Big-Screen Smoke Screen

National Review Online, April 8, 2001

Medical science used to be about test tubes, dissection, and ugly moments in the mortuary. Not any more, it seems. At New Hampshire's Dartmouth Medical College, researchers had a very different project. They sat through 178 movies, and it wasn't fun. For, doubtless to their disgust, these selfless men and women of science were forced to witness something that they would probably prefer never to be shown on the silver screen. It was a spectacle more repulsive than Hannibal Lecter's skillet, a freak show more sinister than Freddy Krueger's grin. Yes, they had to watch cigarette smokers at play. Lots of them. Worse still, many of these puffing perverts seemed to be enjoying their nasty vice. This would be bad behavior at the best of times, but coming from movie stars, the consequences could be devastating. Cinema's sinning celebrities, worried the Dartmouth team, could lead "The Children" astray.

So they interviewed "The Children," 632 in total, all based in schools within two hours drive of Lebanon, New Hampshire. What the Lebanese had to say was shocking. A disturbing number of their favorite film actors scored far too many points on the Dartmouth survey's roll of dishonor, "the star tobacco use index," a system devised by the researchers for recording how often a particular individual can be seen smoking on-screen.

Now, as surveys go, an interrogation of a handful of New Hampshire high-school students is not the most comprehensive, but an analysis of the youngsters' replies led the research team to a horrifying conclusion. Students whose favorite actors came near the top of the index (in other words, the stars who were most often shown smoking) were, allegedly, more likely to smoke themselves. There "was a clear relation between on-screen tobacco use by movie stars and higher levels of smoking uptake in the adolescents who admire them." We can assume that these findings are meant to have implications beyond the Granite-State Bek'aa. Across the nation, mesmerized schoolchildren are, it is suggested, being lured by images of smokin' Brad Pitt into a short, stupid life of wheezing, nicotine-driven hell.

Of course, it is possible to argue with the methodology, the conclusions, and the researchers' choice of professional priorities, but I would not recommend trying this with Jennifer J. Tickle, the lady in charge of the study. Ms. Tickle, a Ph.D. candidate with a double major in psychology and, impressively, interdisciplinary women's studies, sounds like a stern sort. In a recent interview with the New York Post she warned that, "Movie stars should seriously think whether smoking is central to the character they are portraying." And they should also behave themselves off the set. Maybe they could "try not to be seen so much in public with a cigarette in their hand."

Leonardo DiCaprio, that means you.

Ms. Tickle, however, faces an uphill struggle. "The movie industry knows there is a relationship between teen smoking and what they put on the screen, but they seem to turn a blind eye to it," she scolds. She should not be surprised. Showbiz is filled with self-centered individuals, incapable of doing anything for the public good. Who among us, after all, can forget the Petaluma petition? This was drafted in 1997 by the scholars of Casa Grande (a Californian high school that clearly attracts students of a more refined type than the Skoal-chewing, chain-smoking, movie-crazed barbarians of Lebanon, N.H.). The petitioners called on local girl Winona Ryder to renounce smoking on the silver screen. Callously, she chose to ignore them.

But Ms. Tickle, it is you who should ignore Winona. For every Winona you wean off the weed there will be another Christian, Keanu, or Drew who lights up. In our straitlaced times tobacco use has become a symbol of rebellion, an easy symbol of cool for any new actor trying to win an audience. So, rather than trying to retrain these hopeless stars, find a role model of your own, an individual who smokes and yet who is so repellent, so horrible, and so utterly lacking in any good qualities, that no one will want to have a bad habit in common with him. Ms. Tickle, I know just the man.

Adolf Hitler, smoker.

There is, of course, one teeny problem with this idea. Hitler did not, in reality, smoke. Although the future Fuhrer was disciplined for smoking as a child, by the time the little tyke had his Reich, he had turned against cigarettes. On at least one occasion, he claimed that had it not been for the decision to give up smoking in his youth, Germany would not have been lucky enough to have him as savior. Well, thanks for that, anti-smokers.

In Adolf's view, tobacco was "one of man's most dangerous poisons." Even poor Eva Braun, the future Mrs. Hitler, was not allowed to smoke in the presence of her husband-to-be. Other acolytes had to wrestle with a similar prohibition. In a precursor of current rows over portrayals of FDR, Hermann Goering came under the Fuhrer's fire for permitting the erection of a statue that showed the Luftwaffe boss with a cigar in his mouth. But it was not all doom and gloom in the Chancellery. Hitler believed in the carrot as well as the stick. Friends who quit were rewarded with a gold watch.

This anti-smoking fervor was not just confined to the party's inner circle. Hitler's government imposed wide-ranging restrictions on smoking in the workplace and on public transport. It was made difficult for women to buy cigarettes, and SS officers in uniform were forbidden to smoke in public, as were youngsters under the age of 18. Tobacco advertisements were subject to the sort of strict control of which the FDA can only dream. There would have been no room for Josef Kamel in the clean-living Third Reich. Certain media, such as billboards, were often off-limits for the tobacco companies, and (take note, Ms. Tickle!) cigarettes could not be advertised in films.

This historical truth is, of course, a problem for those who would promote the idea of a nicotine Nazi, but it is not insurmountable. Anti-tobacco activists, who gave us the junk science of "passive smoking" (itself a term, "Passivrauchen," first coined in Hitler's Germany) will have no ethical qualms about reinventing the Fuhrer as a smoker. As a reverse role model he would last a thousand years. The National Socialist leader would be a perfect spokesman for the evils of the coffin nail. A Marlboro cowboy in reverse, Swastika Man was an unwholesome, unhealthy, mass-murdering, war-losing hysteric. No one sane would want to emulate him in any way.

The creation of a smoking Hitler would be easy. The technology that today is used by the Postal Service to remove cigarettes from the images of icons such as Thornton Wilder, James Dean, Humphrey Bogart, and blues man Robert Johnson could, at last, be put more to more constructive use. Let us take the cigarettes out of the mouths of American heroes and jam them between the teeth of German villains. The sight of a frenzied Fuhrer furiously chewing on a stogie as he rants and raves at a hate-filled Nuremberg mob would horrify all but the most recalcitrant teen. Images of defeat would underline the message that smoking is for losers. We could enjoy newsreel of a pallid chain-smoking Hitler contemplating the annihilation of the Sixth Army at Stalingrad, or maybe gloat over those few last photographs of a disheveled dictator grubbing around for butts on the squalid bunker floor. Add in a Soviet-autopsy report doctored to reveal that the dead man showed signs of emphysema as well as a bullet, and the off-putting picture would be complete.

Mention of an autopsy is, however, a reminder that Adolf Hitler is, like so many other smokers, no longer with us. While he will be the best long-term reverse role model, it would be better if his efforts could be supplemented by those of a contemporary villain. Saddam Hussein (a Virginia Slims man, I like to think) is one candidate, but it might be better to have a home-grown bogeyman this time round. Mercifully, there are no American Fuhrers, (outside Idaho, anyway) but there is one domestic political figure who, with a little work and a lot of cigarettes, might manage to achieve both the unpopularity and the association with Big Tobacco that is essential if this country's youth is to be scared away from Marlboro Country.

This prim, grim, grating grandee is a ruthless political operator who has forced a way to the top over the broken careers of friend and foe. We are talking about someone who is no respecter of laws or borders, someone whose latest triumph was to take power in another state far from home, someone who it is easy to dislike. Currently, this person does not smoke, but if it was in the interests of "The Children," she might be persuaded to take it up.

Sen. Clinton, may I offer you a light?

