Springtime for Castro

National Review Online, May 30 2001

It was amiable chitchat, a piece of fluff for last Sunday's New York Times. Just how do you get hold of tickets for The Producers, Broadway's hottest show, a musical about a musical devoted to Hitler? The newspaper ran through the alternatives: sleazy scalpers, cunning concierges, even a crafty charitable contribution or two, and then fell back on that most effective of Manhattan ruses, "It's whom you get to know." For, as the Times explained, every night the "house" hangs on to tickets for distribution to a favored few. Readers were told that Rocco Landesman, the show's lead producer, has 18 to hand out. "If you're Bill Clinton, we've got tickets," he told the Times. Such generosity is not extended to everyone. There will, Mr. Landesman warned, be no such tickets for George W. Bush. Well, of course not, Mr. Landesman, we understand. The man is a monster, a fanatic in cowboy boots. Who would give tickets to Arsenic Boy? Not Rocco Landesman, that is to be sure. He would rather extend his invitation to someone else, someone, presumably, far more deserving. He would give, he said, tickets to Fidel Castro.

Yes, that's right, Fidel Castro. Rocco Landesman would be glad to play host to a tyrant.

It was a revealing moment, a joke, maybe (memo to Rocco: Jokes about living dictators are a lot trickier than those about their dead counterparts), but more likely a glimpse into the contemporary liberal psyche. Characteristically, the New York Times chose not to examine it. Maybe the paper's writers were embarrassed for their interviewee. There is, after all, something more than a little nauseating about the spectacle of some self-important showbiz hustler, a hawker of grease paint and someone else's tunes, taking it upon himself to "snub" the president of the United States by withholding tickets for a night at the theater.

Perhaps, though, the awkwardness lay elsewhere. What do you say, after all, to a man who, in the course of a light-hearted interview, has, in effect, just blurted out his admiration for one of the nastier rulers of the last century, and, by implication, compared him favorably with the current incumbent of the White House? Well, what the Times should have done is called him on it. If "the paper of record" was doing its job, its journalist should have taken Mr. Landesman at his word and asked him just what it was he admired so much about Fidel.

One can only speculate. Was it, perhaps, the crushing of the Cuban trade unions, and the arrest of leaders such as David Salvador of the sugar workers? After long years of having to deal with the irritating folks at Actors' Equity, was it the thought of trade unionist Mr. Salvador spending twelve years in jail that Mr. Landesman found so inspiring, so worthy of those tickets?

It could just be a matter of culture. The Broadway promoter doubtless sees himself as an artistic individual, so maybe he was impressed by the twenty-year imprisonment of the poet Jorge Valls? Clearly Castro is a man who takes culture very seriously, so unlike that barbarian Dubya. Armando Valladares, another poet, also survived for more than two decades behind bars. Reduced to a wheelchair by years of mistreatment, he was not spared the attention of his jailers. The beatings continued with steel cable and rifle butt, while, for variety, buckets of urine and excrement were thrown in his face. Well, said the literary Mr. Castro, Valladares "was no poet." Now that, as Rocco will appreciate, is criticism, far more rigorous than anything that can be found in the pages of Playbill. We should not be surprised. Under Castro, as we are always told, literacy rates have increased exponentially: Cuba is an island of learning.

Maybe it was the Cuban justice system that Rocco wanted to honor, so much more effective than anything to be found in George W's Texas, the torture in the Villa Marista, perhaps, or the interrogation rooms in Pinar Del Rio. But why single out these centers for special praise? Over the years, Castro has run so many prisons, each of them distinguished in their own particular way, and not just because of the quality of their inmates, those impudent critics (yes, Rocco, don't you hate that word) of the Caribbean gulag. There is La Cabana of the "rat holes," for example, or Boniato with its typhus and rapes, and let us not pass over those little cages at Tres Macios del Oriente, always so handy for keeping order.

Some people (there's always somebody) did not appreciate everything that was being done for them. After enjoying ten years of Castro's compulsory hospitality and the benefits of that famed Cuban healthcare (both his legs had had to be amputated as a result of the beatings he had endured), an ungrateful former student leader by the name of Pedro Luis Boitel went on hunger strike. He died, which was just as well. Castro had already said that Boitel had to be "liquidated" so that he would not "f*** up any more." Unfortunately, Rocco Landesman has not yet given us his views on whether such a fate was deserved. We can only guess.

Maybe there was something else. Mr. Landesman is, we need to remember, a man currently making money, albeit indirectly, out of the Third Reich. Did Castro's camps strike a chord, El Manbu, perhaps, or was it the forced labor on the Isle of Pines that caught his attention? In that context, how interesting to note that, just like the Fuhrer, Castro has had no time for those awkward gays, the people he once so charmingly described as "limp-wristed, shameless creatures." Surely Mr. Landesman would not have spoken out on Castro without taking the trouble to do some research beforehand, so we can only assume that he knows that the Cuban caudillo put a good number of such "social deviants" behind barbed wire, something that Rocco may wish to reflect upon before he invites Castro to the next Landesman production of Angels in America.

Responsible government must also focus on the vulnerable. In particular, Mr. Landesman, a good liberal, is bound to be worried about "The Children." When it comes to Cuba, he can, again, find satisfaction. Castro cares too. Indeed, Il Lider Maximo was, in the past, reportedly kind enough to organize an internment camp especially for tots under ten. Unlike that hypocrite Bush, Fidel is a man who really will leave no child behind. Just ask Elian.

Finally, and maybe this is the key, as a Broadway professional, Mr. Landesman must always be interested in the grosses, and if there's one thing that is big about Castro, it is the numbers. Over the years, they have, it is estimated, been spectacular, particularly given the size of his small home market. Two million exiles! One hundred thousand jailed! Fifteen thousand executions! And what a run it has been. With no pesky free elections to spoil the show, Castro's performance has been playing for more than forty years. That's longer than Cats.

Ah yes, that must be it. No wonder Rocco is so impressed.

The Horror, The Horror

National Review Online, May 17 2001

You don't need to have seen Scream to know that horror movies have conventions that must be followed. For example, from almost the first few minutes it is generally possible to guess who will survive, and who is going to die. Typically, a nice, likable character will be one of the first to perish. Such a death sets a suitably downbeat tone, and previews the implacability of the torment to come. So it was on last night's season finale of West Wing. It was a weirdly lurid episode, which made little or no sense until one understood it for what it was, a tribute to the cinema of fear. The story begins, therefore, with a good person in a coffin. President Bartlet's big-hearted secretary, loyal Mrs. Landingham, is dead. In fact, the scriptwriters were in such a hurry to get moving with the plot that they had killed the poor dear off in the previous episode. Bartlet, meanwhile is wrestling with an emerging crisis in Haiti. Haiti? That's no coincidence, RKO's land of voodoo can always be relied upon to add menace to any tragedy.

