God and Man in Iowa

When it comes to combining delusion, disaster, and Iowa—three essential elements of this past political week—almost nothing can beat “A Foreign Affair,” a 1948 film by Billy Wilder. It was shot in Berlin, amid the uncleared rubble. In one scene, Marlene Dietrich, as a cabaret singer in an underground bar, persuades an Iowa congresswoman on an inspection tour, played by Jean Arthur, to sing her state’s song, “Iow-ay.” (“That’s where the tall corn grows!”—see video, below.) A crowd of G.I.’s, who had been belting out “Deep in the Heart of Texas,” join in, the congresswoman is lifted onto their shoulders—and then, as M.P.’s come in to raid the place, she finds herself clinging to a steampipe, her legs dangling in the air.

And that, without the music or Marlene, is about where an observer of a blasted political scene was left hanging after the Iowa caucuses on Tuesday night. Mitt Romney and Rick Santorum each got about twenty-five per cent; they were separated by just eight votes, and by the subtly differing reasons most voters didn’t like or trust them, or believe they could win. The Texans in this farce—Ron Paul and Rick Perry, who finished third and fifth with about twenty and ten per cent of the vote, respectively—proved just as useless as the singing soldiers in providing clarity. (Perry, haltingly reading a letter from a real soldier, managed to convey nothing other than his pleasure that the soldier thought highly of him.) Meanwhile, the damage wrought in the campaign so far, to the Republican Party and to the sanity of anyone watching each of the debates, has been profound.

What sort of ideals have been affirmed by the Iowa caucuses? Political reporters expressed something like humble wonder at the sight of people actually voting; an understandable reaction, maybe, given what a long path it’s been. But pulling off a free election in the middle of the United States doesn’t exactly seem like a milestone. And while there was certainly an assertion of popular common sense in Newt Gingrich’s weak fourth-place finish—it had looked, two weeks ago, like he might win—the role that unchecked Super PAC spending played in his defeat has to make one wary of what’s to come. (As John Cassidy wrote recently, Gingrich was among the first victims of the Supreme Court’s Citizens United decision.) Is the reason to cheer for Iowa simply that the music has finally stopped, and we’re done with it?

What will be more telling, perhaps, is how the Republican candidates, in the primaries and caucuses to come, address the ideals and most personal beliefs of others. A party whose base has increasingly been oriented around the interests of politicized evangelism finds itself with a tie between a Mormon and a Catholic. (The “entrance polls” in Iowa, like many others so far, showed one set of numbers for those identifying themselves as “evangelical or born again,” and one set for those who do not.) One has been left to wonder how much of a factor Romney’s religion has been in his troubles with Republican voters. (They have so many non-sectarian reasons to suspect him that it’s hard to tease out.) In the 2008 election, as Hendrik Hertzberg noted at the time, Romney attempted to ingratiate himself by drawing a circle around the followers of organized religions generally, while casting aspersions on those who led a secular life. Santorum, meanwhile, has made religious beliefs about matters such as family planning and romantic relationships cornerstones of his political program.

We are more than a half century removed from John F. Kennedy’s campaign to be the first Catholic President. In a speech that he felt he needed to give, at the Greater Houston Ministerial Association, he said,

For while this year it may be a Catholic against whom the finger of suspicion is pointed, in other years it has been, and may someday be again, a Jew—or a Quaker or a Unitarian or a Baptist.

Watching his speech on the subject now, one is struck not only by his words but by the expressions on the faces of the people who are listening—really listening, it appears, to words thoughtfully spoken:



This has not been the spirit of the speakers or the audience in the dozen or so debates so far. What will we see in the six scheduled for January alone, not to mention the ads that will air in the weeks and months ahead? What will the candidates, and their surrogates, have to say about each others’ religions? Or about people who have no religion at all, and—one hopes this won’t need to be said—are no less faithful citizens for it? (Kennedy, in a crucial phrase, spoke of the right to attend “or not attend” the church of one’s choice.)

Discussions of faith have not been absent from the Republican race so far—not even close. We haven’t been hearing Perry compare himself, or Bachmann’s supporters compare her, to Tim Tebow of the Denver Broncos because of Tebow’s football skills (such as they are) but because of his evangelism. We’ve even had to hear about Newt’s road to Damascus, or wherever it is he’s been wandering between wives.

But as we get to the playoffs, the protestations and pandering may turn into a discussion of God and man and the electorate that is far more intense, and potentially ugly. It could also be illuminating. Even in the dingiest bar, in an urban ruin or a hotel in New Hampshire, there is always, at least theoretically, the possibility that one might, suddenly and unexpectedly, hear a joyful noise, or at least a few, stray, rational words from one of the candidates. And yet that prospect seems remote: it would mean a different campaign, with a far different tone than we have seen and heard so far.

Original Article
Source: New Yorker