Pretty Useless

National Review Online, March 25, 2001

Julia Roberts wants you to know that, so far as she is concerned, George W. Bush is not the President of the United States. Prematurely showing the modesty and grasp of reality that we have come to expect from an Oscar winner, she has, according to the Drudge Report, been telling friends that George W. Bush is "not my president. He will never be my president." In her view, apparently, he is "embarrassing." Well, as the star of Mary Reilly, Hook, and Dying Young, Julia Roberts probably knows a thing or two about embarrassment, and it is clear that she wants to give the rest of us the benefit of her expertise. Julia Roberts, you see, is a celebrity, one of this country's new nobility, an individual who rose to prominence on the back of long legs, wide eyes, and a way with other people's words. She is the Heartland's darling, and now, it seems, she wants to be its philosopher too. And why not? Whether it is Rosie O'Donnell on guns, Alicia Silverstone on animals, or Susan Sarandon on everything, the actress-activist has become a Hollywood cliché, and like most Hollywood clichés, it's an idea that sells well. Not only that, in the absence of any real talent, a spot of activism — left-wing, of course — is a lovely way to build up the sort of "serious" reputation that is essential for an actress if her career is to endure beyond the miniskirt years. There can be no doubt that Julia Roberts feels she's up to the challenge. As the actress once explained, she is "tall and really very smart." She has "lots of ideas" and, most generously, is "willing to share them" with us peasants.

But where do these "ideas" of hers come from? Not from college — she never went. In a recent biography she is quoted as having explained that higher education was not for her. "I couldn't see bolting out of bed at 8 a.m. to be ten minutes late for some f***ing class with some f***ing guy who's just gonna stick it to me again."

Nor, disappointingly, is her old friend Susan Sarandon to blame. "I can be inspired by what [Sarandon] does and I can believe in what she does, and I can support what she does, [but] that's not going to make me do or not do something."

Oh, whatever, Julia, whatever.

No, it appears that her ideas come from reference books. And we are not talking Cliff Notes. When she turns to the tomes, Julia Roberts chooses the chunkiest. She's a dictionary diva, a Webster's woman, a Britannica babe. Speaking at a Gore/Lieberman fundraiser last September the glossy autodidact revealed, "Republican comes in the dictionary just after reptile and just above repugnant." Strictly speaking, that is not true (they are about as close to "Republican" as the words "demobilize" and "démodé" are to "Democrat"), but we get the point. The Pretty Woman's next discovery in the much-thumbed wordbook occurred, allegedly, when she looked up "Democrat." Apparently, the definition is "of the people, by the people, for the people."

After comments like that, our heroine was clearly going to find it difficult to accept that Gore ("Dung, feces, dirt of any kind, slime, mucus, blood in the thickened state that follows effusion" — O.E.D.) had lost the election. Nevertheless the reason that she gave for rejecting Bush was interesting. Remember that she was, she said, "embarrassed." But, when it comes to White House politics, by what exactly? As a supporter of the last administration we can only assume that she is not embarrassed by semen-spotted dresses, crack pipes on Christmas trees, the Rodham family, accusations of rape, dodgy commodities deals, perjury, Janet Reno, fundraising monks, fraudulent claims to inventing the Internet, pardoned billionaires, bombed-out aspirin factories, and expositions on the meaning of the word "is." Besides, George W. has not had the time to get himself into that sort of trouble even if he wanted to.

No, to be embarrassed so early on in the Bush administration must imply embarrassment not so much with what W. has done, but with what he is. It is the sneer of the snob, shuddering at the thought of that cowboy-booted boob who is now claiming to run her country, her domain. It is also, of course, a good career move, a carefully timed nod to Oscar's electorate, a reminder that she is one of them — socially, culturally, and politically. For years Hollywood has been a town where the conventional pieties are liberal. It does no harm for Julia Roberts to pay her respects to them, especially when they could be seen as adding supposedly intellectual heft to what is already a carefully crafted, oh-so-serious, humanitarian image.

It's an image that has needed some work over the years. Perhaps this was inevitable. There has always been a contradiction at the core of the very notion of "Julia Roberts," the ingénue who became America's sweetheart by playing a prostitute, and it is a contradiction that carries over into real life. She is this country's impossibly idealized girl next door — yet we revel in her own "embarrassing" romantic history. On the screen, meanwhile, she woos her audience with softness, vulnerability, and a great goofy laugh. On the set, however, she can be difficult, temperamental, and a nightmare for her crew.

Fortunately, Julia Roberts's charitable causes have presented her fans with a sunnier picture. There has been the help for worthwhile medical causes. More than that, she has been a campaigner for deserving unfortunates across the globe, missions that have, strangely, proved most effective when the objects of her attention were of a different species. Orangutans in Asia went over well, as did the wild horses of Mongolia. Even the endangered redwoods of California seemed grateful in a stolid sort of way.

Humans have proved trickier. A 1995 expedition to see slum children in Haiti ended in some rancor. There were suggestions that the trip was more about the star than the starving. A more recent crusade, in support of asylum for a Ms. Adelaide Abankwah, has also backfired. Supposedly the "queen mother" of a village in Ghana, Ms. Abankwah claimed that she faced the prospect of genital mutilation if she were returned home. With the help of Ms. Roberts and others, Adelaide was granted refuge in the U.S. Social-Register types will be dismayed, however, to hear that the INS now says that Ms. Abankwah is not of royal blood. In fact she is not of Abankwah blood either. She is, apparently, a Ghanaian hotel worker named Regina Norman Danson, whose only connection with Adelaide Abankwah is a stolen passport. She had never been in any danger of any genital mutilation.

Oh well.

With this track record, it is clear that Julia Roberts and Erin Brockovich were made for each other. The story may, as Michael Fumento has shown, be a pack of Abankwahs, but in Hollywood, the home of Oliver Stone, no one will worry too much about that. To film folk, Erin Brockovich was a profitable venture with just the sort of PC message that America wants to hear. Corporations are bad, trial lawyers are good. So, who cares about the truth? Besides, this was a movie that had another agenda far more important than mere accuracy. It was going to be the latest stage in the transformation of Julia Roberts into the sort of serious actress that she would so like to be. In a way it succeeds. For once, Ms. Roberts was given the opportunity to play a character that was rather more of a stretch than her usual role (which is, in essence, to play herself). As an added bonus, it was a role that somehow managed to bring yet more luster to the humanitarian image of Julia Roberts, star, stateswoman, and generally serious individual. It may only have been a paid performance, but in an age when our notions of reality are blurred, it did the trick. The actress emerged from Erin Brockovich $20 million richer and a few steps closer to sainthood.

And for that, at least, she really does deserve an Oscar.

Grating Kate

National Review Online, March 11, 2001

"Daddy, we saw a naked lady!" That was the first significant on-screen dialog ever spoken by the actress Mary Stuart Masterson (as little Kim Eberhardt in The Stepford Wives). Don't expect any such excitement from Ms. Masterson's new TV show, Kate Brasher (Saturdays, CBS). Billed as an "inspirational family drama," Kate Brasher does everything it can to deliver on the grim threat implicit in those three sinister words. Kate, we are told, is a "loving, hardworking mom who will do anything to give her kids every advantage." This, presumably, is why she decided to name her second son, Elvis. When we first meet her, she is a feisty waitress in a LA diner, making jokes about the eatery's pizza and tipping food into the lap of a lecherous customer. And this is not Ms. Brasher's only job. After hours, she works as a cleaner at a bowling alley. With her two boys, Daniel and the unfortunate Elvis, to support, Kate seems to exist in near Joad-like poverty (a sub-plot in the first episode revolves around Daniel secretly buying Elvis a pair of socks), although she does manage to decorate her apartment with a certain austere Pottery Barn chic and drive a vintage Volvo.

