The talking head Beltway media mouths are covering the pellet-sprayed tort reform episode in Texas as if it's a story from some exotic culture, little-known in these parts, but somehow authentic to the mythical heartland that - as we all know - actually stands for the real America, and elects manly Presidents besides. The ultimate moment came when Chris Matthews asked Sen. Alan Simpson (in the role of Cheney hunting pal) to define what a covey of quail looks like, and to explain life out on trail "for guys like you and the Vice President." Matthews manfully copped to shooting some skeet in his time, but admitted somewhat sheepishly that he'd never shot at animals, wearing that "gosh, tell me about what real men do, Senator" grin as he probed the now-infamous blamfest with the Wyoming Republican.
This line of talk reveals a strange, even warped vision of authentic Americanism - one that ignores the fact that the huge majority of Americans live in cities or subdivisions, and hunt only for bargains on Playstations, flat screen TV's, and gasoline.
It also gives a style of hunting that can charitably be described as shooting fish in a barrel with fine Italian shotguns far more old-fashioned American macho credit than it deserves, as if wealthy hunters driving Hummers around a private ranch to blast away at cage-raised "prey" hold any fair comparison at all with the kind of tough, ready men of the outdoors - you know, the kind of guys who would spend weeks on end in the actual wild: herding, say, sheep or cattle and sleeping rough - two men to a small, wind-swept tent. Must get might lonely out there.
Then again, you know the tough, rawhide Brokeback Mountain types would never use a word like "covey" in their lives. Nor would they employ chauffers, dog-handlers, and drovers (not to mention a team of advanced life support medics) on their hunts for food - one group to chase the birds, some dogs to flush them, and another to mix the cocktails to perfection. In truth, the affair at the Armstrong Ranch bears far more resemblence to the famed hunting scene in the brilliant Robert Altman Gosford Park - a film about British aristocracy and societal mores - than it does to any hard-bitten piece of Americana. (The irony, of couse, is that Gosford Park gets the Americans all wrong - or at very least, reduces them to simple comic book characters for the sake of the plot). Even better is The Shooting Party, a forgotten mid-80s flick that is a diffident James Mason late career tour de force. One can see Sir Dick amidst the butlers and the game-keepers, all tweed and hip flasks, can't one?
The frontier motiff being rushed into print and onto TV screens - with its buckshot, heck yeahs, and flying pellets - is the worst kind of spin, playing as it does to finely-attenuated national myths. James Wolcott caught the vibe on Hardball just right:
...Simpson seemed to be racing toward senility like a long-lost lover as he put forth the proposition that it's news when the vice president gets shot, but heck, not when the vice president himself shoots someone, especially if they're not really hurt that much. His motto seemed to be "What happens at the ranch, stays at the ranch," and he stroked the word "ranch" with possessive frontier reverence, as if the "ranch" were some sacred inviolate no-news zone where the ghost of Jock Ewing broods through the clouds. It is a land of grizzled patriarchs, measuring their manhood in dead birds.
Seems to me this gauzy Americana now being shilled by the talkies doesn't ring true for another reason - you know, the scene when Wyatt Earp stands up, looks his fellow citizens in the eye, and tells 'em what's what. Dick Cheney's version of hunting is the snooty Gosford Park variety, all servants and set-ups, and posturing. And his reaction to a tough situation? Pure cut and run.
But with Harry Whittington back in ICU with a heart attack, maybe I'm playing the blame game a little too early.
UPDATE: Well, Newsweek's big piece by Evan Thomas on Cheney's lifestyle and personality change pretty much lifted my Gosford Park comparison - yeah, just a coincidence ... we all know Evan Thomas never reads blogs - but I guess I don't mind. Good piece. Here's his take:The VIP world inhabited by Cheney is perfectly symbolized by the Armstrong Ranch, where the hunting accident occurred. More than 50,000 acres of rolling country, the ranch is "Gosford Park" with a twang—not quite as gilded or as pampered as an English country house on a shooting weekend between the wars, but just as private and entitled in an understated, elegant way.
from Amazon.
