in third person, between her experience with this group, led by the mercurial Doane, and her coming to the town of Gilead, Iowa, the setting for Robinson’s two previous novels.

She arrives after having been abandoned by the group and Doll being arrested for murder. Soon she meets Reverend John Ames, who is the narrative voice of “Gilead.”

When they first meet, she says, “I just been wondering lately why things happen the way they do.” This sparks a connection. He says, “I’ve been wondering about that more or less my whole life.”

This exploration of the meaning of things runs through all of Robinson’s fiction (she is perhaps our most theological of literary artists), yet she is less interested in answers than in the exploration of them. Ames says that “life is a very deep mystery, and that finally the grace of God is all that can resolve it. And the grace of God is also a very deep mystery.”

He has been a minister for many years and is well-respected in town. He lost his wife and newborn son forty years earlier and has remained unmarried. Yet this young woman throws him for a loop.

She is not that impressed by his religious talk. For her, “the best thing about church was that when she sat in the last pew there was no one looking at her.”

She carries with her a lifetime of living hand-to-mouth, often outside. She connects with nature, and even after she is living with Ames, she gets up in the morning and walks to the river to bathe.

She also carries with her the presence of Doll and often thinks back to the time Doll rescued her. She wants “to feel trust rise up in her like that sweet old surprise of being carried off in strong arms, wrapped in a gentleness worn all soft and perfect.”

One day, when Ames tells Lila he should repay her for taking roses to the grave of his wife and child, she hears herself say, “You ought to marry me.”

Given her hard life, she has developed a hard exterior and has a difficult time trusting anyone, so her statement surprises even her. And then he agrees.

One of the strong images in the novel is water. Lila likes to spend time at the river, and soon after they agree to marry, she asks Ames to baptize her.

Afterward, they talk. She captures the turmoil of her life when she says to him, “I don’t trust nobody. I can’t stay nowhere. I can’t get a minute of rest.”

Throughout the book, Lila struggles with believing she can be accepted for who she is. Despite Ames’ acceptance and love for her, she keeps longing for Doll. “She lived for Doll to see.”

A major theme of the novel is how sorrow and joy, loneliness and connection come together, and people move between them, as in a dance.

Given her long experience of loneliness, Lila has trouble accepting love. “When you’re scalded, touch hurts, it makes no difference if it’s kindly meant.” Yet after her baptism, Ames puts his hand on her hair. “That was what made her cry. Just the touch of his hand.”

Everyone experiences loneliness. Even the wind, “clapping shut and prying open everything that was meant to keep it out, bothering where it could, tired of its huge loneliness.”

In Lila we get to know a person who has grown up in poverty. She is made strong through her survival skills yet wounded by her experiences of rejection and is looking for some connection, even while hesitating to grasp it when it comes.

In this novel we come to know a unique character who draws out of us our own feelings of rejection and our longings for connection. Lila is yet another masterpiece from Marilynne Robinson.