Failure on this scale takes some explaining in the prosperous America of the last ten years. This show does not try. To start with, it is simply mis-cast. To play a convincing hardscrabble mom, you have to have a convincing hardscrabble face. Rosie O'Donnell or Roseanne Barr come to mind. Played by the attractive Ms. Masterson, an actress with the refined looks of the fourth generation Wellesley alumna that she is, it is simply not credible that this bright, articulate woman is unable to have gotten herself a better job. Maybe Kate's ex-husband, Al, is to blame. He is long gone, of course, and so is any realistic hope of child support. In a brief phone call during the first episode, Al reveals himself as the formulaic male of contemporary drama, shifty, evasive, and exploitative.

Oh yes, this is going to be a family show all right, but one where there is no room for dad. And that little omission should, also, give Touched By An Angel fans and other traditionalists a clue as to the "inspirational" nature of the show. While it is true that Kate does turn to random sentences of the Bible for fortune cookie-style advice, she ultimately finds her salvation in the here and now. She becomes a social worker with a local community center, the nauseatingly named Brothers Keepers. It is a career move that should tell everyone everything they need to know about the series' ideological leanings.

This job change is triggered by dark dealings at the bowling alley. The boss, a man, turns out to be shifty, evasive, and exploitative, and he tries to cheat his all-female workforce out of their hard-earned wages. Kate turns to Brothers Keepers for help. When she shows up at the community center for the first time, its premises are bustling in that purposeful, important way that Hollywood uses to show organizations of which it approves. The staff are harried and under pressure as they nobly attempt to repair the shattered lives of their clients. Joe Almeida (Hector Elizondo), director of the center, does, however find time to shout at a couple of property developers, who are portrayed in the way that Hollywood uses to show people of which it disapproves (WASPy, smartly dressed). He also participates in a sting operation against another shifty, evasive, and exploitative male, on this occasion, yes, you guessed it, a deadbeat dad.

Eventually, Kate manages to attract the attention of Abbie Schaeffer, one of the center's in-house lawyers. In a move that could have saved this miserably uplifting show Abbie is played by Rhea Perlman, Carla from Cheers. At last, a heart of stone. But it is not to be. Despite a few flashes of the old venom, Abbie is no Carla. What's more, she manages to help the women of the bowling alley prevail over their evil employer. In the meantime, Kate solves the mystery of a deranged old lady, who (wisely, given the quality of the scriptwriters) has been hanging around the center refusing to speak to anyone. This success convinces Joe to offer our heroine a job at $500 per week as a trainee social worker. This is, apparently, a pay cut for the struggling waitress, but even though she needs every last dollar for her children, she decides to accept. Well, what else can we expect from a woman who, according to the promotional literature for the series, "remains steadfast in her belief that, no matter what, the universe will provide"?

With Kate installed as a social worker, the program can follow a comfortably predictable path. Brasher home life will be heart-warming, but ostentatiously impoverished (Week 2's crisis involved the affordability of dessert topping). Beyond Kate's immediate family, men will continue to be shifty, evasive, and exploitative. Just so that viewers did not forget the crimes of this ghastly gender, the second episode featured a divorcing husband attempting to swindle his soon to be ex-wife. She, of course, was about to be made homeless, while he was attempting to hide $95,000 in salary. The main exceptions to this rule of male nastiness are likely to be either men like Joe Almeida, who are left-wing and at least vaguely "ethnic" or, as an alternative, those guys fortunate enough to have some redeeming disability. We were allowed, after a while, to come to like the tetchy dad of hyperactive Simon, but only after we discovered that the lucky fellow was blind.

Hyperactive Simon? Oh, he was an artistically gifted ten-year-old, who ran around the center at great speed and painted murals. Simon was also the subject of a sub-plot about Ritalin-doping by our schools system. To be fair, that was a refreshing subject for this show to take on, but its impact was somewhat diluted by the humiliation of Elvis. Elvis is a smart kid, and finds his English teacher hopelessly inadequate. We are told that he should not complain. In a way that bears some resemblance to the treatment of Simon, Elvis is coerced into shutting up. He comes to accept that the teacher has more important work to do than worry about the needs of her more clever pupils. An embarrassing public apology ensues, and the show has reinforced its anti-elitist credentials.

Hyperactive Simon was more fortunate. Gloria, the rich lady performing community service at Brothers Keepers, was able to pull strings with the lieutenant governor and get him placed in a school for the gifted. However, this is not a show that likes the wealthy. Gloria is a caricature plutocrat straight out of the pages of Trotsky, a domineering, insensitive woman with no practical skills. Her one good deed is quickly canceled out by her sneering refusal to have anything to do with the center once her sentence has concluded. As she leaves, an angry Joe Almeida is quoting Malcolm X.

Well, we should not be surprised. Ms. Masterson is one of these actresses who like to see themselves as "activists." She has been quoted as saying that there is a political agenda to the series.

Indeed there is, but does it have to be quite so dull?

The Earth Is Round!

National Review Online, March 1, 2001

He was a liberal hero once, a brilliant policy wonk at the pinnacle of government. He was their martyr too, a victim of a vast right-wing conspiracy, the target of a vicious congressional witch hunt. In the end, he had to admit to perjury, but that was a petty matter, a trumped-up technicality designed only to save a vindictive prosecutor's face. Now, at long last, liberal opinion is changing. There is new evidence that their hero was flawed after all, that he may indeed have been the crook that the Right always said he was. One by one, former defenders are beginning to change sides and admit the truth: Alger Hiss was guilty. Yes, Alger Hiss. Did you think that I meant anyone else?

The latest condemnation of the treacherous Mr. Hiss came, rather surprisingly, in the usually predictably liberal TV show, The West Wing. Last night's episode featured a sub-plot in which Donna, one of West Wing's more irritating staffers (we have been waiting for her to start an affair with her boss, the sanctimonious Josh Lyman, for far too long) is approached by an old friend, Stephanie. Stephanie wants a presidential pardon for her grandfather. Her grandfather, a billionaire commodities trader, has been on the run from justice for the best part of two decades, and is accused of having traded with enemies of the United States. Actually, I made that up, no one would ever believe that that sort of person would ever be eligible for a pardon.

No, Stephanie's grandfather, Daniel, was something else. He had been a high government official in the 1940s accused of spying for the Soviets. The espionage was never proven, but Daniel Galt was convicted of perjury. He served six months, and died some years later, still proclaiming his innocence. He is, of course, the show's proxy for Alger Hiss. The reason that Stephanie wants the pardon is that her father (Daniel Galt's son) is now near his deathbed. A pardon would be a farewell gift to the dying man.

Donna puts Stephanie in touch with Sam Seaborn (played by Rob Lowe), the White House's deputy communications director, an always entertaining figure who is part George Stephanopoulos, part Melrose Place. Sam is having an emotional crisis, but agrees to help. Some work he had done while at Princeton supported the case for Galt's innocence.

To move the pardon forward, Sam calls the First Lady's brothers, followed by the president's half-brother and a number of Democratic fundraisers. No, I made that up too. This West Wing has some sense of propriety. Sam goes through more normal channels. He shows up at the FBI to give them a heads up about a possible pardon. The meeting goes badly, the FBI man is not enthusiastic, and it concludes with a rant from Sam making the case for Galt. Anyone who has followed the Alger Hiss saga in the pages of the New York Times will be familiar with the arguments (never proven, unreliable witnesses, post-Soviet exoneration, anti-Communist hysteria, madman prosecutor and so on).

