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In other branches of journalism, such an idea most resembles life at the Associated Press, where, in the words of General Manager Keith Fuller, "neutrality is our bag." The A.P. constantly scrubs its language; lately, for example, it has instructed its reporters that one should say a terrorist group claimed "responsibility" for a bombing, instead of "credit" for it, "leaving it to others to judge whether it is an act to be 'credited' or not." In such tamped-down language, controversial becomes almost the strongest pejorative that can be hung on someone—and practically impossible to shake (Andrew Young, "controversial" in his first days as Ambassador to the United Nations, seems to be one of the few ever to have shed the label).
Chancellor, when he becomes a commentator, aspires to be outspoken—to present a brief as a lawyer would and end "by making a good point." He recalls the bolder broadcasts of Elmer Davis and Edward R. Murrow, and wonders why radio seems to permit freer comment than television. But were the old ones really bolder? Salant doubts it. Murrow, he says, insisted on a fairness and objectivity clause in his contract; he departed only once from this self-imposed standard, when he persuaded CBS's top brass to let him make his famous televised attack on Senator Joseph McCarthy.
Whether a wider public appreciates such nuances of neutrality, or considers neuter journalism to be cautious, timid or dull, is harder to judge. It's not easy to be mutedly sensible in a medium so given to the brassy certainties of aging let-it-all-hang-out types, partisan politicians, sarcastic academic panelists and gabby talk-show hosts.