Inside magazine reports that Vanity Fair’s editor, Graydon Carter, was part of a gaggle of glamour-pusses cozying up to Fidel Castro last week. Conversation at a lengthy lunch apparently revolved around Castro’s cigar habit, and the hair-style of one Hollywood producer, Brian Grazer. Along for the ride: CBS television president, Leslie Moonves, and two MTV honchos. Maybe the MTV heads could offer Eminem videos as propaganda for Castro’s continuing persecution of gays. The only comment from these toadies to a dictator was, “It was just a lark.” Tell that to the countless political prisoners, torture victims, and exiles from Castro’s thuggery. Memo to Carter: any chance you’ll be taking Saddam to lunch any time soon? Or isn’t he “hip” enough for you?
POLITICS AS THEATER: Spent yesterday afternoon at the House of Commons. I’d forgotten what a great Victorian pile of drama it is. Everything is made to look ancient, although the building is considerably newer than the Congress: pre-Raphaelite murals of St George and St Andrew, huge Arts-And-Crafts lamps hanging pendulously from the ceilings, stain-glassed windows, and on and on. The Victorians understood that politics is partly theater and the building echoes with that knowledge. The Commons Chamber itself is relatively tiny – far smaller than it appears on C-Span – about the size of fifty ADA-approved restrooms. I’ve been there several times before, but this time I was able to get in on the ground floor of the bear-pit. Dress codes are tight. “Where’s your jacket?” yelled an officious officer in white tie and tails. Good question. My chaperone was Lord Coe, better known as Sebastian Coe, the Olympic gold medallist runner who is one of William Hague’s closest confidants, and he helped smooth the way. The chamber itself is only forty years old or so. Hitler bombed the last one. Churchill designed the new building so that it would deliberately be unable to fit all the members of parliament. This supremely irrational idea was actually inspired. It meant that on big occasions – major debates, Prime Minister’s Question Time – the place would be crammed, standing room only. The only reason is drama. In comparison, my visits to the Senate and House resembled touring a morgue. As Blair and Hague sparred, the yelling is even more deafening than on television. And the design – also Churchillian – means that one side is literally facing right at the other, pointing fingers, laughing, braying, and uttering that weird, deep “here, here, here,” that signifies approval. Huge fun. The Greeks understood that politics is part-drama. And the English do too. Bored and amused hacks and hackettes peer ironically down at the scene from the press gallery, scribbling their daily “sketches” of parliamentary debate that are as much a staple of British newspapers as the obits. Good-government types lament the ‘trivialization’ of politics into this sort of sitcom. But it’s deeply revealing of character and, in the hands of a master-debater like Hague, can elicit more revealing answers than a Presidential press conference. Blair, although he’s perfectly adequate at his task, clearly hates it all. Before him, Prime Ministers went to the Commons twice a week for a grilling. He cut that to once a week (an unwritten Constitution lets him get away with it) and would much rather be listening to a focus group than facing a bear-pit of rabble-rousers. But Hague equally clearly loves it. Not that the public seems to notice. These are quiet times here, and drama seems somewhat out of place. But I had a blast nonetheless.
The Dish 