Astor, Bogart in "The Maltese Falcon"
Something about Monday’s debate amongst Republicans vying for their party’s presidential nomination reminded me of Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon. They are all chasing after a legendary black bird that seems to be priceless but all too often turns out to be a lead simulacrum.
It’s one thing if candidates really had a vision of making the world a better place, and some may indeed be driven by higher motives. But so many of the candidates seem to be just after the celebrity status: they want something that no one else has and that everyone else wants. For them, the presidency is the equivalent of “a glorious golden falcon encrusted from head to foot with the finest jewels.”
To get this falcon, there are those willing to sell out things they believe in. Tim Pawlenty reverses himself and pretends there is no human-influenced climate change. He also asserts, contra every respected economist, that large tax cuts will solve every one of America’s economic problems (as opposed to plunging us further into debt). Mitt Romney is first pro-choice and then anti-choice; first for genuine immigration reform, then against it, then edging towards it again; first for the individual mandate to pay for Medicare coverage, then against it.
Their relationship to their principles reminds me of Guttman’s relationship with his young bodyguard Wilmer, whom he sets up to be the fall guy:
Well, Wilmer, I’m sorry indeed to lose you, and I want you to know that I couldn’t be any fonder of you if you were my own son; but—well, by Gad!—if you lose a son it’s possible to get another—and there’s only one Maltese falcon.
In singling out Pawlenty and Romney, I’m mentioning the viable and serious contenders, not the crazies.
One of those crazies is ably represented in the book by Bridget O’Shaughnessy, the story’s femme fatale. I’m thinking, of course, of Sarah Palin. Who may or may not be running.
Among the qualities that O’Shaughnessy and Palin share is the ability to make up facts on the spot. As Spade learns, O’Shaugnessy (or is she Wonderly or Leblanc?) can never be pinned down.
Think of the American public as Sam Spade, thoroughly fascinated by the woman but also thoroughly frustrated. Is Palin running for president or not? What’s the meaning of her current bus tour, which she says is just vacation but which happens to show up in strategic places (in New York for a luncheon with Donald Trump, in New Hampshire the day that Romney declares his candidacy)? Will we ever get a straight answer from her?
And now think of Spade as a frustrated supporter:
“I don’t give a damn about your honesty,” he told her, trying to make himself speak calmly. “I don’t care what kind of tricks you’re up to, what your secrets are, but I’ve got to have something to show that you know what you’re doing.”
“I do know. Please believe that I do, and that it’s all for the best, and—“
“Show me,” he ordered. “I’m willing to help you. I’ve done what I could so far. If necessary I’ll go ahead blindfolded, but I can’t do it without more confidence in you than I’ve got now. You’ve got to convince me that you know what it’s all about, that you’re not simply fiddling around by guess and by God, hoping it’ll come out all right somehow in the end.”
“Can’t you trust me just a little longer?”
“How much is a little? And what are you waiting for?”
I’m convinced that one of Palin’s attractions to a segment of the American population is sexual—she make guys feel virile around her. “Drill, baby, drill,” she tells them in her red high heeled shoes and her short skirts, and the result is huge billboards in my home state of Tennessee with the single word “SARAH!”
But would her fans’ lives be better if she were elected president? Or would she draw them close, as O’Shaughnessy does Spade’s partner, only to leave them with a gaping hole in their chests.
“We never believed your story,” Spade says to O’Shaugnessy early in their relationship, and I wonder if there’s some of that dynamic amongst Palin’s fan club—people don’t really think Palin would be a good president but are willing to be taken along for a ride. That’s true of Spade, who sees through O’Shaughnessy but is drawn in anyway. Note how he responds to her seduction, designed to make him feel manly:
[C]an’t you trust me a little? Oh, I’m so alone and afraid, and I’ve got nobody to help me if you won’t help me. I know I’ve no right to ask you to trust me if I won’t trust you. I do trust you, but I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you now. Later I will, when I can. I’m afraid, Mr. Spade. I’m afraid of trusting you. I don’t mean that. I do trust you, but–I trusted Floyd and—I’ve nobody else, nobody else, Mr. Spade. You can help me. You’ve said you can help me. If I hadn’t believed you could save me I would have run away today instead of sending for you. If I thought anybody else could save me would I be down on my knees like this? I know this isn’t fair of me. But be generous, Mr. Spade, don’t ask me to be fair. You’re strong, you’re resourceful, you’re brave. You can spare me some of that strength and resourcefulness and courage, surely. Help me, Mr. Spade. Help me because I need help so badly, and because if you don’t where will I find anyone who can, no matter how willing? Help me. I’ve no right to ask you to help me blindly, but I do ask you. Be generous, Mr. Spade. You can help me. Help me.
To which Spade, hard-boiled and cynical but impressed nevertheless, says,
You won’t need much of anybody’s help. You’re good. You’re very good. It’s chiefly your eyes, I think, and that throb you get into your voice when you say things like “Be generous, Mr. Spade.”
By the end of the novel, Spade finally acknowledges that he’s being taken for a ride. O’Shaughnessy cares only to secure the black bird of celebrity, and it doesn’t matter who gets trampled in the process. Spade must grit his teeth and turn her over to the authorities.
As he puts it, “I won’t play the sap for you.”
A good lesson to take into election season.
Added note:
Speaking of Sarah Palin fans, I notice that, according to a recent Slate article, the playwright and film director David Mamet sings her praises. It sounds as though Mamet is becoming reactionary in his old age but I’m not convinced that he was ever a leftist, even though some have held up a play like Glengarry, Glenn Ross as an expose of cutthroat capitalism in the real estate business. To me, however, the play is enthralled with, not critical of, the energies unleashed by male performance anxiety. I have always found something disturbingly cold about Mamet’s plays and films so it makes sense to me that he is now lashing out against what he sees as the softness of liberals and embracing Ayn Randian celebrations of powerful and wealthy men. In short, he is a success who gazes with contempt at those who can’t hack it and, even more, at those he sees as their enablers. He could be a character in one of his plays.
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