Next, of course, there has to be rain, wind, and lightning. Last night's West Wing was no exception. As the show progressed we learn that Washington is to be hit by a strange unseasonable storm, the worst, Bartlet is assured, for more than a century. Naturally, when such a storm is raging, one of the characters has to run through the tempest looking crazed. Shakespeare famously used such an opportunity to tear out Gloucester's eyes in King Lear. Bartlet merely turned down the offer of a raincoat, and went for a stroll in the deluge.

Add in some terrible childhood trauma to the mix. Flashbacks give us the young Bartlet as a pupil in one of those 1950s prep schools where everyone wears a tweed jacket and sensitive students feel guilty about their privilege. Unfortunately for the future President, Bartlet Senior is the headmaster and he is not played by Robin Williams (but by MSNBC pundit and West Wing writer Lawrence O'Donnell). In the space of a few minutes we watch this ogre hit his son, sneer at Catholicism, support censorship, and underpay his female staff. Well, what else can you expect from a WASP in prime time?

Not, probably, shouting at God in Latin in the National Cathedral, which is what we find President Bartlet doing at the end of Mrs. Landingham's funeral. What a display! He hurls abuse at the deity for allowing bad things to happen, particularly to a man such as himself, who has, he whines, been a good president (there then followed a laundry list of achievements that sounded suspiciously like those once claimed by Bill Clinton). It was Martin Sheen's most spectacular hissy fit since that Saigon hotel room in Apocalypse Now and about as convincing, a piece of ripe ham to add to the West Wing's usual baloney, and an ominous warning that this show was about to turn very dark indeed. For incantations in Latin are never good news. The last time one was tried in a Washington drama was for The Exorcist, and that succeeded in riling up the Devil.

Bartlet gets off lightly. The only apparition he raises is that of the late Mrs. Landingham. She returns to the Oval Office, the first dead left-wing lady to show up there since the days when Mrs. Roosevelt would drop in to chat with Hillary. Mrs. L., of course, is on a mission. In the horror genre, the dead always are. Bartlet, you see, is in crisis. Tantalizingly, at least for viewers on the Right, there is a chance that scandal (but only of the noblest sort: he concealed his Multiple Sclerosis) might cause the president to drop any bid for reelection. Mrs. Landingham will have none of it. She reminds him of the poor, the sick, and the dispossessed (of whom there seem to be a quite a lot, despite all those presidential successes that Bartlet had so recently been recently been discussing with God). The implication is clear: These are problems that need the intervention of big government and a liberal president. There is work to be done, but no one called "W." could do it. Bartlet is the man for the job.

The show ends with a reinvigorated Bartlet at a press conference. The journalists all want to know. Will he run again? Officially, we won't be told until the series returns, but take it from me, this is no cliffhanger. Bartlet will be back. That's the rule. Just ask Freddy Krueger.

In horror, there's always room for a sequel.

The Paper of Record

National Review Online, May 14 2001 

Imagine, if you can, Berlin in November 1938, the grim capital of a savage ideology heading deeper into horror and cruelty. The New York Times correspondent has just emerged from an interview with the Fuhrer. It is an exclusive. His editor will be pleased. On the way home the Times man passes a looted synagogue, and the broken bodies of those who were worshiping there. Elsewhere, homes and businesses are being ransacked, and their occupants are under attack. Other victims are rounded up and dragged to the concentration camps from which far too few will ever emerge. Filing a report that night, the journalist prefers not to dwell on such distasteful events. Instead he contents himself with a comment that stories of a Kristallnacht pogrom had been exaggerated. Yes, there had been some scattered excesses, but they had been the work of a few hotheads, nothing more. Delighted by the coverage, the Nazi hierarchy gives the correspondent privileged access. He becomes the doyen of the Third Reich's foreign press corps, the essential contact for every new visitor to Berlin. In the ultimate accolade the journalist wins a Pulitzer Prize for the "scholarship, profundity, impartiality, sound judgment and exceptional clarity" of his reporting from Germany.

In the years that follow, of course, it becomes impossible to deny the reality of Hitler's charnel-house state. The reporter is revealed for what he really was, evil's enabler, a greedy, venal man, whose soothing words had done much to calm the fears of an outside world that might otherwise have tried to step in to stop the slaughter. Amazingly, however, more than 60 years later his Pulitzer still stands, and with it, his distinguished place in the history of the New York Times. Last month, the newspaper, as it does once every year, proudly published the honor roll of its Pulitzer-winning writers. It is not difficult to find the name of the dictator's apologist. It is right up there near the top, fitting company, in the view of the New York Times for the other journalists on the list: Walter Duranty is still, it is clear, a man with whom the Grey Lady is in love.

It is a remarkable, and disgusting, story. Sadly, it is also true, with only one qualification. The journalist, Walter Duranty, was a propagandist for Stalin not Hitler, the evil that he was to witness took place in the Soviet Union, not Nazi Germany.

For well over a decade, Duranty's influential reports from Moscow described a Soviet Union run by a tough, but dedicated, elite, who could, he conceded, be cruel, but only in the cause of improving the lives of the people. As the Times man liked to say, "you can't make an omelet without breaking eggs."

To Duranty, Stalin ("the greatest living statesman") represented progress and the chance of a better future for the once benighted masses. In one typical passage he gushed that, "Stalin and his associates have carried with them the strongest and most intelligent elements of the Russian people, and have created a national unity and enthusiasm which the Tsarist Empire never knew. They have learnt by their own errors and pulled themselves up by their own bootstraps, and the nation has followed them." It was, he wrote, "a heroic chapter in the life of humanity."

That this "heroic chapter" was to prove fatal for large numbers of that same humanity did not seem to trouble Duranty too much. "I'm a reporter," he explained, "not a humanitarian." In fact, he was neither, something that can be seen most clearly from his treatment of the Ukrainian famine of 1932-3. This man-made famine, a deliberate attempt to break the Ukrainian peasantry, is one of history's most terrible episodes (In his Harvest of Sorrow Robert Conquest estimates the death toll in the Ukraine and neighboring regions at seven million). Walter Duranty of the New York Times, however, did what he could to cover it up.

