EVER IN SEARCH OF HIS PLACE in the history books, Bill Clinton hit a home run during the Republican convention: first sitting president to say people were mean to me; first sitting president to say nyah nyah to rivals; first sitting president to accuse an opponent of being too close to his dad. He thereby made his mark in the annals of presidential eloquence: “Four score and seven years ago” (Lincoln); “fear itself” (FDR); “ask not” (JFK); “so’s your old man” (Clinton).
Of course, Clinton’s attack on George W. Bush — that he needs his father to protect (and elect) him — would have had more punch if Bush weren’t running against Albert Gore Jr., a genuine junior — a man who slipped into his father’s House seat at 28; into a Senate seat six years later; and has yet to win an election without the sheltering wing of an elder political presence: either his father or Clinton. But the attack said less about George or Al than it did about Clinton, who infuses this election with added emotional drama: Is it possible that we are watching a sitting president decompose in front of our eyes?
Clinton himself is a mixed bag for both parties, a man with the strange and unique public standing as the most popular president ever impeached. This is reflected in his poll numbers, which show that large numbers of people still approve of the job he is doing, while a large number don’t like him. The Republicans’ job is to campaign against the latter Clinton, while not riling those who support the first Clinton. The Democrats’ job is to support Clinton One, while pretending that Clinton Two doesn’t exist. Their job is complicated by the fact that their base (about 30 percent of the voting public) adores Clinton and can’t get enough of him; while the rest of the country (the 30 percent that detests him, and the 40 percent that is merely indifferent) wishes he’d shut up and go home. Their ideal solution therefore is to have Clinton speak to the base and at fund-raising galas, and otherwise lie low. His schedule at the Democratic National Convention in Los Angeles is a perfect reflection of this calculation: lots of partying and fund-raising with VIPs over the weekend, a prime-time appearance on Monday evening when the convention opens, and then he is supposed to disappear.
Gore has at once to hand himself around the neck of Our Greatest President, and to deplore the miscreant. It is a sign of Clinton’s eroding political talents that he does not seem to realize this problem exists. He seems to believe that everyone loves him; that he could win if he could only run once more; that people despise all his vile opponents; that he himself is a much-put-upon figure, a heroic defender of constitutional freedoms, a victim of sinister plots.
For a man who seems to believe so in polls — who at times seems to have run his life by them — it must take an act of will to remain indifferent to what they now tell us: that in retrospect, impeachment is becoming more popular; that majorities want him disbarred in the state of Arkansas (where he still has a license to practice law); that near-majorities now would have favored conviction; that only 36 percent would vote for him could he run again. Even during impeachment, when most were against his removal, majorities thought Clinton “had it coming.” By the time his trial concluded, the long months of wrangling, the evidence, and even the rawness of his own rabid war room had eroded his moral authority. The silence and boredom that surrounded impeachment showed no love for his critics, but none for him either. People didn’t want him thrown out, but not enough to fight for him. Like Rhett Butler, they did not give a damn.
“Is it possible, even conceivable, that you’ve confused me with that gang of backward children you play tricks on,” George Sanders says to Anne Baxter, the sinister actress, in the fabled film classic All About Eve. Eve met her match in the still tougher Sanders. Bush and his people now must hope they can continue to play Sanders to Clinton-Gore’s Eve.
In this respect, two things about Clinton deserve our attention. First, that he rose by dissecting less tiger-toothed people, who were no match for his partisan wiles. In the primaries in 1992, Clinton had only token resistance. George Bush the elder seemed drained and exhausted. Bob Dole was clueless. The congressional leaders were sitting ducks (as were Linda Tripp and Ken Starr). The second point is that Clinton is so good when countering others that one forgets this is all he can do. His proactive plans — health care, race panels — tend to run into trouble. His coattails are negative. He lost House seats in the 1992 election. His party then lost the House, and the Senate, and hundreds of office holders at local levels two years later. He is partly responsible for having brought in the huge bumper crop of Republican governors, who now govern 70 percent of the American people, and whose approval ratings are much higher than his are. One of these, of course, is George W. Bush.
In some ways, George W. is Clinton’s first challenge, the first one he’s faced who stands up to his pitching, who can kill him with kindness, and preempt “his” themes. Of course Clinton hates him. He reverses the script. This time, it is Clinton’s enemy who is the smoothie and natural, while his chosen surrogates — his wife and his vice president — are the ones with all the charm and finesse of the hard-edged House leaders. Clinton is in a bind: He can’t seem to help the klutz who wants to succeed him, and he can’t even help his own wife. With all of his retinue — Air Force One, the White House as background, the spin, the aides, the clout, the photo-ops, the egregious partisan meddling by federal agencies — she is still struggling. And not against a superstar like New York’s mayor, but against a freshfaced young kid from Long Island. Whatever other pacts he broke, Clinton has always been true to the basic quid pro quo of his marriage: He gives her power, and she bails him out. Now she has bailed him out, and he can’t give her power, which no doubt greatly bugs him. He has to lash out at someone, in some manner, in the high noble style for which he is noted: Nyah nyah. Your mother wears army boots. So’s your old man.
In trying to goad Bush into a tantrum, Clinton is treading a well-traveled field. In a profile of the governor of Texas, the Washington Post noted that the key to Bush’s victory over Ann Richards was her failure with a similar strategy: She “believed voters ultimately would see Bush as she did — as someone who never accomplished anything on his own, who was riding his father’s coattails. She dismissively referred to him as ‘Shrub.'” Over and over, she tried to provoke him while he stayed relentlessly civilized. At last, she blew up and called him a “jerk” at a rally. That did it. Bush cruised to a 17 point win.
Bush has a talent for driving his foes to distraction, a priceless political asset. If he could manage to drive Ann Richards bonkers, what can’t he do to poor Bill? Clinton has three different woes to disturb his tranquility. He has the trauma of leaving his high public office. He has his suppressed rage over impeachment. He has to fear being eclipsed by a rival, when he is the king of the prom. While his heir runs with a man who has called him disgusting, Bill has to sit there and grin.
And so, Bill Clinton’s last days in public office look likely to be even stranger than the rest. He will wend his way from rally to rally, tossing out quips to the deeply adoring, who think he is too cute for words. But his heir and his rival will strive to ignore him. Or at least they should try.
Bush seems to have perceived the truth about Clinton: that he lives in a world of his own. His enemies are his best friends, and he is his enemy. Attack him head-on, with morals and bombast, and his ratings rocket. Ignore him, and he goes into decline. Support for impeachment rose dramatically when no one discussed it, when no one attacked him, when Clinton was being . . . himself. Now he is being himself more than ever, and the sight is not pretty. The face is becoming more lined. The voice itself is becoming more wheedling. The assumed layers of civilized rectitude — Oxford, Georgetown, the Renaissance wonkery — are peeling away, revealing the soul of the carnival barker, the one that was there all the time. Bush should sit back and let it all happen, looking on with his air of bemused scorn and pity. He should wait for the next time that Bill says something stupid. Ignore him enough and he will.
Noemie Emery is a frequent contributor to THE WEEKLY STANDARD.
