Durable Interrogator

Owlish glasses magnify the seemingly perpetual expression of pained skepticism. The mouth is ever pursed in disapproval. The voice ranges in timbre from the crackle of dried twigs under a hostile foot to the rasp of fingernails across a blackboard. Along with these qualities Lawrence E. Spivak conveys the agility of a mongoose awaiting the right moment to strike a superior adversary and the assurance of a man who knows everything worth knowing about the topic at hand. This Sunday, when he clears his throat, adjusts the pillow seat that makes him look taller on camera, and thumbs the stack of index cards before him, Spivak and Meet the Press will be celebrating 25 years on television. At 72, he is the longest-lived personality on network TV, a monument to durability in a field where ten or twelve years can be counted a full career.

Sealed Fate. From its tentative beginning in 1945 as a radio promotion for the old American Mercury magazine, then published and edited by Spivak, Meet the Press moved to NBC television in 1947 and, with its Sunday broadcasts, quickly became a prime supplier of Monday morning headlines. Americans got their first official word of the Russian atomic bomb from an inadvertent remark made by General Walter Bedell Smith on a 1949 program. Thomas E. Dewey used the show in 1950 to eliminate himself from the presidential race and to tout Dwight Eisenhower as the 1952 Republican nominee. John F. Kennedy made his debut on MTP in 1951 as a young, relatively obscure Congressman. "We were looking for fresh faces," Spivak recalls. "He was exactly right for the medium."

The show's early prominence came from Spivak's uncanny knack for snaring newsmakers while they were hot, and from the tough questions he threw at them once they were on the air. An incident this summer suggests that Spivak has not lost his scheduling touch. During the Thomas Eagleton imbroglio, CBS's Face the Nation seemed to have scored a clear scoop by presenting the beleaguered vice-presidential candidate and Jack Anderson, his chief tormentor, on the same program. But that day Meet the Press interviewed Democratic National Chairman Jean Westwood and Deputy Chairman Basil Paterson, who said that "it would be a noble thing" for Eagleton to resign from the Democratic ticket. That not-at-all casual remark undermined Eagleton's position and made his effort on Face the Nation irrelevant.

Spivak's abrasive behavior toward guests has both pleased and enraged viewers. (He once snapped at Soviet Deputy Premier Anastas Mikoyan: "Don't filibuster; we have only two minutes left.") Spivak denies any malevolence in his questions: "I never try to catch a man. I will never try to trick him." But Spivak will hold a guest's previous public statements against him if he seems to be waffling. "A man had better be prepared to justify or explain his changes of position," he says. Such grilling can exhaust its targets. George Meany, no stranger to rough-and-tumble public debate, once grumped: "A half-hour on that show can age you ten years." Spivak is also stern with the reporters who appear. At the cost of a certain spontaneity, questioners must speak in turn on his cue; Spivak hates "overtalk from all those eager beavers."

In recent months there seems to have been a certain mellowing in Spivak's manner, on the air and off, which is perhaps the result of a heart attack he suffered last year. He has added a nap to his daily schedule and withdrawn from the position of lead-off questioner on the show's panel, taking over the more detached role of moderator. Still, flashes of the old Spivak occur. To Edmund Muskie, fence-straddling on the challenge to McGovern's California delegates at the Democratic Convention: "Senator, why is it so hard for you to come to a conclusion?" To Gloria Steinem, lamenting women's inferior status: "What is your explanation for this serious state of affairs in view of the fact that males are virtually controlled and dominated by women from birth to puberty and often beyond that? Why haven't you done a better job, if you are as smart as you say you are?" To Clark MacGregor, expounding on the embarrassment a major contributor to the Nixon campaign would suffer if his role were disclosed: "What is he ashamed of?"

Racing Motors. Spivak still runs Meet the Press from a converted apartment in Washington's Sheraton-Park Hotel, one flight up from the living quarters he shares with Charlotte, his wife of 48 years; Son Jonathan is a Wall Street Journal reporter. The cluttered working space houses file cases in the bathtub, tapes of more than 1,200 MTP broadcasts, an avalanche of news clippings and a staff of six who labor under the pressures of weekly deadlines and Spivak's indefatigable dedication to the program. "He wakes up with his motors racing," says Spivak's key aide, Associate Producer Betty Dukert. "When he takes a vacation," observes a friend, "it's likely to be a Governors' Conference, so he can scout the crop while he 'relaxes.' "

The Spivaks limit outside social activity to major Washington gatherings, where steady streams of VIPs pay court to his influence. Otherwise, Spivak prefers to entertain Washington figures in his apartment, sizing them up over lunch or cocktails as potential TV guests. He and his wife are also members of a permanent floating poker group that includes Alice Roosevelt Longworth, who, until she kicked the habit two years ago, was the only person to defy Spivak's edict against smoking in his home.

Spivak sold Meet the Press to NBC in 1955, retaining his role as producer and permanent panelist at a salary of more than $75,000 a year. Although it is subject to the Sunday afternoon eccentricities of NBC'S pro football scheduling, the show is carried by more than 200 stations and reaches an audience ranging from 5,000,000 to 10 million, depending on the guest and the season. It consistently beats its CBS and ABC rivals in the ratings. Spivak is obviously determined to keep that lead. Last month's live satellite interview with Philippines President Ferdinand Marcos--who had just established martial law in his own country--was another coup. "People are interested in the big stories," he says. "They are interested in big-name figures, and they are interested in cross-examination." As he goes into his second quarter-century, Spivak's ambition is to interview Chou Enlai. "For that one," says the man who hates traveling, "we would go to China."

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