It was behavior that puts the Pulitzer winner in the same moral category as the present day's Holocaust deniers, if not somewhere worse. Today's revisionists, I suppose, can at least claim the excuse that they were not there. By contrast, Duranty was right on the spot, in Moscow and briefly, even, in the killing fields of the Ukraine itself. He knew. Privately, he told British diplomats that as many as ten million people might have died, "The Ukraine," he admitted, "had been bled white."

Publicly, however, his story was very different. He claimed that tales of a famine were "bunk," "exaggeration," or "malignant propaganda." There was "no actual starvation." As other accounts of the tragedy filtered out, Duranty was forced to backpedal a little: his reports still avoided references to famine, but he conceded that the annual death rate in the affected areas might have trebled from its normal level of around one million to a total of three million. These unfortunates had perished not so much from "actual starvation as from manifold disease." It is an absurd distinction, as grotesque as any made by those revisionists who argue that many of the deaths in the Nazi camps were the product of typhus. Typically, such people will then sidestep the issue as to why it was that those victims were in the camps in the first place. Duranty took a similar approach. The increase in the death rate by two million was presented to his readers as an almost passive tense disaster: it just happened, nobody was really responsible.

In reality, of course, the famine was, as Duranty well understood, the organized product of a murderous regime. Had he told the truth, he could have saved lives. When today's revisionists deny the Shoah, their lies, thankfully, have little or no impact. They are simply irrelevant. Duranty's distortions, by contrast, helped mute international criticism of Stalin's lethal project at a crucial time, criticism that might, perhaps, have made the killing machine at least pause. Instead, the "Great Duranty" kept quiet, pocketed his Pulitzer, and crossed the Atlantic the following year in the company of the Soviet foreign minister, who was on his way to Washington to sign off on U.S. diplomatic recognition of the Stalinist state. Within four years an emboldened Stalin had launched the Great Terror.

As I said, it is a disgusting story, but not a new one. Back in 1974, Joe Alsop used his final syndicated column to attack Duranty's pro-Soviet stance, and Robert Conquest covered the same ground in rather more detail a few years later. 1990 saw renewed focus on this subject with the publication of Stalin's Apologist, S. J. Taylor's invaluable biography of Duranty. The New York Times responded with a favorable review of Ms. Taylor's book and an editorial comment that Walter Duranty had produced "some of the worst reporting to appear in [the] newspaper," citing, in particular his "lapse" in covering the Ukrainian famine.

That, at least, was a start, but eleven years later Duranty's name still features in the paper's annual honor roll of Pulitzer winners (the only change has been that he is now described as having won the award for his "coverage of the news from Russia," previously he was lauded for his "dispassionate interpretive reporting" of the news from Russia). For a journal that prides itself on its sensitivity this is another remarkable "lapse," one made stranger still by the Times's understanding in other contexts that the symbols of the past can still hurt. Its attacks on, say, the continued display of the Confederate flag might have more moral force if the paper could bring itself to stop its own annual celebration of an employee who was, in effect, a propagandist for genocide.

Nobody should ask the Times to rewrite history (that's something best left to Stalinists), but a Pulitzer Prize has, in the past, been withdrawn. It is a precedent that the paper should urge be followed in the case of Duranty, not for his opinions (loathsome though they may have been) but for the lies, evasions, and fabrications that characterized the reporting that won him his award. Beyond that, the paper should ask itself just what else it is going to do to make some amends to the memory of the millions of dead, victims whose murder was made just that little bit easier by the work of the man from the New York Times.

An apology might be a start.

(War) Toy Story: Where have you gone, G.I.Joe?

National Review, May 14 2001

TO Harvard psychologist Carol Gilligan, it is the moment of crisis, the turning point when it all starts to go wrong; "You see this picture of a little boy with a stuffed bunny in one hand and a Lego gun in the other." Society, she argues, will push the tot to drop the rabbit, and this, she believes, is a tragedy, a brutal suppression of the sensitive man-child within. It is for insights such as these that Jane Fonda has just awarded Harvard $12.5 million, endowing a chair in Gilligan's name. That's very fortunate for Gilligan, because my nephew, Oliver, would be unlikely to give her the time of day. Sitting amid the debris of last Christmas’s festivities, the 6-year-old had a Seventh Cavalry revolver in his hand, a newly unwrapped Sherman tank at his feet, and, doubtless, dreams of battle on his mind. "This," he said, "is heaven." He was celebrating the season of peace and goodwill in an appropriately martial style, something difficult in his native England—a country where toy armies are in retreat and cowboys have to be armed with sticks.

Fortunately for Oliver, his uncle could help. In the finest tradition of the Atlantic convoys, I was able to come to the rescue with weaponry from across the ocean. The revolver came from the shop attached to the NRA's National Firearms Museum in Virginia (take your children!), and the tank from Toys "R" Us, a store that can usually boast at least one aisle where it is always 1944. It's all there; the armor, the artillery, and the dedicated, handpicked troops, including, of course, G.I. Joe, back now in uniform, after a post-Vietnam hiatus in which the poor fellow was shamefully repackaged as an "adventurer."

All, however, is not yet well in Toyland. In the more upscale FAO Schwarz, for example, it is still 1968. To be fair, if you look hard enough you can still find G.I. Joe and his friends, but they make up a small, desperate platoon, holed up in a last redoubt, lacking air cover and surrounded by Teletubbies, victims of our elite's continuing anxiety over the allegedly pernicious impact of plastic garrisons and battery-powered combat. (Even Toys "R" Us is not entirely safe: Every December, demonstrators picket selected outlets of this toytown Krupp, calling for the withdrawal of the playthings of mass destruction.)

We all know the sort of households where such concerns prevail. They tend to be grim places, where chocolate is rationed, bread is bran, and the preferred entertainment is PBS. Permitted toys are dully educational, preferably Swedish, and, ideally, made out of (non-endangered) wood. To these folks, war toys are the NASCAR of the nursery: declasse, disreputable, and more than a little dangerous.

Such attitudes are rooted primarily in snobbery and the vague and sentimental pacifism that permeates this culture. They have been around for a long time. Opposition to military toys has, however, been given fresh impetus by Gilligan-style educational theorizing and its even uglier sister, fear and loathing of the exuberant male child. These ideas are nonsense, but they have been skillfully publicized and are now increasingly the stuff of schoolroom orthodoxy. Inevitably, the success of such theories may lead anxious and well-meaning parents to ask themselves the terrible question: Should Joe go?

