|
The president of the United States is human. George Bush barfing in Japan; Gerald Ford tripping out of airplanes; the Clintons stiffly dancing to Fleetwood Mac--this is human. But when it comes to raw, muddled humanity--as in sex--this is too human. We don't want to hear the president, or any government official, discussing it. When Jimmy Carter bravely confessed that he occasionally looked at women with "lust in his heart," the country cringed. When Joycelyn Elders said masturbation was OK, she was forced to step down. And when Clarence Thomas was accused of saying a few things to Anita Hill, a witch-hunt ensued. The American attitude is don't say it, just do it--and try not to get caught. But what about Bill Clinton? Unless you are Rush Limbaugh, you don't give a shit about what President Clinton does behind closed doors. No one cares anymore, not even Gloria Steinem. The country is sick of sex scandals. So Mike Nichols' newest film, Primary Colors, based on the bestselling novel by "Anonymous" (Joe Klein), couldn't have been released at a better time. Clinton, last seen in Contact playing himself, must be breathing another big sigh of relief: John Travolta, not Jack Nicholson, is playing him. Well, not exactly. Travolta is playing Gov. Jack Stanton, a Democratic presidential candidate working the campaign trail. His dutiful but sharp-tonged wife is Susan Stanton (Emma Thompson), the Hillary of the house. Other key players are Richard Jemmons (Billy Bob Thornton), a bizarre but effective spin doctor based on ragin' cajun James Carville; campaign advisor Daisy Green (Maura Tierney), based on Mandy Grunwald; wacko dirt digger Libby Holden (Kathy Bates), based on Betsey Wright; and Gov. Fred Picker (Larry Hagman), based on Ross Perot. There's even a Gennifer Flowers--Cashmere McLeod, played by Gia Carides. All of these loonies orbit Stanton like little balls of fire, with the exception of Henry Burton (Adrian Lester), the black version of George Stephanopolous. He is not of their ilk. Burton joins the campaign almost unwillingly. The grandson of a civil-rights leader, he is moved by Stanton's ability to communicate, particularly when he sees Stanton working with a group of illiterate black folk. Stanton tells the group a story about his uncle Charly, an awarded war veteran who passed up scholarships because he was illiterate. The session moves Burton to tears. Yet even when Burton learns that the Uncle Charly story is a bunch of hooey, and sees Stanton emerge from his bedroom with the female head of the illiteracy program in a rumpled, blushing fluster, he doesn't really feel taken. He echoes what most savvy political thinkers would agree with: It doesn't matter if the words are lies--it's the actions that count. And so the film takes off with the story of Burton and his somewhat wide-eyed look at Stanton and the whole primary process. Viewers will be left a little wide-eyed, too. Not from shock at the way Clinton/Stanton is portrayed as a womanizing good-'ol-boy, but from Nichols' and screenwriter Elaine May's skillful, though sloppy, manipulations. The film's message is interesting, considering it was conceived before the whole Clinton/Lewinsky drama ensued. Though it's based on the book that is based on real life,the movie anticipates the country's current confused feelings for our president's private conduct. Do we, or should we, care? In the wake of the last decade's hyper-political correctness, differing viewpoints--either hysterical over issues such as sexual harassment in the workplace or obnoxiously obsessed with family values--are realized in this film as actually quite similar. Andrea Dworkin could chat over coffee with Jerry Falwell. They are both simpering prudes, and simpering prudes do not get too far. Not like a virile, charismatic man. Travolta plays this seductive role flawlessly, but without the dark side conveyed in the source material. In the novel, Stanton is not just a charming goof--he is scary. Had Warren Beatty or Gene Hackman played Stanton, the ugly American would have poked out beneath the charm--and that, at least, would have been interesting. Travolta, with his warm, pleading eyes, is just sooo likable. Which is the point. Sort of. Nichols' picture gets on a soapbox and cries: All men lie, all men cheat, but not all men can lead. Though this is true, PrimaryColors would have been more intriguing if Nichols hadn't become so mushy over his message. The film's characters are well-played (Thornton and Lester are the best; Thompson and Bates are the worst), but, like the whole movie, too precious. When watching a satire on politics, we don't want to feel warm fuzzies--we want to feel what Anita Hill probably felt when she heard the Coke bottle pubic-hair remark: a little shaken, but laughing all the same. Instead, we're pulled into a new kind of patriotism based on the inarguable fact that we are all human. Nichols, the same man who directed the brilliantly angry Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, ignores the darker, more violent side of Americans that can be expressed so well in cinema: He leaves the blood out of the flesh. |
|