So far, so predictable, but then there is a surprise. Sam is summoned in by the national-security adviser. She hands him what is, in effect, the fictional equivalent of the Venona intercepts. As everyone should know, (but too many still do not) these intercepted (and now declassified) Soviet signals prove conclusively that Hiss was, indeed, in Stalin's pay. Their fictional equivalents do the same for Daniel Galt. The liberal martyr, Sam discovers, was guilty after all. Galt was a Communist spy. Sam decides to proceed no further with the pardon. Unfortunately, after a tense discussion with Donna, it is decided not to explain the truth to the traitor's dying son. They blame the lack of a pardon on bureaucratic delays. Daniel Galt will be allowed to get away with one last deception.

But this is to quibble. In showbiz terms, the unmasking of the treacherous Galt/Hiss was real progress. A prime-time liberal TV show was essentially admitting that Whittaker Chambers was right. Hiss was a spy, a liar, and a friend of the Gulag. This guest of honor at so many liberal soirees was revealed as nothing more than an accomplice of mass murder, a glorified Jeffrey Dahmer with a tweed jacket, clean hands, and a dirty ideology. Of course, this truth was obvious years ago, but even if the moment was long overdue, it was good to hear it in a ratings-topping Hollywood show.

And this trend is set to continue. Next week, apparently, Sam Seaborn will discover that the Earth is not flat.

Covered Girls

National Review Online, February 26 2001

Sports Illustrated's swimsuit issue is a ritual of the American mid-winter, more predictable than Punxsutawney Phil, more tacky than the Grammys. It is a sell-out on the newsstands, it is an MTV special, it is a swaggering, high-fiving conversation round the office water cooler. The whole spectacle is also a national embarrassment, a shaming carnival that degrades its participants and humiliates the rest of their gender. I refer, of course, to men. Guys, can we all calm down? The swimsuit issue is terminally tame, grotesquely genteel, incorrigibly coy. Amy, Heidi, Molly, and the rest of them are just Gibson Girls with fewer clothes, wholesomely sexy, obscenely unobtainable. Noting the proliferation of far more overtly sexual imagery all over today's America, NRO's Dave Shiflett commented that the publication of the swimsuit issue should generate about as much excitement "as the arrival of a can of Miller Lite at the Jack Daniels Distillery."

It is a logical conclusion, and yet it is not the case. Miller time, it seems, is still a big deal. The swimsuit issue sells 4.5 million copies. This makes it the largest-selling edition of any magazine in the country.

So is this, as it seems, yet another example of the transformation of the American man into the sort of feeble creature traditionally seen when Alan Alda is on television? Has the old wolf been house-trained, changed into a lapdog able only to respond to the call of the mild? Perhaps. The fact that this year's issue features an ad warning that "one in five victims of osteoporosis is male" is not encouraging. Say what you want, but that is an old-lady disease, at least until the time that I am in a plaster cast.

Fortunately, there is another explanation for the success of the swimsuit issue, one that may allow the male sex to salvage at least some self-respect. Could it be that in the Flynt era the peekaboo unavailability of the SI model carries its own, genuine, erotic punch? If you live in the distillery, maybe Miller Lite is an exciting and refreshing sensation after all.

Certainly it seems that SI's publishers understand this. Yes, it is true that of the roughly 75 swimsuit photographs, about a fifth are topless (it was a tough job researching this article), but the nation's nipple mavens will be disappointed. Decency is defended by a series of strategically placed arms, couches, towels, beads, seaweed, and NFL players. Clinging wet shirts prove a little less effective despite a number of brave attempts.

On the whole, however, what SI is marketing, and, clearly, very successfully, is an image of "don't touch" perfection, something that would be damaged by the removal of that last, tantalizing scrap of gauze. These are not the girls next door of the centerfold mags. Even the photo locations are far away, Tunisia, Italy, Macedonia, Siegfried and Roy's house. For anyone who actually reads it, the text of the magazine reinforces this message of distance between the model and the, er, watcher.

In one article, "The Babe Goddesses," the writer compares these women to the deities of antiquity (there is a vaguely Mediterranean theme throughout the issue). He is no Homer, but the warning is clear, "Every red-blooded Greek and Roman stud...knew that goddesses, however desirable, were off-limits."

So we are left with two interpretations. The men of America either no longer know what good pornography is, or they have rediscovered the appeal of elusiveness. Either way, the women of America should be thrilled. They are not.

Reacting to the swimsuit issue with their customary good humor, feminists call each year for boycotts and protests. When it comes to ocean-shore beauty, they are on a mission — to bring an end to it. To the folks at Americans for Fair Sports Journalism "the message of the swimsuit issue is that no matter what women may accomplish in their lives, they ultimately exist to sexually entertain men." Ah yes, that message. To Laurel Davis, authoress of The Swimsuit Issue and Sport; Hegemonic Masculinity in Sports Illustrated, the magazine is able to attract buyers "by creating a climate of hegemonic masculinity." This is not, we are led to believe, a good thing.

Mind you, Ms. Davis, an associate professor at Springfield College, Massachusetts, who cites her professional interests as "sports, media, race, gender, class, and sexual orientation," understands that blanket condemnation is not always the correct response. There was, for example, the Tyra Banks crisis. Ms. Banks, who is African-American, graced the cover of the issue a few years back. Was this a good thing or bad? Should SI be an equal-opportunity exploiter? Speaking to the Boston Globe at the time, the associate professor seemed to sit on the fence, "It was both somewhat positive and somewhat critiquable."

The problem with this sort of talk, however, is that is not confined to academia. The idiocy of ivory-tower feminism has long since escaped into the suburbs, where its poisonous sense of entitlement, sexual paranoia, and deep, deep puritanism has found a natural, and receptive, audience. The viewers of TV's Lifetime now believe that they know that "objectification" is another male crime to be condemned alongside the rapes, infidelity, murders, and child abuse that are the staple of their channel's entertainment.

In such an environment, it can be no surprise that the soccer matriarchy now takes a very dim view of the SI girls. To see this, you only had to look at the disgusted expression on the face of a very different goddess, Katie Couric, during a recent edition of NBC's Today Show. What was wrong? Had someone lit a cigarette? Was Bob Dole in the room? No, it was something even worse. Prim Katie was having to introduce a segment on the swimsuit issue. A cringing Matt Lauer looked apologetic: he felt the Couric pain. So who was left to defend the spot, and, with a benign chuckle, hint that, why yes, he was looking forward to seeing the models? Step forward Al Roker, weatherman and sage, a suitably safe figure to handle this toxic topic.

What a sad state of affairs. Checking out a pretty girl, across a room, or on a page, is one of the oldest, and more harmless, of masculine pleasures. Let's face it, men do have an interest in the visual (although the idea that women do not is, I suspect, a myth passed around to reassure the beer belly and Rogaine set). The usual argument that such an interest is evidence of emotional retardation or a desire to turn women into objects is, to borrow the language of the sociology faculty, nothing more than an intolerant assault on the nature of male sexuality. The attack on SI's lissome lovelies is part of this process. It is yet another reminder that live and let live is not an acceptable option to the feminist militants who are setting far too much of this country's agenda.

And that looks a lot like hegemony to me.