To which the appropriate response is: Hell, no. It is not possible to say this for all war toys, but—contrary to the fears of many parents-—toy soldiers are a constructive, not destructive, force. They encourage cooperative playing even if the form that cooperation takes—the arrangement of mock slaughter and atrocity—is not one that will bring joy to the heart of Kofi Annan; but as a spur to the imagination and a launch pad for creative thought, these toys are incomparable. These plastic warriors may be heavily armed, but there is not much they can do for themselves. In the era of PlayStation, they are a magnificent anachronism: The only programs they come with are in the heads of their owners.

What's more, the fact that these soldiers are drawn from the real past brings its own educational advantages. Sci-fi action figures are all very well, but the knowledge they encourage relates to Krypton, the Klingons, or the lore of the Jedi. Toy soldiers are, literally, more down-to-earth. They tell the story of what has happened on this planet. Detachments, say, of Union cavalry or World War I infantrymen are not much fun without some knowledge of the conflicts in which they fought. In an age in which history is taught as an afterthought—or, worse, a PC seminar— this is an incentive for children, and particularly boys, to turn to the real thing, glorious, bloody, confused, exhilarating, and endlessly fascinating.

And no, Mom, it will not turn them into killers. To judge by much of today's conventional wisdom, it is only a short step from the Hasbro tank to the Columbine library, a view that reflects the feminist prejudice that the entire male sex is mad, bad, and dangerous to know. Certainly, masculine aggression is a fact of life (I should know, I grew up with two brothers), but it is not a disease or nasty pathology that needs to be treated, repressed, or medicated away. Correctly channeled (and, yes, toy soldiers can be part of this process), it can be a powerful positive force. Hand in hand with associated characteristics such as competitiveness, assertiveness, and a willingness to take risks, it can be a great engine for a boy's development.

Attempts to suppress it are, moreover, doomed to fail. You might as well tell a tree not to grow leaves. Such efforts may be worse than useless: Children generally take great pleasure in doing the opposite of what they are told. I remember, still with some fear, two childhood acquaintances from a household where war toys were strictly forbidden. Before any visit there, my Tommy Gunn (a British equivalent of G.I. Joe) had to disarm. He could be a fireman, but never a commando. Unfortunately for me, however, the family's creed of nonviolence did not always extend to playroom behavior. In the end, naturally, both boys became career soldiers. That's merely ironic; but it is not difficult to imagine similar rebellions taking other, darker forms.

Instead of denying and deforming a small boy's aggressive energy, it would be better to acknowledge and direct it. Another topic must not be ignored: fun, But when it comes to that subject, those who are recommending "nonviolent" alternatives seem to he clueless. The list of suggestions posted on the web by one New Mexico counselor includes "building blocks, crayons, scissors, construction paper, hand puppets, and puzzles." Hand puppets.

This is not to say that there are no undesirably violent toys. Visit any toy store and you will see some lurking there on the shelves. In a secure family environment, I doubt if they would do any child much harm, although the Diamond Dallas Page interactive figurine (one of a World Champion Wrestling series of "Bashin' Brawlers") could certainly be said to be delivering a rather unattractive message to the nation's young: "Punch his gut, and he yells. Grab his nose, and he yelps. Pile drive his head, and he screams." Better than a hand puppet, to be sure, but grim stuff. Give me—and the kids—G.I. Joe.

Hopeless in the U.K.

National Review Online, May 10, 2001

There is always something of the theatre about the announcement of a British election: the trip to Buckingham Palace to secure the Queen's approval to dissolve Parliament ahead of the vote (her Majesty was "graciously pleased to signify that she [would] comply with the request"); the press corps outside Downing Street; the over-excited intrigues in Westminster. Tuesday's decision by British Prime Minister Tony Blair to call an election for June 7th was no exception, but the leaders of the U.K.'s two principal parties both managed to add their own personal touch. The Conservatives' William Hague, a self-styled outsider, leapt on a soapbox and shouted about political correctness. The never modest Mr. Blair, meanwhile, headed for a school called St. Savior's (yes, Tony, we understand the implication) and like so many other minor despots before him, launched his campaign over the heads of some puzzled, but captive, children. Still, for all the theatrics, there was no drama. The audience, the British electorate, already knows how the play is going to end. And that should be no surprise. After all, over the past year or so the achievements of Mr. Blair's government have included a series of financial and ethical scandals, the near-collapse of the rail system, a sharp rise in crime, the biggest increase in taxation in the OECD, the alienation of the rural population, a fuel crisis, massive regulatory overreach, and the effective breakdown of the country's immigration controls. Throw in the weaker stock market, a slowing economy, and Hoof and Mouth's grotesque barbecue, and it is only possible to come to one conclusion. Labour will be driven from office, thrashed at the polls, and left for dead.

Such a conclusion would, however, be quite wrong. Despite its problems, Labour is, in fact, headed for a win which, if some polls are to be believed, would even exceed the scale of the socialists' crushing victory in the U.K.'s last election, back in 1997. Given that the 1997 defeat was the Conservatives' worst showing since 1832, this would, for the Tories, be a disaster on an epic scale, equivalent perhaps to going through Pearl Harbor, twice.

The gap is likely to close somewhat during the campaign. Local factors may also assist the Tories to ensure that their national unpopularity isn't reflected in the final distribution of parliamentary seats. Apathy may also help. After four very mixed years in government, Labour too stirs up no great enthusiasm and the Tories' core voters are more likely to vote than their counterparts on the Left. In his wilder moments, William Hague probably dreams about a Harry Truman-style upset. That is not going to happen, however, and, unfortunately for the once precocious Conservative leader, unless there is a substantial reduction in the Labour majority, the political career of Harold Stassen is a more likely, if unfair, precedent. Mr. Hague will almost certainly be made the scapegoat by his party for any electoral debacle. If this seems harsh, remember what the Tories did to Mrs. Thatcher — and she won elections.

Which for the Conservatives is not as easy as the Iron Lady's three consecutive victories once suggested. Majority public opinion in Britain has for many years been on the center-Left. Part of Mrs. Thatcher's electoral success can be explained by the fact that opposition to her was split between Labour and a smaller party of sanctimonious eccentrics now known as the Liberal Democrats. The effect of this division was exaggerated by the mathematical impact of Britain's first-past-the-post electoral system. Mrs. Thatcher was able to rack up parliamentary majorities that flattered her share of the popular vote. In 1997, Tory unpopularity and effective tactical voting turned this split into a trap. The Conservatives found themselves squeezed between the two parties of the Left, and it was their turn to suffer. This process will likely go into partial reverse this time round, but it will not be enough to save the Tories. For that, they will need another advantage once enjoyed by Mrs. Thatcher: a clear message.

