Number of words: 601
In the early summer of 1967, Banzhaf dashed off a letter to the Federal Communications Commission (the agency responsible for enforcing the fairness doctrine) complaining that a New York TV station was dedicating disproportional airtime to tobacco commercials with no opposing antitobacco commercials. The complaint was so unusual that Banzhaf, then on a four-week cruise, expected no substantial response. But Banzhaf’s letter had landed, surprisingly, on sympathetic ears. The FCC’s general counsel, Henry Geller, an ambitious reformer with a long-standing interest in public-interest broadcasting, had privately been investigating the possibility of attacking tobacco advertising. When Banzhaf returned from the Bahamas, he found a letter from Geller:
“The advertisements in question clearly promote the use of a particular cigarette as attractive and enjoyable. Indeed, they understandably have no other purpose. We believe that a station which presents such advertisements has the duty of informing its audience of the other side of this controversial issue of public importance—that, however enjoyable, such smoking may be a hazard to the smoker’s health.”
With Geller’s consent, Banzhaf filed his case against the TV station in court. Predictably, tobacco companies protested vociferously, arguing that legal action of this sort would have a chilling effect on free speech and vowing to fight the case to its bitter end. Faced with the prospect of a prolonged court battle, Banzhaf approached the American Cancer Society, the American Lung Association, and several other public health organizations for support. In all cases, he was rebuffed.
Banzhaf chose to go to trial anyway. Dragged into court in 1968, he squared off against “a squadron of the best-paid lawyers in the country, row after row of them in pinstripe suits and cuff links”—and, to the utter shock of the tobacco industry, won his case. The court held that “proportional airtime” had to be given to protobacco and antitobacco advertising. The FCC and Geller leapt back into the arena. In February 1969, the commission issued a public announcement that it would rigorously police the “proportional airtime” clause and, given the public-health hazard of tobacco, seek to ban cigarette commercials from television altogether. Tobacco makers appealed and reappealed the Banzhaf decision, but the Supreme Court refused to hear the case, letting the decision stand.
The industry tried to mount an aggressive countercampaign. An unpublicized internal report drawn up in 1969 to respond to the looming threat of the FCC advertising ban concluded, “Doubt is our product, since it is the best means of competing with the ‘body of fact.’” But antismoking advocates had also learned the tricks of the trade; if tobacco sellers had “doubt” to sow into public minds, then tobacco opponents had something just as visceral: fear—in particular, fear of the ultimate illness. A barrage of antismoking commercials appeared on television. In 1968, a worn and skeletal-looking William Talman, a veteran actor and former smoker, announced in a prime-time advertisement that he was dying from lung cancer. Narcotized on painkilling medicines, his words slurring, Talman nonetheless had a clear message for the public: “If you do smoke—quit. Don’t be a loser.”
In late 1970, faced with the daily brunt of negative publicity, tobacco makers voluntarily withdrew cigarette advertising from broadcast media (thus nullifying the need for a proportional representation of antitobacco commercials). The last cigarette commercial was broadcast on television on January 1, 1971. At 11:59 p.m., on the first night of the New Year, the Virginia Slims slogan You’ve come a long way, baby flashed momentarily on TV screens, then vanished forever.
Excerpted from pages 265-267 of ‘The Emperor of All Maladies: A biography of Cancer’ by Siddharth Mukherjee
In the early summer of 1967, Banzhaf dashed off a letter to the Federal Communications Commission (the agency responsible for enforcing the fairness doctrine) complaining that a New York TV station was dedicating disproportional airtime to tobacco commercials with no opposing antitobacco commercials. The complaint was so unusual that Banzhaf, then on a four-week cruise, expected no substantial response. But Banzhaf’s letter had landed, surprisingly, on sympathetic ears. The FCC’s general counsel, Henry Geller, an ambitious reformer with a long-standing interest in public-interest broadcasting, had privately been investigating the possibility of attacking tobacco advertising. When Banzhaf returned from the Bahamas, he found a letter from Geller:
“The advertisements in question clearly promote the use of a particular cigarette as attractive and enjoyable. Indeed, they understandably have no other purpose. We believe that a station which presents such advertisements has the duty of informing its audience of the other side of this controversial issue of public importance—that, however enjoyable, such smoking may be a hazard to the smoker’s health.”
With Geller’s consent, Banzhaf filed his case against the TV station in court. Predictably, tobacco companies protested vociferously, arguing that legal action of this sort would have a chilling effect on free speech and vowing to fight the case to its bitter end. Faced with the prospect of a prolonged court battle, Banzhaf approached the American Cancer Society, the American Lung Association, and several other public health organizations for support. In all cases, he was rebuffed.
Banzhaf chose to go to trial anyway. Dragged into court in 1968, he squared off against “a squadron of the best-paid lawyers in the country, row after row of them in pinstripe suits and cuff links”—and, to the utter shock of the tobacco industry, won his case. The court held that “proportional airtime” had to be given to protobacco and antitobacco advertising. The FCC and Geller leapt back into the arena. In February 1969, the commission issued a public announcement that it would rigorously police the “proportional airtime” clause and, given the public-health hazard of tobacco, seek to ban cigarette commercials from television altogether. Tobacco makers appealed and reappealed the Banzhaf decision, but the Supreme Court refused to hear the case, letting the decision stand.
The industry tried to mount an aggressive countercampaign. An unpublicized internal report drawn up in 1969 to respond to the looming threat of the FCC advertising ban concluded, “Doubt is our product, since it is the best means of competing with the ‘body of fact.’” But antismoking advocates had also learned the tricks of the trade; if tobacco sellers had “doubt” to sow into public minds, then tobacco opponents had something just as visceral: fear—in particular, fear of the ultimate illness. A barrage of antismoking commercials appeared on television. In 1968, a worn and skeletal-looking William Talman, a veteran actor and former smoker, announced in a prime-time advertisement that he was dying from lung cancer. Narcotized on painkilling medicines, his words slurring, Talman nonetheless had a clear message for the public: “If you do smoke—quit. Don’t be a loser.”
In late 1970, faced with the daily brunt of negative publicity, tobacco makers voluntarily withdrew cigarette advertising from broadcast media (thus nullifying the need for a proportional representation of antitobacco commercials). The last cigarette commercial was broadcast on television on January 1, 1971. At 11:59 p.m., on the first night of the New Year, the Virginia Slims slogan You’ve come a long way, baby flashed momentarily on TV screens, then vanished forever.
Excerpted from pages 265-267 of ‘The Emperor of All Maladies: A biography of Cancer’ by Siddharth Mukherjee