Rutherford was a conniving scoundrel, but also a spellbinding orator; Franz was an eccentric, wild-eyed screecher, but a writer with an extraordinary flair for imagery; neither of these two guys, nor Knorr, had an aversion to publicity or to cultivating a colorful public persona.
The current lot come across as a singularly unimpressive, reclusive, unremarkable collection of nonentities, intellectual lightweights; mediocrities.