And that is something that they do not have. In the aftermath of the 1997 defeat, the Conservatives sent out the signal that all their core principles were up for discussion. It was meant to make them seem open-minded, but it left them looking opportunistic and, worse, divided. Under Mr. Hague, the Tories have tacked to the Left and the Right, they have sidled up to authoritarians, and they have flirted with libertarians. Now they are surprised that nobody quite knows what they stand for.

At times in the past this would not have mattered. Just being "not Labour" would have been enough. That is now no longer the case. Under Tony Blair the Left has at least made the pretence of adopting some of the Right's more popular policies. As a result it is no longer so easy to make voters' flesh crawl at the thought of the Socialist Menace. Today's threat from New Labour is no less dangerous, but it is subtler, and more difficult to oppose, particularly when you cannot make yourself heard.

If John McCain wants to see what debate looks like when strict controls on political financing leave a liberal media free to set the agenda, he should cross the Atlantic. Of the U.K.'s ten largest selling newspapers, only two can be said to support the Tories, and the broadcast media is, if anything, even less friendly. British Conservatives are treated with the same contempt and, at times, foam-flecked hatred that the GOP must endure. Unlike the Republicans, however, they have to put up with it. There is no alternative. Mr. Hague may be the most effective parliamentary performer in Britain today, but Westminster is no longer the forum that counts. If he is to get his message out he has to do so through the media, no easy task when their normal response is to mock, distort, or ignore.

And that's a shame. For all their faults, the Conservatives do have something to say. A reelected Blair government is, as the Tories are trying to warn, likely to be bad news. To start with, internal pressures are likely to push Labour closer to its more traditionally socialist views, taxes will increase, and with them, the regulatory burden and, in a more modern touch, relentlessly PC social engineering. More malign still will be the growing sense of entitlement amongst the party leadership. As we saw in Clinton's Washington, that seems to be the inevitable consequence of government by a left-wing elite that sees itself as operating on a more elevated moral plane than everyone else. The cronyism and shabby ethics of the first Blair government are likely to prove only a taste of what the Brits can expect from a prime minister who always seemed curiously impressed by our last president. George W. Bush, by contrast, is unlikely to find many fans in a Labour 10 Downing Street. What he will see instead is petty criticism, and a steady attempt to push the U.K. deeper into the heart of an EU that makes increasingly little secret of its anti-Americanism.

I don't know about you, but my flesh is already beginning to crawl.

Cosmic Capitalist

National Review Online, May 1, 2001

I suppose that we should not be surprised. NASA is, after all, a federal bureaucracy, little more, really than the postal service in a space suit. Nevertheless, the surly and self-important way in which the agency has handled Dennis Tito, Earth's first extra-planetary tourist, would have embarrassed even the IRS. Unless you have been living in Mars (and, perhaps, even then) you will know that Mr. Tito is an American aerospace engineer turned financial tycoon who paid a reported $20 million for a round-rip ticket to the Russian space station, Mir. Sadly, gravity, high-maintenance bills, and aging technology conspired to bring Mir down to Earth before Mr. Tito could get to visit. Undeterred by this setback, the Russians agreed to an alternative. They would fly their paying cosmonaut in a Soyuz to Alpha, the new international space station currently being built one hundred or so miles above our planet.

Mr. Tito's is a wonderful story. It is the tale of a man who works hard all his life, who builds himself the American dream, and then uses the proceeds to take a ride on a rocket ship. It is the stuff of myth, partly Ray Bradbury, partly Horatio Alger. NASA, unfortunately, had borrowed their script from the Grinch. Dennis Tito, the agency explained, would not be welcome on the space station. Oh, they used all the explanations, it could be dangerous, someone might get sued (trial lawyers, these days, get everywhere), the space station was not ready, 'protocols' had to be drafted, and the clincher, Tito was not a 'professional'.

If we wanted a reminder that the old, marvelous improvisational NASA, the NASA of pocket-protected dreamers who sent men into space in tin cans, was dead, this was it.

Fortunately, Russians these days know that a contract is a contract, and they insisted that their American was along for the ride. After a brief strike by the Soyuz cosmonauts and last-minute negotiations that included Mr. Tito's agreement to pay for anything he might break, NASA relented, and the millionaire is now in space.

To cash-strapped Moscow this is good news. The price that their passenger has paid for his ticket will be more than enough to pay for the next Soyuz mission, and there are, the Russians know, quite a few others who will be prepared to follow his example. As one Russian engineer explained to the press, " there are a lot of rich people around. Why shouldn't they go flying, enjoy themselves and help the [space] station at the same time?"

He is quite right, of course, but the real significance of Moscow's orbiting tycoon is much greater than that first $20 million. By selling a ticket to Alpha, the Russians are signaling that business in space is going to be far more than the operation of a few communications satellites. Tito's take-off may be one small step for free enterprise, but, for the rest of us, it could be a giant leap. For, if space really is to be opened up, it is going to take more than governments and their "professionals" to do the job. The real work will be done, as it has always has been at every new frontier, by the usual motley suspects, by capitalists, cranks, charlatans, and crackpots, by dreamers, drones, visionaries, hucksters, showmen, and opportunists and, yes, even by tourists.

The Russians now seem to understand this. Perhaps this was inevitable. After living for more than 70 years in a technocratic bureaucracy that disdained the individual and spent a fortune on science they have a pretty good idea where NASA is going.

Nowhere.

In PC England

National Review Online, April 23, 2001

"We walked into an almighty ambush," sighed a senior Tory aide to the London Daily Telegraph, "it was a stitch-up that came right out of the blue." Well, he was half-right, at least. The latest blow to hit Britain's embattled Conservative opposition was indeed the result of an ambush, but to suggest that it came "out of the blue" shows a disturbing level of naïveté in a party that will likely have to contest a general election within the next few weeks (the current speculation is that the vote will be held on June 7th). The origins of this new crisis lie in a pre-election "compact" signed in March by all Britain's party leaders, including William Hague of the Conservatives. The compact had been drawn up by the Commission for Racial Equality (CRE), a publicly funded and, allegedly, non-partisan body that has the task of supervising race relations in Britain. As Mr. Hague would have done well to remember, three out of the CRE's 14 commissioners are members of the Labour Party (one sits on the party's executive committee), and another six have quasi-official jobs that depend on the Labour government's powers of patronage. The CRE's well-paid chairman, a former chief executive of a left-wing London borough, was himself appointed by Labour's interior minister.

