If the controversies surrounding the Cabezas assassination were often quite literally the background noise to my initial research, the RCTV case confirms that the kinds of conflicts that I examine in this book are more pervasive than they might at first appear. These disputes reveal just how ambiguous the ideological and juridical foundations of modern journalism truly are, and just how fluid and contested the relationships between public, state, and press remain. They betray the presence of long-running underlying differences of opinion among journalists, newspaper, and media corporation executives, politicians, and the general public over the precise nature of the media’s role in modern society, and what its limits and attendant responsibilities—if any—should be.
In examining the conflict-ridden transformation of the commercial press with the rise of Peronism, I found myself immersed in debates on the nature of journalism and the press that were often strikingly similar to those of the 1990s. As a result, I necessarily engage many of these same larger questions of citizenship, representation, and democracy that swirled around me as I began my research, and I do so for a simple reason: the Menem years marked what many assumed were the death throes of a sweeping and surprisingly durable social and economic project established fifty years earlier. Just as the Argentine neoliberal turn of the 1990s coincided with broader global phenomena, the complex economic and ideological crises that gave rise to and found their “resolution” in the Peronist movement were far from exclusively local. It is my intention, then, that the present study form part of a broader scholarly debate on the transformation of journalism, media institutions, and civil society in the global crises of the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s. Finally, as a historian of Argentina, I make no claims to any privileged understanding of contemporary Venezuela. I do hope, however, that my approach to the press conflicts of mid-twentieth-century Argentina might provide some signposts for navigating the Chávez-era media disputes (and others elsewhere that are sure to surface). If nothing else, this book sounds a cautionary note that such conflicts are likely more profound, more complex, and more ambiguous, but less unusual, than their participants either suspect or are willing to admit.
I could never have written this book without the support of what I found to be a surprising array of people. Readers should be as aware as I am of the degree to which whatever merit this book has rests with them, while all errors and shortcomings in this text are clearly my own.
First, to work with Tulio Halperín Donghi and receive his criticism and encouragement regarding this and other projects has proven absolutely invaluable. I am not sure that he fully realizes—or even cares to imagine—how many students of Latin American history here, in Argentina and elsewhere he has inspired through his insight, wit, common sense, and absolute candor. Still, my enormous debt to him is as much personal as it is professional, and I thank him for everything he has done for me over the years.
Also at UC–Berkeley, Professors Margaret Chowning, Julio Ramos, Linda Lewin, Martin Jay, and Alan Pred helped to shape my approach to the study of history. Margaret Chowning, especially, took interest in this project and continually offered detailed and insightful criticism while at the same time helping me secure the material means to help support my family in the Bay Area. Daniel Hallin of UC–San Diego also provided extremely useful critiques of early versions of several chapters. I am grateful to participants, commentators, and fellow panel members at multiple conferences for their input on papers related to this work, especially Michael Conniff, Joel Horowitz, Tom Klubock, Corinne Pernet, and Bryan McCann.
I owe a great debt to Sandy Thatcher of Penn State Press, who not only gave me excellent advice on the process of publication, but showed near-infinite patience as this text took final shape. I would also like to thank my copyeditor, John Morris, for so admirably taking on the daunting task of making my often tangled prose reader-friendly.
I have had the great fortune to be constantly surrounded by colleagues and friends who have taken an interest in this project and contributed to this text in ways that they might not recognize. Patrick Barr-Melej, Mark Healey, John Jenks, Vera Candiani, Max Friedman, Line Schjolden, Doug Shoemaker, John Brady, Alistair Hattingh, Myrna Santiago, and Paula de Vos, through conferences, dinners, hikes, coffee, and asados helped to shape this work from its earliest stages. Patrick, Max, and Mark in particular always proved more than willing to read multiple chapter drafts as well as answer early morning and late night e-mails on the most trivial matters with great clarity, insight, and patience. In the final stages of preparing the text, I also received invaluable advice from the sharp minds of Eduardo Elena, Oscar Chamosa, Chuck Walton, the anonymous readers at Penn State Press, Nicolás Quiroga, Liliana Da Orden, Jorge Nállim, and—again—Mark Healey. This book is much stronger for their advice; it would surely be stronger still if I had been capable of incorporating all of their suggestions.
It is always a pleasure to return to Buenos Aires, where I have repeatedly abused the hospitality of Bárbara Williams, Andrea Moleres, Pablo Blasberg, and, more recently, Marita Rossi. That Bárbara, Andrea, and Pablo have all emigrated is for me a personally painful reminder of just how much Argentina, and the world, have changed since I began this work. I am also grateful to the Carrasco Villegas family in Santiago de Chile, who provided a warm environment for my revision of large parts of this text.
In Argentina the support of the following groups and individuals proved crucial: the staff of the Archivo General de la Nación, especially Andrés Pak Linares; Norma González and Laura Morana of the Fundación Fulbright; the staffs of the Biblioteca Nacional and the Biblioteca del Congreso; Natalio Botana, Jorge B. Rivera, Oscar Terán, Elías Palti, Diego Armus, and Sylvia Saítta for their early encouragement; Enrique Israel, dedicated scholar, translator, political militant, and caretaker of the library of the Central Committee of the Argentine Communist Party; Luciano Kasio of the Archivo de Prensa (Presidencia de la Nación), not only for his tireless help in digging up dusty folders but for making me welcome in the Casa Rosada; the staff of La Nación, especially Pablo Blasberg; journalists and unionists Jorge Chinetti and Enrique Tortosa of the FAP/APBA and the UTPBA; and Sr. Rufino of the Círculo de la Prensa.
Funding for this work came through grants from the Mellon Foundation, the Fulbright Foundation, the Tinker Foundation, the Chancellor of the University of California, and the UC–Berkeley Department of History. Additionally, support has come from the University of Oklahoma’s Vice President for Research, the College of Arts and Sciences, the School of International and Area Studies, and the Department of History. At OU I am particularly grateful to my colleagues Rob Griswold, Sandie Holguín, and Terry Rugeley for their invaluable professional advice, patience, and encouragement.
Finally, my wife, Claudia, has sacrificed more than either of us care to remember in the course of completing this project. She has constantly encouraged and supported me in my research, writing, and teaching of Latin American and Argentine history from our first days in San Francisco and Buenos Aires through the present. Along the way, we have had the good fortune of being accompanied by our beautiful daughter, Fiona Violeta, whose birth coincided with the first written words of this project. This book is as much theirs as mine. Now that it is finished, I can promise both Claudia and Fionita that the late-night typing will end—for a while.
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