Around the start of the new millennium, in what is sometimes remembered as the Pat Mitchell years, a group of colleagues and I, like-minded public television producers and programmers, tried to advocate for a less timid, more innovative and broadly democratic approach to PBS programming.
While we weren’t immediately concerned about the survival of the system, we strongly felt that the path PBS was taking — for the most part staying the course while superficially chasing the dream of more commercial appeal — would eventually erode support for public television. Back then we were viewed as voices on the fringe, respected for our conviction but lost in our own impractical bubble.
Twenty-five years later, it seems as if every edition of Current starts off with a new round of layoffs and ominous challenges from Congress. We are no longer heading toward a possible disaster. We have reached the abyss.
I don’t mean to foment doom and despair. On the contrary, I regard this moment as an opportunity to reexamine the role of public broadcasting and wrest it back toward its core values, which were far less inhibited (or, frankly, constipated) than the sadly reduced role it now chooses to play.
Last month, outgoing Oregon Public Broadcasting CEO Steve Bass wrote an article here advising a return to public media’s roots as “an ecosystem of locally focused organizations serving communities with journalism, civic information, cultural expression and educational content.” He’s right. But I would add that PBS could be amplifying the work of stations by supporting a greater diversity of regionally produced content for national distribution.
When I was growing up, public television was often the most original place on American TV. Occasionally that meant flirting in the avant-garde with the likes of Laurie Anderson and Nam Jun Paik, or making space for the wackiness of Monty Python — but it also gave rise to Julia Child, Fred Rogers, Bob Ross and This Old House, whose stylistic sensibilities and production values were decidedly modest even then. What set them apart was the aura of trust and intimacy they forged with their audiences. These shows pioneered new genres that have laid the foundations for whole networks today.
But by 2001, most of the national programming decisions were coming from the top down, with stations relegated to the status of an ornery but largely ineffectual stockholder convention. That wasn’t how PBS was supposed to work. It was meant to support its member stations, not the other way around.
As traditional broadcast gives way to new media, public television needs to dust off its early spirit of scrappy, decentralized innovation. No, we can’t compete with the super-budgets of the commercial studios — but our strength lies in the recognition that we don’t have to try.
Public media isn’t immediately subject to the pressures of ratings and revenues — a tremendously empowering notion, when you think of it. We answer first and foremost to our communities, and in turn, those communities point us toward new and vital subjects for programming.
In the arts, where I’ve worked for the past decade, I’ve seen exciting grassroots creativity bubbling up all over the country, responding in real time to the issues of the day. We should be playing the role of a production incubator, nurturing these budding currents of creativity and providing the next generation of talent with room to experiment and spread their wings — to produce content that commercial media either can’t or won’t deliver.
We tend to think artists and producers exist on a world stage, but in my experience, their most compelling work is usually driven by deeply local interests. They shouldn’t have to wait for it to reach New York or Los Angeles. The stations can capture it closer to the source, crackling with an urgency and immediacy rooted in the regional scenes that inspired it.
By sharing these experiences over its far-reaching platforms, public media could generate stronger bonds between communities across the American landscape. But it has to live up to the public’s high expectations. In recent years public support for PBS can best be described as weak and wistful: People approve of it in principle but feel no great connection to its actual programming, which too often seems to be talking down to them.
So why not risk more grassroots engagement and experimentation? The worst that can happen is already happening. On the other hand, if you can amplify your audience’s own voice, give them a place that feels like it belongs to them, the loyalty builds and goodwill grows.
And so will your membership.
A healthy and active membership — that seriously undervalued resource — is central to public media’s survival. Not star power. Not superior production values. And certainly not the preferences of an inner circle of well-placed private funders, whatever their agendas.
With a less fearful approach to programming, a renewed commitment to the people we serve, and the potential of new technologies like NextGen TV, public media can become what it was always intended to be — a cauldron of creativity; a common space for communities; a destination for artists, educators and their audiences; and an authentic illustration of American possibility.
In the words of one iconic American artist, Kris Kristofferson, who passed away in September: “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.” By the same token, having nothing left to lose can point a path to freedom.
Douglas Chang was producer of Live From Lincoln Center from 2012–20 and supervising producer of POV from 1997–2000. He has also served as program director of KCET in Los Angeles and, most recently, as a senior director of programming and development at PBS with a focus on the arts.