These rumors about the most "decisive" person in the most delicate affairs of American political life give the West Wing an illusory quality. And these powers of illusion are so great the cast frequently loses their heads and becomes confused with other protagonists: Dick Clinton and Bill "call girl" Morris, for example, or Janet Hamrod and The Hillary We Know (as lesbians call her when she gives into sadistic urges). Paula Dumbski, Monica Jones - opportunists separated at birth? A glorious pubic feud erupts in the trailer park on Pennsylvania Avenue between Dick and his Starr-struck prosecutor, a judge intent on determining if the president would risk the world for a piece of pie.
For all we know, this infamy is precious to the president. He has assassins for friends or assassinates his friends when they become unworthy accomplices. Rumor has it he came to power thanks to a coalition of prostitutes and an appetite for glory that affords no patience for morality. An affable, even gregarious man dances on the stage of the world historic with a harem in tow. He bluffs the public about everything, including his health. And for a while he brilliantly camouflages his Casanova past and delinquent inspirations. Some see the ruin of the presidency expressed in his personal ruin; others judge him on abstract ideas about morality rather than concrete examples of injustice. Still others are reassured that Clinton has an Epicurean side to go with his insane ambition. His cult of charm is constrained by his foibles and a web of laws he only half believes. What emerges isn't the thief in tricky Dick, rather the con man, now with a big red nose - a clown who would be king. With his face in place, he openly speculates on the ignorance of the American people and its taste for scandal.
Only the latest and widest range of cinematic techniques can capture these rumors as they're transmitted around the globe like points of light from a mirror ball. But the effort and expense is justified because Washington rumors are more significant than other equally truthful and malicious rumors. The first rumors scream into view on a missile tracking camera, as if on a magic carpet, and explode in the veritable center of the universe.* Critics in future generations will debate the symbolism involved here, and it's true, it's not what you'd think. A bomb is dropped on the American psyche and the lever of war is up for grabs. Mobile production units appear on the scene to assess, and inevitably add to, the damage. Puppets with exchangeable heads swallow dictionaries and let out the story like so much gas: the pyrotechnists among them execute fireworks; those with a tendency for bombing shit their pants.
Meanwhile, rumors surface about obscure organizations in the deepest shadows of recent events. Will we have to wait for the screen credits to find out about the North American News Alliance? Rumor has it the founder of this small and obscure news agency was a high-level member of the OSS. Rumor also has it that NANA became, under Sidney Goldberg (husband of Lucy, agent to Linda Tripp), a media infiltration instrument of the CIA. And what about the tabloids' ties to the CIA? Where else would one get access to Oswald's widow? Are there not direct CIA ties to a financier of The American Spectator? a journal that has whipped the president with its anathema from day one. Of course all sense of fair play was abandoned as soon as Starr was appointed Independent Counsel; this same magazine financier with a pedigree going back to the OSS, the "eccentric" Richard Mellon Scaife, once paid Starr through his Landmark Legal Foundation to support Miss Jones in her case against the president. She also found inspiration in the words of Ambrose Evans-Pritchard, a crony of the crown who, like most British agents, knows how to create a sex scandal to divert attention from the most pressing issues of the day. The reaction shot of the press is priceless: blank stares accompanied by plaintive chords on the violin. The production assistants are restless as this awkward moment passes; then it's back to business as usual for reporters with the humility required to chase celebrity-commodities and stick microphones under their double chins. This is what the sponsors want - a spot news check to tell everyone what to think and feel.
What were once whispered rumors have become an alarming noise. We should recall the maternity of these rumors - Linda Tripp, whose name and appearance refuse to be confused with anyone, a high-ranking civilian with Delta Force experience, a possible Bush mole and ally of Gary Aldrich, the FBI agent who made a few scandalous claims of his own about Clinton sexual misconduct. This is the same woman who made an accusation about a Bush extra-marital affair and another about Clinton sexually harassing Kathleen Willey. As the story goes, she trips here pawn with a wire at the Pentagon City Ritz Carlton, an apparently shrewd betrayal designed to get a book deal (a book that gives every indication of having pages stuck together). Whereas many women would rather fondle Clinton's stainless steel testicles than tattle, this is not an option for the Tripp who looks too fucked even for Dick and who knows all the gossip or invents her own. As Master of Obscene Arts she unravels a thread going from FBI-military intelligence connections to Nixon's plumbers and back to the CIA. It may not appear in their training manuals in exactly these words, but all of the those mentioned above know that rumors are the least expensive poison. Washington is not Whitman's invincible city of Friends, rather center of a society founded on deceit and perpetual illusion.
In his prime time State of the Union speech, Clinton passes the personality test by demonstrating that as individually corrupt as Americans may be, they're suckers for mass spectacles that profess respect for virtue. With slogans about surplus for social security he is the ultimate Democrat giving expression to noble sentiments about care for the elderly. The way spectators enjoy being duped is one of those little truths most people avoid telling themselves and don't want to hear from others. Clinton shares pains with his people and with future glory seekers who are sure to imitate "the Clinton bluff," which he executes with tremendous powers of suggestion and no trace of irony. It's enough to make a general cry. And like so much of what Clinton is able to do, this encounter is more illusory than real.
Indeed, the film chronicles the illusion of encounters from Monica's first White House fantasies to the moment they became all too real; from Dick's very real dreams to the illusions, no less real, crafted by the Office of the President. Will these powers of illusion be enough to cover his character flaw? Not likely. We're all destined to wage war with our weaknesses, but temptresses are especially difficult - as one poll put it: "Most men go for it." Yes, Dick is oblivious, reckless... For him sexual misconduct is something like premature ejaculation. In this sense the pair - the celebrity and his face artist - is not incongruous at all, but the script stipulates that only archival footage of them together be used. We hear them on new White House tapes as the screen splits between shots of him at the beach in the Virgin Islands, and Monica, dear Monica, in a Penthouse spread. The actors are still on good terms and therefore might have wanted to reenact these scenes. But they accept, however reluctantly, every nuance of the script. Meanwhile, Clinton pushes his agenda through the assembly of mercenaries on the Hill and has Gingrich act as his valet at the State of the Union. The stage managers and Starr system make it seem as if Clinton uses his disasters as opportunities to mistreat his opponents, but he isn't the first glory hound to fill the capital with scandal and still get his way. Whereas adultery once again saves Clinton's marriage, Dick no longer hangs out in West Wing hot-spots and lays women by the dozen. What were you thinking, Mr. President? If you can't love your wife, and only your wife, you shouldn't marry! Learn fidelity from your dog and have Hillary beat both of you when you stray. She's right, after all, if she's pointing to a vast right-wing conspiracy that coalesced in Iran-Contra operations and never demobilized or purged itself of fascists. She is obviously the most brilliant protagonist, and very brave to call these dirty tricks by their proper name. A drum roll and gunfire as prophets speak of darkness and the ghost of Jacqueline.
* Location scouts from the Washington Psychogeography Association identify a point on 16th Street NW (between Meridian Hill Park and the Diplomat condos) as the center of the city.