Did you see the CNN debate on Wednesday night? Neither did I. Oh, I watched a few highlights that seemed to be agitating social media—Carly Fiorina cutting Donald Trump down to size, for example—but like the Super Bowl, I contented myself with reading about it the next morning.
Part of the reason for this relative indifference is that I am not the ideal consumer for televised debates. I have long since decided who I am going to vote for in my state primary—six months from now!—and nothing I have seen or heard prompts me to change my mind. Of course, it is possible that, between now and March, my favored candidate will collapse in the media/opinion-poll primary (in which no actual ballots have been cast) and withdraw from the race, and that I will have to settle on some other aspirant. But I think that’s unlikely.
Part of this has to do with my confidence in the candidate, which might well be misplaced; but it is largely because I find televised political debates tendentious and, ultimately, meaningless. This year, in particular, the networks and party national committees have contrived to produce a singularly awkward and illogical calendar of gabfests, including the humiliating “second-tier” encounters. And as usual, it is the journalists on the panel, not the candidates on the platform, who run the show.
This is a particular bete noire of mine: Political journalists tend to regard themselves as the gatekeepers of history and, by inference, the most important participants in any televised debates. This accounts for all the grandstanding, gotcha questions, and resolute attempts to make the participants look bad. Has anyone noticed how argument between individuals—otherwise known as “debate”—is invariably discouraged? That’s because the real conflict is not among the candidates but between the interrogators and their victims. And who cares about that?
Most telling of all, however, is significance. Just how much, in the long run, does debate performance mean? We do not have a parliamentary system in the United States, and so a gift for offhand eloquence, snappy repartee, or the ability to think quickly when answering foolish questions, is unimportant in the American presidency. Like academic credentials, or humble origins, debate skills are nice, even useful, but no indicator of success in office. I do not think that George Washington or Franklin D. Roosevelt would have come off very well in televised debates. And would it have mattered, historically speaking, if Abraham Lincoln or Dwight D. Eisenhower or James Madison had struck voters as the kind of guy with whom they’d like to share a beer? I doubt it.
After all, what do we remember from a half-century of debates? John F. Kennedy was good-looking and Richard Nixon had five-o’clock shadow. Bob Dole tends to glower and Walter Mondale grins robotically. Ronald Reagan was adept at the well-rehearsed one-liner—“There you go again!”—while Jimmy Carter was painfully earnest. George H.W. Bush once glanced at his wristwatch. Michael Dukakis failed to react with sufficient emotion when asked about the hypothetical rape and murder of his wife.
In truth, all these comic or dramatic TV moments had nothing to do with the success of any presidency, and the issues that dominate terms in office are frequently unmentioned in debates. One skilled performance is negated by another, and superior debaters—the better-looking face, the genial personality, the perfect expression of disdain or surprise—may or may not prevail in the voting booth.
Which is why I still intend to vote for my favored candidate.
