Celebrities in Politics: a Cure
By Charles Krauthammer
Now that inflation -- too many dollars chasing too few goods -- has been all but licked, we have a new problem: too many celebrities chasing too few political opportunities. Writer Mickey Kaus calls the celebrity-politics plague "celebritics." Not the old-fashioned type, where celebrities are bused in by the gross to glitz up a rally or other political event. But the new type, where the celebrity is the political event.
As, say, in Hands Across America, a 4,000-mile chain of hand-holding Americans planned for May 25 and supported by nearly 1,000 celebrities. "The largest number of celebrities ever assembled," says the proud promoter. Prince, we are told, has "bought" Mile 1. Walter Payton has a mile of his own. And Oprah Winfrey has declared, "My mile will be for people who can't * afford the $10 (standing fee). No rich people in my mile." Ah, the little people.
As, for another example, in the Great Peace March, a walk for nuclear disarmament from Los Angeles to Washington, kicked off by a star-studded concert in the Los Angeles Coliseum. Endorsements by Madonna and Rosanna Arquette (Desperately Seeking Negotiation?) proved not quite enough, however. Celebritics requires sustained star power. In part because of celebrity no- shows, the Great Peace March took a wobble last month at Mile 120, in the Mojave Desert. Its chief sponsor collapsed in bankruptcy. But several hundred survivors declared themselves ready to carry on as soon as they could get essential supplies, including, says Spokeswoman Lisa Bell, throat lozenges, cough syrup, herbal teas, vitamins and honey-dried fruits. Eastward ho!
More traditional, though by now epidemic, is the celebrity candidate. In 1986 alone, there will be one Love Boat star, two Kennedys and a perfect-game pitcher (Jim Bunning, Philadelphia Phillies vs. New York Mets, June 21, 1964) running for Congress. Clint Eastwood ran for mayor of Carmel-by-the-Sea, Calif. (1 sq. mi., no street addresses, 67 art galleries, 40 jewelry stores) and won in a walk. And there have been near misses: in the past year, we have come close to seeing Harry Belafonte run for the Senate in New York, and Charlton Heston and Fess Parker (Davy Crockett, to you and me) run for the Senate in California. (That would make for a certain symmetry, since the other California seat was once held by Song-and-Dance Man George Murphy.)
A presidential preference poll taken in February among Democrats had Lee Iacocca, autobiographer and star of a popular TV commercial, coming in third -- and he's a registered Republican! No matter. He is, as the pundits used to say, "presidential timber." Only now one says he has "star quality," what the French might call that mysterious "je ne sais quoi." Or, as Woody Allen once put it, that "je ne peux pas." Peter Ueberroth certainly has it. It is only a matter of time before he declares for something or other. Does he belong to a party? Who knows? Who cares? He is made in the U.S.A. That's enough.
Here's the problem. On the one hand, the glut of celebrities in politics makes it unfair for competitors. Little Joe Kennedy is going to wipe out some very worthy opposition in the race for Tip O'Neill's seat. As was once said of Uncle Ted, if his name had been Edward Moore instead of Edward Moore Kennedy, he'd be at the back of the pack.
On the other hand, there is the unfairness to the celebrity. I mean, why should Fess Parker have to shake hands at the factory gate -- after what he did at the Alamo? Nor is it right that Kennedys should have to compete for office and risk the indignity of, one day, losing. The British would never permit, say, Prince Andrew or his intended, "Fergie," to be so tarnished. There must be a better way.
There is, and as usual, the British have found it. The British also had a problem: a class of people with inordinate prestige, influence and money (conferred there, as here, for reasons inexplicable and by now unremembered), and with a penchant to turn them into political power. In Britain, this class goes by the name nobility, and the combination of its idleness and ambition has always been a problem.
The Brits don't like to invent solutions. They prefer to muddle through to one. This one took a few centuries, but they managed it: take all your dukes and marquesses and earls and viscounts, pack them into one chamber, call it the House of Lords to satisfy their pride and then strip it of all political power. It's a solution so perfectly elegant and preposterous that only the British could have managed it.
In this country, of course, we don't have a nobility, the idea having been outlawed by the Founding Fathers (who nevertheless insist on being known by capital letters). Human nature and affectation being what they are, we have naturally produced a nobility of our own, somewhat more transient although hardly less worthy than the British kind. Their lordships were created by the Sovereign, ours by Sam Goldwyn. Theirs try to be seen with the Queen, ours with Joan Rivers. What our crowd lacks in gravitas, it makes up in laughs. Nor has it produced a noticeably poorer class of peer. Both seem equally to enjoy the company of Koo Stark.
Still, the problem of idle ambition persists. The British example suggests a solution: a third American house of Congress, devoted to and peopled exclusively by celebrities. A House of Bores. Headquartered, to keep the commute tolerable, in the Hollywood Palladium.
Who qualifies? In most cases, heredity and genealogy are of little help, Kennedys and Rockefellers excepted. So a few rules of thumb suggest themselves. A seat-for-life for an Oscar, two PEOPLE magazine covers or 100 minutes (lifetime) spent with Merv Griffin. Lesser folk, with only a guest appearance or two on Miami Vice, may serve on committees.
Now the great boon of this proposal. Henceforth, as in Britain, only commoners will be allowed to sit in the lower houses, in this case meaning the House of Representatives and the Senate. No celebrities permitted. As soon as a person achieved that rank, he would, like a commoner become a peer in Britain, be sentenced to life in the upper chamber and oblivion.
To avoid that fate, British lords have been known to give up their titles. Like Sir Anthony Wedgwood Benn, Viscount Stansgate, who gave up his title and most of his name (he goes by Tony Benn now) to keep his seat in the Commons. It's not clear what a comparable rule in this country might be, though a vow never to appear on Carson or eat at Elaine's would be a start.