Scientology Chic

National Review Online, February 24, 2001

So, was the kooky cult to blame? We will likely never know what went wrong between Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman, but a recent article in the New York Post suggests that Tom Cruise's Scientology was a big part of the problem. Apparently, Ms. Kidman is disenchanted with the controversial religion, and does not want her children to be reared in it. All this has subsequently been denied, but if it is true, who would blame her? Even if one ignores the number of fairly sinister stories told about Scientology, some of its precepts reflect the sort of ideas that put it squarely in the lunatic fringe. Founded half a century ago by pulp writer L. Ron Hubbard, Scientology's roots lie in a mixture of junkyard sci-fi and bargain-basement psychoanalysis. Not too bargain basement, mind you. Unlike most faiths, Scientology charges admission. To progress ever closer to enlightenment, devotees pay to go through a series of sessions that are part confessional, part therapy. These encounters are designed to reveal (and remove) past traumas called "engrams" (don't ask) and are helped along by the use of an electro-psychometer ("E-Meter" to the cognoscenti), a specially designed instrument which can supposedly locate areas of spiritual distress or travail. This is part of a process known as "auditing," the real reason, perhaps, that the IRS chose in 1993 to recognize Scientology as a religion.

It is difficult not to laugh. Scientology, after all, is an easy target — with its oddball technology, goofy jargon, and, reportedly, a secret creation myth that revolves around the activities of the wicked intergalactic ruler, Xenu. Now, many religions include a bizarre legend or two, and we probably should not worry too much about the Xenu saga. After all, it has, apparently, been 75 million years since the old boy was last seen, and he does not seem to figure prominently in the lives of most Scientologists. Nevertheless, if there really is such a tale, it is yet another reminder that the intellectual origins of this creed appear to be, well, a little flaky.

Scientologists, of course, should be free to believe whatever they want, but it does not say a lot for the state of this nation's critical faculties that their philosophy has won as much acceptance as it has. Given some of Hubbard's teachings, you would expect his followers to be a little embarrassed, a little low key, content, perhaps, to twiddle their E-meters in some tumble-down Appalachian shack.

But the reverse is true. Scientology is rich, increasingly prominent, and unashamedly proselytizing. Check out its websites and you will see all the good things that Scientologyclaims it can do both for society, and for you. It is a message of enlightened self-interest, typical of our age, and it uses the jazzy marketing techniques of the PowerPoint era, statistics, graphs, and charts. Scientologists, they reveal, are prone to marriage, but not to auto accidents. Half do not drink, more than two-thirds read more than five books a year, and 39 percent work out every day. Scientology can even boast celebrity support. Travolta! Cruise! Kirstie Alley! The voice of Bart Simpson!

In part, this success reflects the group's indubitable organizational skills, and its willingness to defend itself through aggressive litigation. It is also the case, however, that the growth of Scientology, and many other such philosophies, is an almost inevitable byproduct of a society that, over the years, has lost the art of religious argument, reasoning, and debate — and the ability or the inclination to resist the blandishments of our zanier sects.

Ask most Americans, and they will tell you about their respect for the spiritual, but it is a sloppy and uninformed devotion, a pastiche piety with no intellectual force behind it, more Hallmark than holy, the perfect background for a new cult recruit. Ironically, Nicole Kidman herself provided an example of this mindset in a 1998 interview with Newsweek. Asked about her religious beliefs, the actress replied, "there is a little Buddhism, a little Scientology. I was raised Catholic, and a big part of me is still a Catholic girl."

Hand in hand with such an attitude is an unwillingness to debate the religious beliefs of others. Such debate is now believed to be insensitive at best, bigoted and hateful at worst. These days everyone is meant to be a little bit Buddhist, Catholic, Scientologist, whatever. A sappy ecumenicism is now America's civic religion, and it appears to include just about everyone (other, interestingly, than atheists and agnostics). We are taught that such supposedly inclusive tolerance is the hallmark of a tolerant society, when, in fact, it is precisely the opposite. True religious tolerance is the acceptance of the right of others to follow a different creed. In our ersatz, contemporary version, however, it is denied that there are any different creeds. Instead, we are encouraged to think that all religions are basically the same, just different routes to the same transcendental Truth.

In the name of "diversity," we try to erase difference. When it comes to religious belief, this is a country chary of controversy and anxious about argument. In the interest of fraudulent civility and soi-disant "respect" we have removed the right of the religious to disagree with each other. On the face of it, traditional religious distinctions remain, but all too often they have been trivialized and shrunk down to the superficial, reduced to a matter of folklore or ethnic heritage, nothing more consequential, say, than a choice of headgear: Yarmulke, or turban?

This is a mistake. Old-style rigorous religious debate was bruising, tough, and frequently impolite, but it served a function. Homo Sapiens is a credulous creature, ready to believe just about anything, but, fortunately, he has an innate love of argument. Controversy sharpened our great faiths and pushed them, however painfully, towards some form of intellectual coherence. More than that, it acted as a filter for the worst of the nonsense that people would otherwise be tempted to accept. Now that filter has disappeared. The more established religions are gutted, sunk into PC blandness, or, ironically, introspective fundamentalism. In their intellectual retreat they have left behind a spiritual landscape in which anything goes.

The Scientologists are not the only ones to have seized this opportunity. We are becoming a nation of nitwit necromancers, idiot Astrologers, and suburban shamans. Others prefer to fool around with crystals, commune with UFOs, or worship the Earth.

And that is their right, but we should not be afraid to say that it is also their mistake. Somehow I suspect that, these days, Nicole Kidman might just agree.

Let Them Eat Cake

National Review Online, February 20, 2001

Egalitarianism is a dimwit's doctrine at the best of times, but when we hear it from the very rich, it becomes simply grotesque. With Marie Antoinette it took the form of sheep. She liked to dress up in supposedly rustic clothes and, surrounded by groveling courtiers and gamboling lambs, would pretend that she was a shepherdess. Outside the palace grounds real farm workers lived in real poverty, but their fate was, naturally, of no concern to the queen of France. Now, Warren Buffett is no Marie Antoinette. There are no lambs in his life. Instead, the Sage of Omaha prefers to demonstrate his egalitarianism by supporting grave robbing.

Surrounded by groveling accountants and gamboling leftists, the "aw shucks" billionaire has become a leader of a new campaign to preserve the estate tax. Meanwhile, beyond the Buffett zone of IRS-exempt foundations and well-paid tax lawyers, the levy on dying continues to march onward.

The technical arguments against the estate tax are examined elsewhere in NRO, but it is may be worth taking a closer look at those wealthy folks who are spearheading the latest effort to defend it. The centerpiece of their campaign is a petition drive being organized by Bill Gates's father and the Boston-based lobby group, United for a Fair Economy.

UFE is, according to the New York Times, a "non-partisan" organization. But a quick glance at the UFE website reveals a fairly standard left-wing agenda enlivened by ancillary touches of the absurd that are only to be expected from a body funded by the likes of Resist, the Agape Foundation, and the "Unitarian Universalist Veatch Program at Shelter Rock."

To get an idea of what UFE really stands for, check out its list of recent "accomplishments." These have included the production of "Applying Tzedek to the Economy" (a modification, in case you were wondering, of UFE's "core workshop"), collaborating with the education department of the AFL-CIO, and, unsurprisingly, campaigning against free trade.

Seattle-based Gates Sr. must have been thrilled to see his UFE chums when they came to his hometown for the WTO summit. They "ran teach-ins, coordinated protests and brought smiles to people's faces with [their] street theater antics." Did Gates the Elder invite his son along to share in the fun? One UFE correspondent notes that the Seattle protests — regarded by the rest of the world as a form of vicious mob rule — were, in fact, a "smashing" success — "[M]uch more hopelessness and isolation was broken in Seattle than glass." Oh yes, did I mention that gifts to UFE are, ahem, tax-deductible?

In 2000, UFE campaigned to support Bill Clinton's veto of estate-tax repeal, a precursor to this year's effort. Much of last year's campaign was organized through one of UFE's affiliates, the pompously named "Responsible Wealth." RW targets as potential members those people with an annual household income of more than $145,000 or assets in excess of $650,000. There is no truth in the rumor that they also recruit turkeys for Thanksgiving.

