“...examines the complex relationship between the practical and the passionate self, the realist and the dreamer, and the importance of those moments in life that make you feel 'airborne.'”
—Erin Kodicek
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Nov 2011
I just re-discovered this tribute I delivered in 2006 at the memorial service of my former, inimitable colleague, George Crile. It made me miss him all over again.
Tribute to George Crile – Delivered June 21, 2006
I had the privilege and the unforgettable education to be George’s associate producer for a number of years at 60 Minutes.
When I think about being on the road with with George – whether we were in Rwanda or New Jersey, the words that come to mind contradict each other:
Frenzy. Clarity.
Audacity. Prescience.
Lunacy. Guts.
George flew by the seat of his pants, and yet he was always somehow in control. His childlike enthusiasm was dazzling and it was maddening. It led him to the most amazing journalism and the most disorganized work habits. He was brilliant and he was wild.
One minute I would watch him literally take a running leap onto a baggage cart in the Nairobi airport – this patrician, award-winning producer suddenly, gleefully coasting by me when we were supposed to be going through customs unobtrusively. The next minute I would watch him skillfully convince a reluctant subject to tell his story on camera for the first time.
One minute George was recklessly jumping into a van in Goma, Zaire with a video camera under his arm – heading off to a refugee camp where he’d been warned was too dangerous; The next minute he was returning to our hotel – exhilarated, triumphant -- with remarkable footage no one else had.
One minute he landed a rare prison interview with Toto Constant – one of the most notorious, controversial Haitian exiles, who turned out to be on the CIA’s payroll. The next minute we were shooting the interview in Toto’s cell jail, and I watched as George surreptiously tore off pieces of illicit Big Macs to hand to Constant under the table – even though we were under strict rules not to bring him any food.
George may have needed reigning in at times – I can’t count how often I chided him for hunkering down in his office all day, tinkering with “Charlie Wilson’s War,” only to emerge at 7 pm, booming, “Let’s get to work!” But as much as he procrastinated, he was also a taskmaster -- not because he gave orders, but because of the passion he required. No apathy allowed. No detachment. Stories, (like life, it seemed for George), were there to be seized and relished -- wrung dry. I think of how he literally bounced around the edit room, while Lisa Orlando -- a gifted editor, and I wilted from the late hour or the tedious footage. How determined he was to make each moment in a piece as affecting as possible. Lisa and I would BEG George to move on to the next section, while he hopped up and down at the sight of one single camera shot he loved, exclaiming, “Ooo! Ooo! Ooo!”
He would push us so hard to make a story suspenseful, to drum home what mattered, never settle for colorless language or the obvious picture. He taught me, more than anything, to grab a listener and tell him or her that something exciting was coming, something crucial, something not to be missed.
His zeal carried over to his family….He didn’t just adore Susan and all his girls. He marveled at them. I unfortunately never met his two older daughters till this sad occasion, but how I remember Little Susan and Jane when I would go to George’s house for dinner on a weeknight. I remember not just their beauty and vitality as grade schoolers running around the apartment in bare feet, but the way George talked about them. Like they were magic sprites who astonished him every day.
And the way he spoke of you, Susan Lyne, set a high bar for the rest of us married folk. I don't have to tell you how awed he was by everything you do and how well you do it. How luminous, wise, and accomplished you are, and how consistently kind. I always loved the warm chaos of your home, and I stored a secret hope to replicate it years later when I started my own family.
* * *
In all the stories I worked on with George, one of his repeated admonitions stays with me the most: It always started with my name, uttered with George’s inimitable scolding but affectionate tone: "Abigail…" he’d force me to look him in the eye: "Be. Brave." That mantra is emblazoned on my consciousness, both as a journalist, and as a human being.
It never occurred to me that George himself was vulnerable. I am still in shock that anything could knock him down.
He taught me more than I ever let on. More than I ever got the chance to tell him.
George, young reporters everywhere have lost one of the truest mentors.
I already miss you.
I had the privilege and the unforgettable education to be George’s associate producer for a number of years at 60 Minutes.
When I think about being on the road with with George – whether we were in Rwanda or New Jersey, the words that come to mind contradict each other:
Frenzy. Clarity.
Audacity. Prescience.
Lunacy. Guts.
George flew by the seat of his pants, and yet he was always somehow in control. His childlike enthusiasm was dazzling and it was maddening. It led him to the most amazing journalism and the most disorganized work habits. He was brilliant and he was wild.
One minute I would watch him literally take a running leap onto a baggage cart in the Nairobi airport – this patrician, award-winning producer suddenly, gleefully coasting by me when we were supposed to be going through customs unobtrusively. The next minute I would watch him skillfully convince a reluctant subject to tell his story on camera for the first time.
One minute George was recklessly jumping into a van in Goma, Zaire with a video camera under his arm – heading off to a refugee camp where he’d been warned was too dangerous; The next minute he was returning to our hotel – exhilarated, triumphant -- with remarkable footage no one else had.
One minute he landed a rare prison interview with Toto Constant – one of the most notorious, controversial Haitian exiles, who turned out to be on the CIA’s payroll. The next minute we were shooting the interview in Toto’s cell jail, and I watched as George surreptiously tore off pieces of illicit Big Macs to hand to Constant under the table – even though we were under strict rules not to bring him any food.
George may have needed reigning in at times – I can’t count how often I chided him for hunkering down in his office all day, tinkering with “Charlie Wilson’s War,” only to emerge at 7 pm, booming, “Let’s get to work!” But as much as he procrastinated, he was also a taskmaster -- not because he gave orders, but because of the passion he required. No apathy allowed. No detachment. Stories, (like life, it seemed for George), were there to be seized and relished -- wrung dry. I think of how he literally bounced around the edit room, while Lisa Orlando -- a gifted editor, and I wilted from the late hour or the tedious footage. How determined he was to make each moment in a piece as affecting as possible. Lisa and I would BEG George to move on to the next section, while he hopped up and down at the sight of one single camera shot he loved, exclaiming, “Ooo! Ooo! Ooo!”
He would push us so hard to make a story suspenseful, to drum home what mattered, never settle for colorless language or the obvious picture. He taught me, more than anything, to grab a listener and tell him or her that something exciting was coming, something crucial, something not to be missed.
His zeal carried over to his family….He didn’t just adore Susan and all his girls. He marveled at them. I unfortunately never met his two older daughters till this sad occasion, but how I remember Little Susan and Jane when I would go to George’s house for dinner on a weeknight. I remember not just their beauty and vitality as grade schoolers running around the apartment in bare feet, but the way George talked about them. Like they were magic sprites who astonished him every day.
And the way he spoke of you, Susan Lyne, set a high bar for the rest of us married folk. I don't have to tell you how awed he was by everything you do and how well you do it. How luminous, wise, and accomplished you are, and how consistently kind. I always loved the warm chaos of your home, and I stored a secret hope to replicate it years later when I started my own family.
* * *
In all the stories I worked on with George, one of his repeated admonitions stays with me the most: It always started with my name, uttered with George’s inimitable scolding but affectionate tone: "Abigail…" he’d force me to look him in the eye: "Be. Brave." That mantra is emblazoned on my consciousness, both as a journalist, and as a human being.
It never occurred to me that George himself was vulnerable. I am still in shock that anything could knock him down.
He taught me more than I ever let on. More than I ever got the chance to tell him.
George, young reporters everywhere have lost one of the truest mentors.
I already miss you.
And I’m trying – really trying -- to be brave.
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