Just the facts, ma’am

Dragnet is back. Yes, Dragnet. Sgt. Joe Friday, the archetype of all that was good about the placid ’50s, is returning to the network lineup. Dum de dum dum. Those of you who rebel at my constant Beatles references may want to take a carrot juice break, as I return to a simpler, better time when criminals were criminals and cops were the good guys.

Central to Joe Friday’s power was (and may yet again be) the rhythm of his words. “Yes, sir. No, ma’am. Just the facts, ma’am.” The staccato bursts of interrogation were compelling and inexorable. Just like the first time I met my future father-in-law, for example. Within 30 seconds, I had handed over 99 percent of all the relevant information he was interested in then and to this very minute, 16 years later.

Now the wheel has turned, and I’m the father of two daughters. Having failed miserably at countering my father-in-law’s technique, I have instead bravely turned it on the next trembling generation: “Where are you going? Have you finished your homework? Cleaned your room? Brushed your hair?” Dum de dum dum.

Lurking behind the Dragnet technique is the constant presumption of guilt. Of course you haven’t done your hair, homework, or chores. Wherever you think you’re going­ well, forget it. Don’t give me excuses. Just the facts, ma’am.

It’s the very definition of paternalistic, then. As annoying as it is, there’s also the implicit message of safety, reliability, security. If the solution is simple, then the problem must not be so complicated.

Take digital rights, for example.

In the old days, you heard a song on the radio and went out and bought the 45 single. The record business thrived on this virtuous cycle, controlling what was played on the radio through large amounts of cash and promotion (also cash). Singles were like comic books — they cost just about the same amount as your weekly allowance.

Albums were the next step, more money but not more music — at least, not more good music. As with radio, the record companies controlled the faucet, releasing just enough new product as singles to attract album customers. Similarly, Microsoft released Excel and Word as singles, then bundled them together with PowerPoint as the Office album.

Two things began to upset the apple cart. First, the Beatles (welcome back from your juice break) started writing their own hits, releasing singles that didn’t show up on albums, and albums with all hits and no misses. And the technology companies weighed in with cassette recorders. The two events played off each other. Everybody started making albums instead of hits. Brian Wilson released Good Vibrations and Pet Sounds, and Elvis went Hollywood and then Vegas. No longer was it the Sgt. Friday rhythm of hit after hit; now it was the more complicated world of Sgt. Pepper concept albums. FM radio began playing whole albums uninterrupted, and blank tape sales skyrocketed.

The record companies fought back with every weapon at their disposal: quality improvements, more cash, and movie soundtrack albums that aggregated the hits of the day. For a time after the success of the Bee Gee’s Saturday Night Fever album, soundtrack collections brought in more revenue than the films that spawned them.

The convergence of record and movie businesses continued with the transition to CD and then DVD formats. Both industries seized the opportunity to mine their archives, just as software makers added features to their operating system and productivity suites to encourage upgrades.

Then … dum de dum dum. The Internet arrived, and with it, peer-to-peer. Suddenly Sgt. Friday was back, ringing John and Jane Q. Public’s doorbell. “The story you are about to see is true. We were working the day shift …” As Joe Friday told it, perfect digital copies of movies and music were being stolen in plain sight, copied by regular citizens gone horribly wrong.

At first the heat was on the vendors: Napster, KaZaA, Replay, and the like were paraded before a lineup and tied up in court. Recording artists who sided with the defendants were bought off with long-term contracts. Jack Valenti became a household name.

But sales plummeted, and downloading soared. So Hollywood went after the users where they lived: their toys. Copy protection schemes sprouted on CDs and DVDs, backed up by draconian federal laws that make it illegal to break the code or even make a copy. On the delivery side, the story is way too complex. TiVo (dubbed “God’s Machine” by FCC Chairman Michael Powell) will soon allow you to record a show on one TiVo and play it back on another in another room. But the machines must be in one house and registered to the same user. SonicBlue (trembling on the precipice of Chapter 11) is offering technology to view DVDs via wireless; Sony (a player in both content and delivery) and Samsung (records both standard and high-definition on hard drive and writeable DVD) are approaching from the computer side with similar capabilities. Microsoft is using Wi-Fi to control entertainment, while Sony and Matsushita join forces with Linux desktop boxes.

Identifying the good and bad guys is getting tougher. Just weeks ago Hilary Rosen and the RIAA broke ranks with Jack Valenti and the MPAA, siding with computer companies in opposing legislation to require hardware and software copy restrictions. Valenti stuck to his guns: “We are not prepared to abandon the option of seeking technical protection measures via the Congress or appropriate regulatory agency.”

So get ready for the doorbell to ring. Here’s what the new Dragnet will sound like. “This is the city: Los Angeles, Calif. I work here. I carry a badge. And some very sensitive equipment to detect copyright violations.”

I feel better already.