The wording of the compact is largely anodyne, and therein lies the trap. The signatories committed themselves (and their parties) to reject "all forms of racial violence, racial harassment and unlawful racial discrimination." Fair enough, you might think, except that these activities are already illegal, and best left to the police to handle. Asking politicians to "reject" such behavior ought, therefore, to be as meaningless as requesting them to disavow murder, theft, and kidnapping. By producing a document that singles out these "racial" offenses, the CRE is implying that there is something, potentially, in the behavior of Britain's mainstream political parties that could give rise to just such criminal conduct. That's a ridiculous contention, yet, by signing the compact, William Hague seemed to agree with its fraudulent premise.

In so doing, he paved the way for his current difficulties. To make the situation worse, Mr. Hague's signature was never, by itself, going to be enough to satisfy a race-relations lobby always ready to tar the Tories as racist. It is no surprise, therefore, except, it would seem, to the Conservative leadership, that the CRE promptly moved the goal posts.

The commission is now calling on all MPs and parliamentary candidates to sign the document. Its website is naming (and, it hopes, shaming) those who refuse. The first names featured on the website were all Conservatives.

Is Mr. Hague now expected to discipline the rebels for refusing to subscribe to a document that is now, apparently, party policy?

It would be an embarrassing predicament at the best of times, and for a party lagging in the polls by twenty points, now is not the best of times. The CRE is claiming that it is only a coincidence that it decided to publicize this list at the same time that the Labour foreign minister came out with a major speech linking the Tory party to racism.

One appalled former commissioner, Raj Chandran, a Conservative, appears to be not so sure. He has now accused the organization of acting as "a political arm of the Labour party." Meanwhile, more Conservatives are saying that they will not add their names to what one MP has called this "loathsome and offensive" compact. Others, however, have been happy to sign.

The result has been a disaster for the Tories as a party, and for Mr. Hague personally. Those who wish to portray the Conservatives as incurably racist will have been given more ammunition. Others will see the spectacle of a divided party, an image that is, traditionally, electoral poison in the UK. William Hague himself cannot win. He either signed a document in which he did not believe, in which case he is unprincipled, or he has signed a document which he cannot persuade his party to support, in which case he is weak. Ominously, perhaps, one of the Conservatives who has said that he will not sign is Michael Portillo, the Tory finance spokesman and a likely challenger for the leadership if the election goes badly.

It would have been far better for the Conservative leader to have rejected the compact in the first place, while, of course, reiterating his condemnation of racist politics. There would, to be sure, have been some controversy, but it would have been a controversy where Mr. Hague could have set the terms of the debate in a way in which he was more likely to prevail.

He could have begun with the wording of the document itself, which did not confine itself to the clear-cut, if implicitly insulting, text mentioned above. Amongst other things, the agreement goes on to call on parties not to publish any materials, which might "reasonably be expected" to lead to racial conflict. Reasonably be expected by whom? As U.S. Attorney-General John Ashcroft has discovered, when it comes to the finding of racist intent, the notion of "reasonable" is a highly elusive concept, and one that is never defined in a manner favorable to those outside the PC establishment.

In dealings with the public, the compact obliges signatories to do nothing that could "stir up" racial hatred. Again, "stir up" in the opinion of whom? Taken to its extreme, that could be analogous to requiring the GOP to do nothing that would "stir up" Al Sharpton.

This vague wording, and the opportunity that its subjective criteria give for abuse, should have been denounced at the time for what it was, a crude piece of political theater designed to interfere with the electoral process and, specifically, a partisan attempt to squash debate on what is potentially a very damaging issue for Labour, its failure to handle the issue of bogus asylum seekers into the UK. There were 100,000 applicants for asylum into the UK last year alone of which, many, perhaps the majority, were fraudulent. For various reasons, not the least of which is the need of the Labour party to preserve its appeal to ethnic minority voters, these applications are being dealt with in a lax, slovenly, and disorganized manner, an approach that only guarantees that there will be yet more such bogus "refugees" in future.

Labour has tried to distract attention from the substance of Tory attacks on this shambles, by claiming, in essence, that such criticism is inherently racist. It is a clever, if dishonest, strategy, and it is not difficult to see how the CRE, given a mandate to police election-time propaganda lest it "stir up" racism, could provide useful assistance. It is also a strategy that reveals a profound contempt for the intelligence of the British electorate, a contempt that the CRE appears to share.

For the CRE is effectively arguing that, despite a long tradition of ignoring demagogues, racist or otherwise, Britain's voters need protecting from themselves. Claiming to be shocked--shocked!--by the current uproar, CRE's director of policy and communications has said that all the organization was trying to do was to "broker" an agreement between the parties and to "set a standard for the debate about race and race relations in the election." What he seems to have forgotten is that in a democracy there is no need for an unelected mediator to set the agenda for what may or not be included in the dialogue between politicians and their electorate.

What a shame that Mr. Hague did not choose to point this out back in March.

Lenin’s Last Stand

National Review Online, April 22, 2001

© Andrew Stuttaford

Shrines should be for saints, not killers, but no one seems to have told them that at Gorki Leninskiye. There, twenty miles outside Moscow, a holy place still stands, a tribute to a tyrant, and an insult to his victims. It is paid for by a state unable to cope with the truths of its terrible, barely acknowledged past. Its citizens have a better understanding. They know what is celebrated there and they prefer to avoid it. "Why would you want to go there?" I am asked, "there is nothing to see." "I'm interested in Soviet history." There is a shrug in response, no words, just silence. Navigation is difficult; there are no signs pointing the way, no billboards, no fluttering flags or excited crowds, just country roads, a few disheveled hamlets and the stillness of the Russian plain. Finally, after an hour or so, we drive up to a statue, more than twenty feet tall. Massive, monumental and an eyesore, Lenin still stands, eternal, hectoring, damaged now in one leg, forever gazing out at that radiant future that was never to come, still signaling to visitors that they had arrived in Gorki Leninskiye, the place where the father of the revolution was taken to die.

© Andrew Stuttaford

Before the Bolsheviks, Gorki (the "Leninskiye" came later) had been one of those pleasant country estates that are the backdrop to our sunny image of aristocratic Russia before the Fall: silver birches, a river, a yellow stucco manor house in the neo-classical style. In 1909 the widow of an early financier of the revolutionary cause bought the manor. Ungratefully, the revolutionaries nationalized the place in 1918. Lenin first came to stay that same year, despite, according to his wife, "exquisite embarrassment" over the size of the accommodations.