Not the most modest of organizations, RW likes to proclaim that its 450 members are "leaders in business, community, government, philanthropy, academia and finance." Who are we to argue? Members available for media interviews on the estate tax include a stockholder in a paper mill, an assistant professor at the Rochester Institute of Technology, and the proprietor of the White Dog Café in Philadelphia.

RW's rhetoric shares the basic UFE approach, but adds the cringe of the self-hating, yet self-important, wealthy: "As beneficiaries of economic policies that are tilted in our favor, we feel a responsibility to speak out and change the system to benefit the common good." That explains why RW is also opposed to the 1997 capital-gains tax cut, which might come as a surprise to Mr. Buffett's shareholders/disciples in Berkshire Hathaway.

As for RW's latest campaign, the text of the new pro-estate tax petition ran on the op-ed page of last Sunday's New York Times. As is to be expected of a document carrying the RW logo, it is a poor, sad piece of collectivist boilerplate. The only thing more annoying than the petition's text was its list of signatories. There were the usual suspects, prominent members of the bossy families that have been hectoring America for a century or so, foundation-protected Rockefellers, and a Roosevelt or two. Bill Gates, Sr. was there of course, right at the top, still busily promoting himself on the back of his son's success. Other grandees on the list included Paul Newman and Clinton donor Agnes Gund, the Sanka heiress, who is also the president of MoMA. New York was also ably represented by Democrats Henry and Edith Everett, a pair of "ardent anti-smoking activists" whose most entertaining philanthropic moment was the withdrawal of a gift to the Central Park Children's Zoo, reportedly on the grounds that the proposed commemorative plaque was too small. (Some legacies, it seems, do matter.) Finally, of course, there is the name of the genius billionaire investor with all the wacky political ideas. Yes, George Soros has signed.

Warren Buffett has not, however. As far as he is concerned, the petition does not go far enough. Mr. Buffett, the son of a four-term congressman, is worried, you see, terribly, terribly worried, about the dangers of a society where success depends on family rather than on merit, and he wants us all to know it. It is quite unfair to suggest that there is any contradiction between this view and his fundraising for Mrs. Clinton's Senate campaign. Some unkind people have suggested that the only reason that the former First Lady was in a position to run was because her husband was in the White House — in other words, because of her family. Mr. Buffett must have known better. Indeed, he was so enthusiastic a supporter that he told one gathering that he would have liked to have hired her himself. She had everything it took, he said, including, he stressed, "integrity".

And that tells you all you need to know about the political judgment of Warren Buffett and the campaign to preserve the estate tax.

The Untempting Temptation

National Review, February 5, 2001

 All those organizations with the word "family" in their names can relax. The Fox network's new Temptation Island is no threat to the American republic, the institution of marriage, or the morals of our young. The first episode was, however, a terrible waste of an hour, 9-10 P.M. on Wednesday evening, quality time that could have been better spent watching World Championship Wrestling, Rivera Live, or—for those in need of cheering up—Surviving, a movie about double teen suicide.

In case you have not seen a newspaper recently, let's start with Temptation Island 's premise. Four "unmarried couples at a crossroads in their relationships" are taken to a tropical island. The lovebirds are then separated, and each of them will be "set up on a variety of dates" with some of the 26 "fantasy" singles who have also been taken there by Fox. The idea, and, allegedly, the drama, is to test the strength of these relationships. "This could rip two people apart," gloats one potential seducer.

Oh, really? Call me old-fashioned, but any couple agreeing to "test" their relationship in this way are not at a crossroads. They are at a dead end. There's no test, no one is going to be "ripped apart." If you want to talk test, talk Gandhi. That iron man of abstinence used to test his commitment (to celibacy, as it happens) by sleeping in the same bed as a naked woman. Nothing, we are told, ever happened. That is what I call a test. Now, I never knew Gandhi, but I did watch the couples of Temptation Island; and Billy, you are no Mahatma. Nor, Taheed, Mandy, Kaya, Valerie, Ytossie, Andy, and Shannon, are any of the rest of you.

If, then, viewers cannot look forward to the vicious destruction of previously strong relationships, can they at least hope for some smut? Once again, the answer is almost certainly no. The first hour featured bikinis, shorts, and a few naughty comments, but on the whole the show was tamer than Baywatch, and the cast, it has to be said, are not as good-looking. To be sure, the initial episode was set up as a teaser, but the same, I suspect, will prove to be true for the rest of a series that is likely to pack about as much erotic excitement as an MTV beach volleyball special.

Of course, subsequent episodes will doubtless feature what the British call a "snog" or two (ask Austin Powers), but much more than that will have to take place behind closed doors. Nudity? Not a chance: This is network TV. We can rely on Fox's killjoy pixels to blur what little voyeuristic fun there is to be had. What will be on display is far more shocking. In a future episode, we can apparently expect to see one of the participants (a grown man!) weeping on the beach. On Wednesday night we already saw some sobs from two of the ladies, Ytossie and, I think. Shannon. If this is what Fox is coming to, I might as well turn to Lifetime. Worse, there is a strong possibility that these early tears were only the overture. It is likely that much of the show will be dedicated to tantrums, wailing, whining, complaining, confessions, hugging, hand holding, insincerity, sincerity, empathetic moments, and men and women telling each other what they really, really feel. In fact, watching Temptation Island will be much like witnessing someone else's marriage-counseling sessions, and about as entertaining. Sartre was wrong; Hell is not other people, it is other people's problems.

What else can we expect after eight years of a president who wants to feel our pain? This is the Age of Oprah. We talk about everything; the notion of a private sphere of behavior is dying. Emotional restraint is considered to be a psychiatric problem rather than a necessary virtue. Publicly baring the body, a respected form of degeneracy since the days of Salome, may be too much for Fox, but baring the soul, it turns out, is quite all right. Of course, the latter is much more of an imposition on the rest of us, as even the most strait-laced should realize. Most strippers (Salome was an exception) ask nothing more from their audience than the dollars in their pockets. Emotional exhibitionists like the gang on Temptation Island are far more demanding, They would like us to share in their drama, and, yes, to feel their pain.

To some critics, this is a degrading spectacle, the show-biz equivalent of tearing the wings off some not very intelligent flies, a callous and potentially destructive exploitation of four supposedly close-knit couples. Unfortunately, the critics would be wrong even if these relationships were as strong as Fox would like us to believe—because, if anyone deserves humiliation, it is Kaya and his friends (yes, Kaya is a he). They will be contaminating my television with their simpering psychobabble and penny ante angst. They should be punished.

Far from being humiliated, however, they will revel in all the attention. They will be praised for their honesty, for "coming to terms" with themselves. If there is any residual embarrassment to the participants, it will be eased by the greatest of all the rewards this country has to offer—not money, but celebrity. If these couples play their cards right on Temptation Island, they could make their way to America's pantheon, right up there with Tonya and Monica, and even (dare to dream) Darva and Rick.

The show's 16 million viewers can either reach for the off switch or remain slumped on the sofa, hypnotized by the sheer tackiness. Those who are fascinated, but mortified, can reassure themselves that none of this is really "real": The island itself is already an alibi, a Robin Leach fantasy of tumbling waterfalls and enchanted beaches, a place where the ordinary rules are suspended. And then there are the players themselves, some with the sort of otherworldly names last heard on the bridge of the USS Enterprise: Kaya, Ytossie, Dano.

