By CP Staff
By Ed Huyck
By Ed Huyck
By Ed Huyck
By Ed Huyck
By Ed Huyck
By Ed Huyck
For the sake of argument, let's say I fellated our 42nd president, William Jefferson Clinton. Consider the occasion: an empty office on a hazy night in late July. The West Wing A/C on the fritz, Hillary on holiday, an hour-long hole on the president's planner. A tacit air of possibility building into expectation. Why? Well, why not?
For the sake of argument, does he go for a cursory grope first? Are his hands nimble at the zipper? Does he--true to his word--always wear briefs? Does he smell...presidential?
Then, the gentle interruption of a desk phone. An indecorous slurp. The stiff-gaited shuffle-hop that occurs when one's trousers obstruct the ankles in motion. The muted jangle of keys in pocket, bumping across the seal of state. Let's say it happened.
The description, of course, rings immediately false: What use would a president have for a key-chain--working as he does right there in the house with a retinue of vigilant doormen, and puttering around town in a hired car? So the act never occurred; the truth is out in the open.
But for the sake of argument, let's say I've long harbored a professional fantasy about claiming that I fellated an American president. Just consider it. Until recently, this was not the kind of offhand remark that could likely see its way to print. But today, circumstances--and perhaps a dozen or so malicious opportunists--have conspired to make this scenario plausible enough to hit the page.
And lest my false allegation seem too distasteful--well, though my kindergarten teacher would never accept the excuse, the rest of the press did it first. For, with the proliferation of scandal, the venality of our president has taken on a mythological status. Our president is, at once, stately and impetuous, astute and pathological. He is a man of expansive empathy and self-serving appetites. Like Zeus, he walks among us, couples with our nubile women, and then futilely tries to conceal them from his wrathful Hera. He is capable of anything.
And, as with the gods and their mythology, the president's tribulations have come to be narrated in a fiction that bleeds into fact and vice versa. The sources are myriad: The War Room; Dave; The American President; Absolute Power; Air Force One; Wag the Dog--to name a few. In these films, we have the president as vulnerable bachelor. The president as scoundrel. The president as sexual predator. The president as reluctant warrior. The president as borderline pedophile.
But only with Primary Colors, the anonymous novel and now the film, do we have a text that purports to represent the president as...our sitting president, William Jefferson Clinton.
In Primary Colors, Bill Clinton goes by the name Jack Stanton; he's the governor of an unnamed Southern state, and we know he's just folks because he wears a clunky digital watch with his best campaign suit. John Travolta impersonates the president and the weight the actor supposedly gained for his comeback role in Pulp Fiction continues to hang around the gut of his latest character. Though Travolta lacks the shrewd and instinctive intelligence that makes Clinton such a prodigious campaigner, the actor appears to know how to "eat pork with his hands," as the candidate Stanton is wont to do with his aides at Fat Willie's barbecue shack.
Which is to say that Travolta, waddling around in a Members Only jacket from the middle of the last decade and misting a bit at the eyes, can look perversely presidential. Sounding the part is another matter altogether, though, and Travolta's aspirated rasp resembles a Saturday Night Live impression as often as not. But Travolta can take comfort in company: Director Mike Nichols, in an impeachable offense, has filled the film's other main roles with Brits. There's Hillary-cum-"Susan," played by Emma Thompson, and a Stephanopolitan deputy campaign manager, Henry Burton, played by Adrian Lester. This trio wages a stiff phonetic war on Elaine May's dialogue, and it's a war of attrition; sometimes the actors' jaws contort so confusedly in search of a diphthong that the viewer may imagine a ventriloquist-dialect coach standing behind these dummies with a cramped hand.
But there's another war at the center of Primary Colors--the coarse comedy of campaigning--and as Stanton trudges through the cold of New Hampshire, he also wanders into a shitstorm of his own making. Stanton's sexual peccadilloes are the selling point of this film, with the fortuitous timing of its release, and the first accuser here is Susan's hairdresser, Cashmere McLeod. Though her coif is appropriately big, McLeod is smaller than life. One need only turn to the 1992 campaign documentary The War Room to appreciate Gennifer Flowers, McLeod's inspiration, in all her sordid splendor. "Did Governor Clinton use a condom?" one reporter shouts during Flowers's infamous press conference. Flowers purses her lips. Her eyes narrow. An eyebrow quivers. Her hands go behind her head where she pretends to fix her hair without ever touching her head. Flowers goes someplace inside herself and seems to find the experience pleasing; the moment is as tawdry as curdled perfume.
Primary Colors, by contrast, is an antiseptic film and it often sacrifices the richer ambiguities of real political theater for the superficial pleasantries of the pictures. To this end, the movie, like the book upon which it's based, reverses an essential assumption of the American campaign narrative: that the quest for elected office compels decent people to do indecent things. The Candidate (1972), starring Robert Redford as an idealistic senatorial upstart, offers a succinct summary of the corrupting force of politics. "Virtue," a political advisor says, "is too great a strain for the long haul of a campaign." Some 15 years later, the faux documentary series Tanner '88, written by cartoonist Garry Trudeau and directed by Robert Altman, would update this equation, equivocally shifting responsibility for ethical rot to the office-seeker himself. "Anyone who goes through that whole process and gets to the White House, probably is someone you don't want there," says journalist Linda Ellerbee in one scene.