Public TV programming 'giant' Jonathan Rice gone at 84

Originally published in Current, Aug. 6, 2001 Jonathan C. Rice, the storied program director and co-founder of KQED-TV in San Francisco, died July 22 [2001] at the age of 85. He succumbed at his home in the city after a long illness. The other co-founder, James Day, wrote that Rice filled the bill as "a program executive with the idealism of a reformer, the energy of a backfield runner and the power to turn ground round into chateaubriand." Rice was to public broadcasting "what Abraham was to the Book of Genesis," said Bill Moyers at one point, according to KQED. "He was a giant of a man--a person of incredible warmth and sensitivity, a taskmaster for excellence in programming and responsiveness to community concerns, and the veritable 'glue' which held KQED together through thick and thin," said KQED President Mary Bitterman. "My real dream for KQED," Rice once told oral historian Dick Robertson, "was that we would become what the nation lost when it could no longer have town meetings--that we would be the town meeting for an urban center of enormous size." The station started modestly. Before they had an office, Day and Rice carried their typewriter in Rice's station wagon. Later, they aired their first pledge breaks from a former bathroom atop the Mark Hopkins Hotel. He was credited with inventing the informal and in-depth "newsroom" approach to news coverage with Newsroom, starting in 1968, and the public TV auction--a key to the young station's survival. "Jon had a wild abandon about him that helped that auction enormously," Day recalled to Dick Robertson. Viewers tuned in "because it was one of the few live television programs left where anything could happen and frequently did." With Day, fellow programmers Richard Moore, Win Murphy and others, Rice stretched the boundaries of TV to include poetry, cooking, art, architecture and philosophy. Guests included Edward Teller, Linus Pauling, Eric Hoffer, and a young Casper Weinberger. One of Rice's least successful guests, he said later, was a memory expert who had to be taken off the air because he couldn't remember his lines. Rice joined KQED in 1953 and remained as program director until 1978 and a board member until 1996. In 1972, he became the second recipient of CPB's annual Ralph Lowell Medal, and the following year he received the National Academy of Television Arts & Sciences Governor's Award. KQED named a studio after him and created a legacy society in his name. Before Rice joined public TV, he was news director of KTLA, a commercial station in Los Angeles. He had worked previously as a wire-service photographer and writer. He covered World War II in the Pacific for two years before becoming a correspondent in the Marine Corps and then an intelligence officer. After the war he was picture book editor for Look magazine before going into TV. Rice once said he was looking for something "calm" to do, and went into educational TV after deciding he couldn't make it as an avocado or grape farmer. His wife, Kathleen, died in 1964. He is survived by a son and a daughter, Jefferson Charles Rice of Sebastopol, Calif., and May Nanette Rice of Ross, Calif. Donations in Rice's name may be made to the KQED Campaign for the Future [link to station's website]. A memorial service will be held at the station Aug. 19 [2001].

Jonathan Rice (Photo courtesy of KQED.)   What Jon Rice gave to viewers and to friends  A colleague of Jonathan Rice from the 1970s, producer Nat Katzman, gave this eulogy at a memorial service Aug. 19 [2001] at the station. Published in Current, Oct. 8, 2001 By Nat Katzman There was a small viewing port of safety glass, two or three inches in diameter, through which came a bright orange glow of flames, briefly broken by what they consumed. My very last image of Jonathan Rice was his face, waxen and peaceful in death, looking like the Roman senator he sometimes claimed to resemble. His corpse was in a linen shroud within a plain brown cardboard box just the right size for a man. Bill, the attendant, pulled the lid closed, opened the door to the retort, and rolled the box inside. Bill was solicitous . . . amazingly enough, he recognized me from pledge nights years ago. He knew who Jon had been. The button was pressed, the cremation process began, and all you could see was that orange glow. Jonathan Rice was born to privilege, but he chose not to live a privileged life. He chose a life that put him in the line of fire during the Second World War. He chose journalism. He chose community service. And if the gods would make Jon intelligent, respected and successful in his calling, the gods would also take loved ones from him before their time. The details of Jon's biography, though, are less important than his legacy--who he was and what he left with his passing. He didn't want and doesn't need a tombstone or a mausoleum, although in his "Roman senator" phase he might have liked a statue. He was lovable and he was proud. When a group of us tried to think of a fitting 80th birthday present for a man who had everything, Greg Sherwood suggested "adulation." So we gave him awards for the Nobel Peace Prize, the Pulitzer, the Peabody, the Grammy, the Heisman Trophy, the Davis Cup, Five Michelin Stars and many others, including Mr. Blackwell's Ten Worst Dressed--which he may have actually won at some point in his career. Jon enjoyed the tribute. Jon might say that his prime legacy is this television station. What Jim Day and Jon Rice created from nothing more than a dream is an enviable monument. He loved KQED without reservation. He loved it with a passion that didn't waver for 47 years. Even as he lay in his bed during his final illness, he would brag that we just got a record grant or that we are No. 1 in programming. He was idealistic and he was pragmatic. In the early days of KQED, Jon set the tone and standard for the entire public broadcasting industry. He taught a generation of programmers to embrace the controversial, to air unpopular opinions, to break conventional molds, to take chances. He was my mentor and my friend. Decades later, it seems absurd, but few at the time had Jon's courage to have a woman anchor a news program, or openly refer to homosexuality on television, or air a debate on the utility of nuclear weapons. And when there was not enough money to keep the station on the air, Jon and KQED invented the notion of auctioning off items and using airtime to ask for pledges of support. He may have created a monster. Even so, his dream brought this community together--thousands of volunteers and hundreds of thousands of contributors--to support this unique source of information and culture. He was a steadfast friend, and he was a flirt. Jon's other living legacy is the circle of friends he brought together. From the several young men who are named Jonathan in his honor to the young surrogate grandchildren who have lost him this month, many bear the stamp of his friendship, loyalty and support. He extended his family beyond ties of blood. He often remarked that one of his greatest gifts to himself was to bring his friends together. He was well informed and well educated, and he had an intense childlike curiosity and love of gadgets. Why did five of us observe Jon's cremation in that industrial building in Emeryville? We knew that it was something that Jon would have wanted to do. He wanted to see and experience everything he could. He traveled, and he filled his home with mechanical wonders. It is more than fitting that the St. Louis house in which he was raised has become a science museum. He made delicious chocolate truffles and he grew old, as we all must. Three hip replacements, two heart bypasses, eye surgery, experimental prostate cancer treatment--Jon was the bionic man . . . and I skipped the facelift. He thought a bit about his death and often said he wanted it to be quick and dignified. Again, he was denied the easy path. A few years ago he actually noted that on his death he wanted his friends to gather, celebrate and have a good time. Frankly, I think he didn't entirely mean it. I think Jon would want us to have fun, and he also would be upset if we were not saddened by his passing. There is a toast by Noel Coward that Jon often appropriated: Here's a toast to each of us, and all of us together Here's a toast to happiness, and reasonable pride May our touch on life be light as a seabird's feather And sorrows as we pass, politely step aside. Rest in peace, Jon. We will miss you.

	.	To Current's home page
	.	Earlier article: KQED made its mark by making programs.
	.	Outside link: KQED's history on the station's website.

Web page posted Aug. 14, 2001, supplemented Oct. 10, 2001
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