As for their jobs, well, let us just say that this is the least representative cross section of America since the Village People. Participants on the show include a singer, a singer/poet, a singer/waitress, an aspiring entertainment reporter, a practicing entertainment reporter, a bartender, the founder of an online dating service, a model/actress, an actor/drummer, the owner of a kayaking company, an artist, a masseur. Miss Georgia 2000, a teen-crisis counselor, and a motocross guy. And then, in a final hint that none of this really matters, there was the network's proviso that none of the parties should be married. It was a curiously old-fashioned gesture: a statement, in effect, that a "relationship," whether at a crossroads or not, is somehow less worth protecting than the real thing, marriage.

What a pity, then, that one of the couples turned out to be parents, the parents of a "real" child. That was against the rules too, and the wicked pair has been thrown off the island. It is on film, of course. We will be able to see it for ourselves in a few weeks. And so, one day, will their child.

A revised version of an article published on National Review Online on January, 14, 2001

Deliver Us from Temptation

Temptation Island

National Review Online, January 14, 2001

All those organizations with the word 'family' in their name can relax. The Fox Network's new Temptation Island is no threat to the American republic, the institution of marriage, or the morals of our fragile young. It was, however, a terrible waste of an hour, 9-10 p.m. last Wednesday evening, quality time that would, in the New York area, at least, have been better spent watching World Championship Wrestling, Rivera Live or, for those in need of cheering up, Survivors, a movie about double teen suicide. Just in case you have not read a newspaper in the past few days let's start with the premise of the show. Four "unmarried couples at a crossroads in their relationship" are taken to a tropical island. Once they arrive, the lovebirds will be separated and each of them will be "set up on a variety of dates" with some of the 26 'fantasy' singles who have also been taken there by Fox. The idea, and, allegedly, the drama, is to test the strength of these relationships. "This could rip two people apart," gloats one potential seducer.

Oh really? Call me old-fashioned, but any couples agreeing to 'test' their relationship in this way are not at a crossroads. They are at a dead end. There's no test, no one is going to be "ripped apart." If you want to talk test, talk Gandhi. That iron man of abstinence used to test his commitment (to celibacy, as it happens) by sleeping in the same bed as a naked woman. Nothing, we are told, ever happened. That is what I call a test. Now, I never knew Gandhi, but I did watch the couples of Temptation Island and Billy, you are no Mahatma. And nor, Taheed, Mandy, Kaya, Valerie, Ytossie, Andy, and Shannon, are any of the rest of you.

So, if viewers cannot look forward to the vicious destruction of previously strong relationships, can they at least hope for some smut? Once again, the answer is almost certainly no. The first hour featured bikinis, shorts, and a few naughty comments, but on the whole the show is tamer than Baywatch and the cast, it has to be said, are not as good looking. To be sure, the initial episode was set up as a teaser, but the same, I suspect, will prove to be true for the rest of a series that is likely to pack about as much erotic excitement as an MTV beach volleyball special.

Of course, subsequent episodes will doubtless feature what the British call a 'snog' or two (ask Austin Powers), but much more than that will have to take place behind closed doors. Nudity? Not a chance, this is American prime-time TV. We can rely on the network's killjoy pixels to blur what little voyeuristic fun there is to be had. What will be on display, however, is far more shocking, In a future episode, we can, apparently expect to see one of the participants (a grown man!) weeping on the beach. On Wednesday night we already saw some sobs from two of the ladies, Ytossie and, I think, Shannon. If this is what Fox is coming to, I might as well turn to Lifetime. Worse, there is a strong possibility that these early tears were only the overture. It is likely that much of the show will be dedicated to tantrums, wailing, whining, complaining, confessions, hugging, hand holding, insincerity, sincerity, empathetic moments, and men and women telling each other what they really, really, feel. In fact, watching Temptation Island will be much like witnessing someone else's marriage-counseling sessions, and it will be about as relaxing as Party of Five. Sartre was wrong. Hell is not other people, it is other people's problems.

What else we can expect after eight years of a president who wants to feel our pain? We are in the age of Rosie and Oprah. We talk about everything, absolutely everything. The notion of a private sphere of behavior is dying. Emotional restraint is considered to be a psychiatric problem rather than a necessary virtue. Publicly baring the body, a respected form of degeneracy since the days of Salome, may be too much for Fox, but baring the soul, it turns out, is quite all right. Of course, the latter is much more of an imposition on the rest of us, as even the most strait-laced should realize. Most strippers (Salome was an exception) ask nothing more from their audience than the dollars in their pockets. Emotional exhibitionists like Kaya, Mandy, Taheed, and the rest of the gang on Temptation Island are far more demanding.

They would like us to share in their drama, and, yes, to feel their pain. To some critics of the show, this is a degrading spectacle, the showbiz equivalent of tearing the wings off some not very intelligent flies, a callous and potentially destructive exploitation of four supposedly close-knit couples. Unfortunately, the critics would be wrong, even if these relationships were as strong as Fox would like us to believe. For, if anyone deserves humiliation it is Kaya and his friends (yes, Kaya is a he). They will be contaminating my television with their simpering psychobabble and penny ante angst. They should be punished. However, far from being humiliated, these folks will revel in the attention that is coming their way. Temptation Island may be an extreme case, but in our therapeutic society there will be no particular shame about a public airing of some of the 'issues' that will surely come to play in the later episodes of the show. Someone will, inevitably, praise these people for their honesty, and for coming to terms with themselves. If there is any residual embarrassment to the participants, it will be eased by the greatest of all the rewards that this country has to offer, not money (they are not being particularly well paid), but celebrity. Play their cards right on Temptation Island and these couples could make their way to American's pantheon, right up there with the greats, Tonya, Monica, Lorena, Joey, and Amy, and, even (dare to dream) Darva and Rick.

Viewers (there were 16 million on Wednesday night) can either reach for the off switch, or they can remain slumped on the sofa, hypnotized by the sheer tackiness of the event. Those who are fascinated, but mortified, can tell themselves that they do not to have to worry, none of this is really 'real.' Fox makes this an easy option. The island itself is already an alibi, a Robin Leach fantasy of sparkling seas, tumbling waterfalls, and enchanted beaches, a place where the ordinary rules are suspended. And then there are the players themselves, some of them with the sort of strange otherwordly names last heard on the bridge of the USS Enterprise, Kaya, Ytossie, Dano.

As for their jobs, well, let us just say that this was the least representative cross-section of America since the Village People. Participants on the show include a singer, a singer/poet, a singer/waitress, an aspiring entertainment reporter, a practicing entertainment reporter, a bartender, the founder of an online dating service, a model/actress, an actor/drummer, the owner of a kayaking company, an artist, a masseur, Miss Georgia 2000, a teen-crisis counselor, and a motocross guy. And then, in a final hint that none of this really matters, there was the network's proviso that none of the parties should be married, either to their significant others, or, presumably, to anyone else. It was a curiously old-fashioned gesture. In effect it was a statement that a 'relationship,' whether at a crossroads or not, is somehow less worth protecting than the 'real' thing, marriage.

What a pity, then, that one of the couples should have gone and spoiled it all by turning out to be parents, the parents of a 'real' child. That was against the rules too, and the wicked pair has been thrown off the island. It is on film, of course. We will be able to see it for ourselves in a few weeks.

And so, one day, will their child.