The Lenins evidently got over this shame and their frequent visits made Gorki a natural choice when the time came to find the Bolshevik leader somewhere to recuperate after a series of strokes. Despite the efforts of a team of foreign doctors (the Great Man eschewed the "usual Soviet bunglers"), recovery proved elusive. Deteriorating rapidly, Lenin spent most of the last 18 months of his life effectively confined to Gorki, and it was here, on January 21, 1924, that the "genius of geniuses" finally succumbed.

Past the statue, we find the road toward our objective. We are alone. There are no tour buses, no wheezing, dirty Ladas or struggling rusty Volgas, no Red Army trucks, no determined pedestrians. It was not always this way.

In the old days, half a million pilgrims would come to pay their respects each year. It was a patriotic excursion, a break from the factory, school, or barracks, a day in the country for all those young pioneers, kindergarten Octobrists, Komsomol kids, Party members, and plain, ordinary working folks.

Now there is just us. As we get closer, the site appears abandoned, the route to its empty parking lot blocked off by a needlessly locked gate, a gate without fences.

To reach the first, and newest, part of the shrine, the Political History Museum, it is necessary to climb up a slight slope. At one time, this must have been a reminder to visitors that to be worthy of their destination they were expected to elevate themselves to some higher level, an impression that the temple-like architecture of the museum was clearly designed to reinforce. It fails. Thrown up, with exquisite timing, in the later Gorbachev era, the building would have embarrassed Albert Speer. It is a gimcrack Parthenon, worthy only of some Neanderthal Olympus. Grass now peeps through the cracks of its empty, stone steps, but an open door signals that the faithful are still welcome.

They are not, however, expected. My wife and I are the only visitors. Sold our tickets by an astonished attendant, we walk up a sweeping staircase past a large statue of a pensive-looking Lenin. Another attendant switches on a wind machine and a red flag begins to flutter behind the marble revolutionary. As we reach the top of the stairs, the machine is turned off. It is a pattern that is repeated in each exhibit room. On our approach, an attendant darts ahead to switch on the lights, and on our departure the room is plunged back into darkness. Lenin used to say that Communism was "Soviet power plus electrification." It is a mark of progress that his successors have to contend with utility bills.

The exhibits themselves are worthy of that most bureaucratic of revolutions, production statistics, in addition to pamphlets, philosophical treatises, and proclamations. There are also some banners and photographs of the Communist leadership looking like Communists should, sullen, discontented, and filled with self-importance. Of the camps, the prisons, the mass graves, the famines, the torture chambers, there is nothing.

It is a disgusting omission, all the more so in an institution that is funded by the Russian state, but it is also typical of a country where there is no shared understanding of Communism's savage history. When the Soviets fell, too many of their myths were allowed to survive. An exhausted people and a compromised governing class had no wish to examine the past, preferring instead to reveal a few glimpses here, an archive or two there. The spirits of the gulag dead were to be appeased by no more than a few half-measures.

So, it should be no surprise that when, in 1994, the decision was taken to empty out Lenin's old Kremlin apartment (it had been a tourist attraction for privileged visitors during the Soviet era), the contents were neither destroyed nor placed in context in some proper place. Instead, they were taken to quiet, damp Gorki Leninskiye and dumped not far from the Political History Museum, in one of the original buildings of the Morozov estate, waiting, perhaps, for better days — out of sight, but not, quite, out of mind.

To reach this building, one must trek through silent woodland with only the crows for company. Unlike in the years of more closely shepherded visits, there are few signs to point the way, but another helpful Lenin (red granite this time and hoisted, appropriately enough, on the shoulders of the proletariat) tells us that we are on the right track. It is not a long walk, fifteen, twenty minutes at the most, and at the end of it we are back in the early Soviet era.

"It was all moved, almost overnight: 40,000 objects put into trucks and not even catalogued," the attendant explains, shocked by the sacrilege. She is a pleasant, educated woman, one of those intellectuals caught on just the wrong side of a changed Russia, with a degree, perhaps, in Marxism-Leninism and, maybe, a doctoral dissertation on some forgotten revolutionary. Too rooted, it seems, in the old order to adapt to or even understand the new one, she prefers to recreate the past, cataloguing, listing, and displaying the relics that she so loves, comfortable in this building that no one comes to visit, a place where it is still January 21, 1924, and where every clock is stopped, literally, at the moment of Lenin's death.

And what a treasure trove there is to see, souvenirs of the public man (complete with wall maps of the young Soviet Republic, the telephones, the long meeting table) and the private. We see Lenin's furniture, his bed (and, in a separate room, that of his wife, Nadezhda Krupskaya, dull, shrill, and neglected, a Rodham avant la lettre). Wait, there's more. Lenin's desk! Lenin's piano! Krupskaya's briefcase! A monkey bust from Armand Hammer! There is not much on the walls: a family photograph here, a pin-up of Marx there, but little else. We are led down corridors deep into the labyrinth of Leninist myth, into the realm of an ascetic philosopher-king. "He could read six hundred pages a day!" There are books everywhere, turgid treatises in plain brown covers, with broken spines, underscored, and filled with scrawled commentary, the giveaway spoor of somebody who had spent too much time in libraries.

The kitchen and dining room feature utilitarian furniture, mismatched cutlery, and a few old pots and pans. The message is clear, and false; we are told that the plain-living Lenin shared the tough times endured by the starving Russia of the early 1920s. That the always well-fed Soviet leader saw famine as just another political weapon ("Desperate hunger will give us a mood among the broad peasant masses that will guarantee us [their] sympathy … or at least their neutrality") goes unmentioned. There is no place here for the real man, the cynical murderer and didactic thief who destroyed a civilization.

No, the Lenin that haunts these strange, transplanted rooms is the Lenin of our guide's Soviet childhood; it is the Lenin of legend, the hero of the Finland Station, the austere visionary. And this, sadly, may be the Lenin of Russia's immediate future. Rather than reckoning with the past, Vladimir Putin is trying conceal it under the façade of a unifying national narrative, a narrative that will include, he says, "the best" from the Soviet years, a narrative that may well devote more time to the 40,000 objects in Lenin's apartment than the more than 20 million killed in Lenin's dystopia.

In the end, President Putin will probably be unsuccessful. The ghosts of the past will not be so easily exorcized. In the meantime, the shrine at Gorki Leninskiye will endure, dishonest and misleading, funded by the state but abandoned by its worshipers; in its own way, a fitting memorial to a god that failed.

