Campaign Attack Ads: As Old As the Edsel

It has been lost in the mists of political history, but a 10-second clip from the 1956 presidential campaign is America's forgotten film classic, the primitive black-and-white precursor of the modern TV attack ad.

Cynically exploiting the fears raised by popular President Dwight Eisenhower's heart attack, the cash-strapped Adlai Stevenson campaign aimed its TV arrows at Ike's gutter-fighting vice president. The brief commercial begins with a grainy photograph of a callow-looking Richard Nixon while an off-screen male announcer asks, "Nervous about Nixon? President Nixon?" Spooky Halloween-style white lettering hammers home the theme with a one-word graphic: "Nixon?" Fade out as the voice-over reminds voters that the Republicans are on the wrong side of the class struggle: "Vote Democratic -- the party for you, not just the few."

In 1956, Barack Obama had not yet been born and Bill Clinton, along with his contemporary George W. Bush, was still in elementary school. Univac computers were roughly the size of suburban tract houses made out of ticky tacky. Window home air-conditioning units, frost free refrigerators and hi-fi record players were considered cutting edge technologies.

Everything has changed beyond recognition since then -- except the way that political candidates communicate with voters. The modern television campaign, which matured during the 1960s, harks back to the era of tail fins, "Mad Men" and earnest folk singers strumming their guitars in Greenwich Village cafes.

Sure, black-and-white television sets with rabbit ears have given way to HD, and campaign ad-makers deal with computerized imagery not reels of film. But the underlying techniques of political derision remain eternal. Attack ads -- whether in 1956 or 2010 -- tend to begin with a bad-hair-day photograph of the opposing candidate and end with a snide question delivered in a soothing voice to mask the venom.

Take this recent GOP spot from the scorched-earth Illinois Senate race. Under hostile fire for embellishing his military record, Republican Mark Kirk responded by belittling his youthful Democratic opponent, state Treasurer Alexi Giannoulias. The attack is delivered by an off-screen female announcer (a softer voice is often more persuasive delivering a negative message), who begins, "Alexi Giannoulias is only 34 years old, but what a 34 years it has been."

On the screen is (you guessed it) an unflattering photograph of Giannoulias, the state treasurer, looking so young and inexperienced that voters may wonder if he is allowed to cross the street by himself. Now for the devastating but somewhat misleading charge: "At his father's bank, Alexi made tens of millions of risky loans to convicted mobsters..." The commercial concludes with a quick twist of the shiv: "Alexi Giannoulias. Trust him with your money?"

I have been covering politics too long to deliver pious lectures about how attack ads debase democracy or to idealistically propose that campaigns should revolve around high-minded discussions of national issues rather than low-road character assassination. It would be about as realistic to suggest that America switch to Esperanto as the national language. I believe (and this is the campaign mantra in both parties) that voters say they hate negative commercials, but such TV attacks are often the only thing they remember when they go to the polls.

Instead, what fascinates me is the continuing dominance of the 30-second TV spot in political campaigns. I could write a few predictable sentences here about how increasingly we get our news online, communicate with friends (and vague acquaintances) via Facebook, text message manically and ... oh, why bother ... you know all that. But political campaigns still routinely spent 70 percent to 80 percent of their budgets on television ads. In fact, with TV viewership down, campaigns tend to buy even more television spots in a desperate effort to replicate the same Gross Rating Points that they got by blanketing the on-air networks in, say, 1982.

For all the glib talk of new media, most campaigns still regard the Internet primarily as an inexpensive fundraising vehicle. As a top Democratic strategist says sadly: "Most campaigns only begin to think about new media after they have funded their entire television budget and bought every possible TV slot. Websites and social media are still viewed as minor add-ons." A leading Republican consultant makes an analogous point when he grouses that the GOP's campaign tactics -- which are fixated on negative TV ads -- are "still stuck in the 1990s."

The enduring power of television in politics is partly due to the little-known fee structure under which media consultants in both parties have been traditionally paid: They receive as much as 10 percent to 15 percent of the total ad buy as their commission. True, in recent years, some frugal and smart campaigns have demanded that their media consultants work for a flat fee like pollsters. But whatever the details (and they are almost impossible to decipher from candidate filings to the Federal Election Commission), this antiquated payment formula for media consultants guarantees heavy pressure to spend virtually the entire campaign budget on television.

But there is another intriguing reason why campaign tactics in both parties are about as creative and innovative as those employed by the French general staff during World War II. No major candidate is willing to risk his or her political future on untried campaign plans built around embracing new media and playing down TV spots. With a Senate seat or a governorship at stake, the political herd instinct is as powerful as it is debilitating. So every campaign resembles every other campaign with cookie-cutter ads since the creative potential of 30-second spots was exhausted decades ago.

Some campaign year soon -- maybe 2014 or 2016 -- the conventional wisdom is going to dramatically shift and candidates will abruptly abandon TV ads as their primary vehicle to speak to voters. A sea change like this occurred during the 1950s as candidates stopped sitting stiffly behind desks as they delivered 30-minute TV and radio speeches.

So maybe instead of scorning 30-second negative TV spots, voters this year should treasure them. They are almost as much of an endangered species as newspapers tossed onto the front porch by paperboys. But, for the moment, it remains fascinating that big-time politics rivals auto manufacturing as the most hidebound major industry in America.