Wing Nuts

The  West  Wing

National Review Online, December 10, 2000

Aaron Sorkin, the creator of NBC's The West Wing, wants it known that, despite voting twice for Bill Clinton, he has no liberal agenda. Sure, he concedes, his hero, President Josiah "Jed" Bartlet is to the Left, but the show itself is not. Swallow that, and you must also be a believer in Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and fair hand recounts. The West Wing is classic liberal propaganda: insidious, dishonest, and effective. The New York Times seems to approve, noting, for example, that high-minded President Jed (played by a relentlessly folksy Martin Sheen) has, apparently, much to teach us poor peasants about campaign-finance "reform." Time magazine, meanwhile, adopts its high-minded eat-your-greens, count-every-chad persona, grandly describing the show as a "national civics lesson." Naturally, The West Wing plays like ER in D.C. (over 300,000 viewers every week). Bartlet and his crew are civil-service catnip. They make the busybodies of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue seem sexy and, even more implausibly, useful. Liberal? Of course it is. We should not be surprised that the cast were the stars of this year's Democratic convention. Mr. Sorkin, after all, was previously best known as the writer of The American President, a nauseating movie from the mid-1990s in which a Democrat president rediscovers his soul by returning to the Left. In The West Wing, Mr. Sorkin shows his full range. He gives us a Democratic president, who keeps his soul--by never leaving the Left.

As Dee Dee Myers has said, Bartlet is "the Clinton we wish could have been". Yes that's right, Dee Dee Myers, that Dee Dee Myers. She is one of the show's original political consultants. The other two were Pat Caddell, a former strategist for the, um, Democrats, and Lawrence O'Donnell, who used to work in the Senate for, well, I think you know which party. To be fair, after about, oh, 20 episodes or so it was decided to add Republicans to the roster. Marlin Fitzwater and Peggy Noonan are now on board, the William Cohens of the Sorkin administration.

In one sense, however, the premise of the show is unexceptional. If prime-time TV can feature alien abductions and honest lawyers there is no reason why it cannot have a series dedicated to a successful president who is a liberal Democrat from, er, New Hampshire. As Bartlet is a liberal, there is no point in conservative viewers waiting for him to come out with a speech calling for school vouchers, missile defense, and tax cuts. That would be like expecting Gilligan to get off the island. Of course, it is true that Bartlet is portrayed as a blend of JFK, Will Rogers, and Mahatma Gandhi, but this is showbiz convention, not bias. President Jed is the hero of the show, and heroes have a right to expect their script-writers to be supportive.

The problem, and the real political slant, comes from the context within which Bartlet is presented. Being supportive is one thing, but there is not a button that Sorkin will not press to generate some sympathy for his man. The West Wing's emotional bases are so loaded that any rational discussion of the issues raised in the show becomes quite impossible. It is not enough for Bartlet to be a straight-arrow Nobel laureate with a sense of humor but, no, he also has to have multiple sclerosis (although not too badly). And he is not the only martyr in his team. Leo McGarry, the chief of staff, is a recovering alcoholic/prescription-drug abuser whose dedication to the White House has just cost him his marriage. His deputy, Josh Lyman, has just lost a much-loved father, not unlike Bartlet's assistant, Charlie Young, who has just lost a much-loved mother. We do not know the fate of her, presumably doomed, parents, but the president's secretary, Mrs. Landingham, has managed to lose not one, but two much-loved sons. In Vietnam, of course. On the same day, naturally. Christmas Eve, actually.

We are taught to sympathize with these people, and thus to like them (they are all interesting and quirky in that LA Law, Ally McBeal way) and, from that, to agree with their views. The team are hard-working, patriotic, and the work they do, is, apparently, essential. These folks do not have mere jobs, they are in public service. Their boss is a president who (to stirring music) removes the phrase "the era of big government is over" from his State of the Union speech. This, we are clearly meant to think, is a good thing. D.C. is OK, and poor helpless Americans could not survive without it. In one episode a staffer looks set to outperform the Landingham boys and survive December 24. His plans to go home early, however, are thwarted by an indignant Leo. "What," asks the chief of staff, "the country isn't open on Christmas Eve?" Clinton's real world White House may combine Post Office efficiency with the ethics of Caligula, but you would not know that from Sorkin's version. The corridors of his 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue are filled with the busy, the purposeful, and the good, always walking, it seems, at a tremendous pace as they try to take care of us.

Only dolts and scoundrels would oppose fine people like this. Step forward the G.O.P! One of the boasts of the The West Wing is that all points of view are given a fair shake (Except on the Second Amendment: John Wells, one of the executive producers and clearly something of a constitutional scholar, has explained, that "the only issue we don't do that on is gun control. Frankly no-one involved in the program feels there is a logical reason for streets to be flooded with Saturday night specials and automatic weapons."). We do hear from the Right, but they never quite seem to get the best of the argument. Their debating points are suspiciously muted and their representatives are sadly flawed. So the gay Republican congressman is a hypocrite, the military man wears a medal to which he is not entitled, and as for the Christian activists, well, they are linked with the anti-abortion zealots who mail the president's granddaughter a mutilated Raggedy Ann. The last word is invariably reserved for a member of the Bartlet team, frequently with the help of a sappy soundtrack that kicks in with some sentimental strains to remind us just who is on the side of the angels. Clue: It is not the party of George W. Bush.

Which brings us to Ainsley Hayes, the show's "good Republican." You knowthat role. It is a bit like being the "Good German" in a war movie. We first meet Miss Hayes, a leggy blonde Republican commentator with a striking resemblance to Buffy the Vampire Slayer, on one of those cable channel talkfests. She out-debates White House staffer Sam Seaborn (Rob Lowe as a thinking man's George Stephanopoulos). As a reward the oh so broad-minded President Jed asks Ainsley to join his team. Naturally, she agrees. This is a Republican that West Wing can relate to. She is, to use NPR's favorite word, "bipartisan," prepared to give up her principles in favor of the supposedly greater interests of the country. I seem to recall that the Vichy French used a similar excuse in 1940.

It's all nonsense, of course, but it was enough to bring West Wing nine Emmys earlier this year, the highest number ever won by a series in a single year. There was a problem, however. Viewers were, apparently, "upscale" (that's Network for "too few"). Really bringing in the masses took a familiar, if desperate, device--a cliff-hanging season finale with the lead characters brought down in a hail of bullets. Who shot J.B.? It worked. Ratings nearly doubled. Bartlet, you guessed it, survived. The motive for the attack turned out to be racist outrage at the romance between Bartlet's daughter Zoey and Charlie Young, the president's assistant, who is African-American. Two would-be assassins are quickly gunned down, but we do manage to see that their surviving accomplice is straight out of central casting, an Aryan Nation branch. He's a white male skinhead with a swastika tattoo. Worse than that he is a smoker (we see him stubbing out a cigarette into a fried egg) and a lover of southern cuisine (the wretch is finally apprehended in the Dixie Pig Bar-B-Q).

He is also an extremely useful myth, rare in real life, but ever-present in contemporary liberal demonology (Arlington Road, American History X, and so on), a useful tool that Democrats are increasingly using to browbeat their opposition. Guilt by association is a cheap trick, but it works. Sorkin's decision to add murderous skinheads to the ranks of Bartlet's antagonists is an attempt to make any viewer feel bad about disagreeing with Saint Jed. Worse, such an approach is used to discredit the intellectual legitimacy of any such disagreement. Argue for tax cuts one day, goes the not-so subliminal message, and you are in the same camp as gun-toting skinheads.

Sadly, such propaganda is not confined to the make-believe world of The West Wing. It goes hand-in-hand with the more general Democrat onslaught on the good faith of those who dare to oppose them. It helps create a political climate in which Clinton flack Paul Begala can, in a recent post-election tantrum, attempt to link GOP voting with a number of "hate" crimes that had taken place in Republican-leaning states. As has already been discussed in NRO, such a line of argument only serves to reinforce that liberal sense of moral superiority over the rest of us, a sense of moral superiority that led inevitably to Broward County, Palm Beach, and Miami-Dade.

Oh dear, we had better hope that President Bartlet loses his reelection bid by a really big majority. Especially in Florida.