Doctor’s Orders

National Review Online, April 15, 2001

If you thought that the million moms were bad, just wait until you hear from the six hundred thousand docs. Next time you go for a check-up, you just might. Doctors Against Handgun Injury (a new coalition of organizations representing two-thirds of this country's physicians) is suggesting that "health professionals and health systems should ask [patients] about gun ownership when taking a medical history or engaging in preventive counseling." By itself, intrusive questioning is not enough, of course. The interrogation has to be followed by a lecture. "Patients should be provided with information about the risks of having a gun in the home, as well as methods to reduce the risk, should the ignorant peasants continue to choose to keep them." OK, so I added in the "ignorant peasants," but, have no doubt, a snooty assumption of technocratic superiority is indeed what underpins this latest anti-gun initiative. To the folks at DAHI, the rate of gun-related injury is an epidemiological issue, and like any other infectious disease, it is best to leave its control to the medical profession. It is a ludicrous argument, but to the people making it, it comes with one great advantage: Skill with the scalpel or the stethoscope is magically transformed into the right to act as an arbiter in a far wider field than the ER or the hospital ward. Those who are not as qualified are expected to watch in awe as these lab-coated loudmouths issue their self-important prescription for "public safety," a series of policy initiatives that have little or nothing to do with the practice of medicine.

With the exception of the proposed weapons counseling, DAHI's prescription itself is fairly standard gun-control boilerplate, the usual thin end of the anti-Second Amendment wedge. DAHI's agenda includes an extension of the Brady background checks, restrictions on the number of guns that can be bought within a given period, and, of course, that stalker-friendly favorite, the imposition of an interval "between the time an individual purchases a weapon and the time s/he takes possession of it."

As ideas they are nonsense, of course, but what makes these suggested "interventions" (as they are pretentiously labeled) particularly offensive is the way that they are an abuse of the aura and the authority of the physician. By pretending that these measures are a "healthcare" issue, DAHI is attempting to push through a partisan program without the bother of going through the normal political debate. Such debate may be messy, but it is essential part of democracy. These lordly doctors, seem to above such petty considerations.

Perhaps even worse, they also appear to consider themselves to be above the standards of accuracy and objectivity that we are traditionally entitled to expect from our physicians. To take a couple of examples, visitors to DAHI's website will, amid talk of "carnage," grudgingly be told that there has been a fall in gun-related deaths since 1993. It is explained, however, that this fall is at least "partly" attributable to the Brady Law. The fact that the decline began a year or two before the law came into force is not referred to, nor is there any analysis of how many lives might be saved by the defensive use of guns. Similarly, there is plenty of focus on accidental death from firearms, but no mention of the fact that, between 1980 and the late 1990s this total fell by nearly a half, despite rapidly rising levels of gun ownership. Tragic though it is, the death toll from firearms accidents is smaller than that from drowning, burning, or even simply falling over. It is not much larger than the number who come to their end while engaged in recreational boating, and it is less than one-thirtieth of the total killed in motor vehicle accidents.

DAHI's selective use of statistical data might be acceptable in the normal course of political polemic, but coming from people who are portraying themselves as participants in this debate on the basis of their "expertise and experience as physicians," it is a disgrace. DAHI tell us that "presenting basic facts and helping patients make informed decisions" is part of the doctor's job. If their website is any indicator as to how they judge the "basic facts," these physicians have a very strange way of going about their work.

After seeing what he had to say to the press, I would not even accept an aspirin from one of DAHI's leaders, Dr. Jeremiah Barondess, without a second opinion. In an interview with the New York Observer, Dr. Barondess, president of the important-sounding New York Academy of Medicine, felt able to claim that the pressure group was "neutral politically, academically and intellectually," an assertion that reveals the contempt he must feel for the reasoning powers of that newspaper's readers.

The extent of DAHI's "intellectual neutrality" can be seen from its approach to the "basic facts" discussed above. Quite what is meant by "academically neutral" is unclear, but it seems to include the publication of a key position paper that manages to cite such sources as the New Republic, the ABA's Coordinating Committee on Gun Violence, Congressman Patrick Kennedy, Senator Robert Torricelli, the Center to Prevent Handgun Violence, the American Prospect (twice), the Handgun Epidemic Lowering Plan, and the Cincinnati Post. The work of prominent gun-control skeptics such as Yale's John Lott Jr. does not, however, even merit a mention. Professor Lott is not alone. There's no room for the work of obscure gun-control skeptics, either. What of DAHI's supposed political neutrality? Of all the politicians who have looked into the issue of gun control, the organization only chooses to quote two liberal Democrats.

Dr. Barondess prefers, of course, to avoid such matters, preferring to repeat DAHI's dishonest dogma, "handgun injury…is like a disease…and we're going to introduce mandatory immunizations for this disease." It is difficult to decide which is the more repellent, the fraudulent assertion of "neutrality" or the creepily totalitarian claim that "we" are going to introduce these "mandatory" immunizations.

It can be no surprise, therefore, that in their legislative crusade, DAHI's physicians reveal a fundamental misunderstanding of the doctor/patient relationship. As private individuals they are free to campaign for any legislation that they choose, but when they do so in their capacity as doctors, they should take care. Laws are coercive. The physician who uses his professional qualification to press for DAHI-style legislation is, essentially, arguing that he has the right to tell his patients what to do. This is not what doctors are for. The role of a physician is to listen, to diagnose, and to give advice. A course of treatment is a suggestion, not an order. It must, in the end, be left to the patient, however misguided, to decide what to do.

That would be true, even if the advice were good. In this case it could be lethal. The proposed legislative changes will make it harder for law-abiding people to exercise their Second Amendment rights, something which flies in the face of evidence that such a development may in fact cost lives, evidence that Dr. Barondess and his friends are either too arrogant to consider or too disingenuous to discuss.

Worst of all, even if DAHI is unsuccessful in promoting its legislative agenda, the organization's supposedly objective "counseling" will, in the meantime, be likely to discourage people from keeping the means of self defense that they already have. As is noted on the DAHI website, "there is precedent for the view that [the counseling] would be helpful…in the context of removing guns from the home." That is probably right. To the people in their care, doctors can be very persuasive, especially when the "basic facts" are presented in such a one-sided way. And when patients are misled on the advantages and disadvantages of gun ownership, truth may not be the only casualty.

Bullying someone into giving up an effective means of self-defense may prove, quite literally, fatal. For the patient, that is. The consequences for the doctor will be rather less severe. In an unlikely, but deserved, worst case, he may risk a malpractice lawsuit, a threat to livelihood rather than life. Presumably it is in response to this somewhat remote danger that DAHI's cyber-offering includes the disclaimer that, "nothing in this web site is intended to be construed or to serve as a standard of medical care." Like all the best disclaimers, it contradicts everything that has gone before.

But it's a start.

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?