They Say Every Vote Counts

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"Salvatore, Feldman, O'Reilly, Nelson. That's an Italian, a Jew, an Irishman and a regular American there. What I call a balanced ticket."

Archie Bunker (Carroll O'Connor)

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As we approach the finish line for Election 2016, it is appropriate to observe the 45th anniversary of the All in the Family episode "The Election Story," that first aired on this night in 1971.

The episode was about a local election, and, as it is in this year's presidential election, one of the candidates was a woman. Mike (Rob Reiner) was supporting her and Archie (Carroll O'Connor) was opposed, setting up inevitable fireworks.

The big story in those days was the fact that the voting age had been lowered from 21 to 18 with the approval of the 26th Amendment earlier that year. Now an election in an odd–numbered year like 1971 would be considered an off–year election, and they certainly are rare, but some places do have them — and they have them in New York. In fact, a mayoral election was being held the day of the terrorist attacks that brought down the Twin Towers in 2001.

Did they have off–year elections in New York in 1971? I don't know, but in order to use the lower voting age angle in an episode, it was necessary to have one in the plot, whether one was scheduled or not.

And I guess the temptation to use it as a plot angle in an episode of All in the Family was simply too great.

If you think this year's campaign has had sexist overtones, go back and watch this episode of All in the Family. Sexism was much more blatant in the '70s than it is today. By comparison sexism is more of an implied — rather than overt — thing today.

When Archie learned that the candidate (played by actress Barbara Cason, who appeared in two other All in the Family episodes) Mike and Gloria were supporting was going to come by, he said he wanted her to "turn around on her broomstick and fly the hell out of here." Imagine, if you will, the reaction such a remark would receive today, whether in a TV show or on the stump.

When she arrived, Archie called her the "queen of the liberals."

Near the end of their conversation, Archie told the candidate that instead of running for office she should be running for a husband "because from where I sit you've got some running to do."

Now Archie was never what could be called politically correct — but many of the things he said in the '70s simply would not make it on the air today — even though many of George Carlin's "Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television" have become almost commonplace on television.

Resolve that one if you can.

Archie remarked that "Women and politics is like oil and gasoline. They don't mix." That would be a pretty volatile comment today.

Times certainly have changed. Women had been allowed to vote for half a century when this episode was made, but women running for office was still somewhat rare. Women being elected to office was rarer still.

In those days presumptive presidential nominees would dangle the names of women as possible running mates strictly to draw the attention of female voters. It was window dressing, nothing more. It wasn't until Walter Mondale in 1984 that a woman was actually nominated to run for vice president.

And it wasn't until this year, 45 years after All in the Family's "The Election Story," that a major political party nominated a woman for president.

The idea of a female nominee for president was likely little more than a fantasy in 1971. Only about a dozen or so women probably held seats in Congress at the time — and Congress seemed to produce most of the plausible candidates for president in those days.

Of course, a person's gender does not automatically make that person a good choice for public office. There are other factors that must be considered. Sometimes the female candidate is the better choice; sometimes the male candidate is the better choice. And sometimes the race is between two female candidates, just as for decades most campaigns featured two male candidates, which renders the whole subject of gender politics null and void — at least as far as that race is concerned.

As I say Congress tended to produce the front–runners for presidential nominations in the 1960s and 1970s. State governors have become more popular choices for the presidency in the last 40 years (even though no sitting governor has been nominated for president since George W. Bush in 2000). There were no female governors in 1971; there are six today.

So, yes, American politics has changed considerably since 1971 — even though there are those who continue to wage a battle against sexism, whether real or perceived.

One thing that hasn't changed is human nature. In this episode, it turned out that Archie wasn't planning to vote. Gloria (Sally Struthers) confirmed that for her astonished husband.

Archie insisted that he saved his vote for "the biggies" — "I don't waste it on these little meatball elections around here," he told Mike and Gloria.

He claimed that he "cherished" his vote — but most of the people I have known who would not exercise their right to vote were just plain apathetic. Not voting was not an act of patriotism for them. It was an act generally born of selfishness.

Apathy is a real problem in American politics, but it is a part of human nature — an unattractive part, to be sure, but a part nonetheless. And, to an extent, it is understandable. If polls suggest that a candidate is headed for a big victory, some voters may be discouraged from voting, figuring they can put the time to better use. People are so pressed for time these days.

Early voting has all but eliminated that concern in two–thirds of the states in the 21st century. It was not an option in 1971. Apathy needs a different excuse.

Anyway ...

Few things chase away apathy better than a desire to defeat a candidate, and Archie was filled with that desire after he met the candidate. So he and Edith (Jean Stapleton) headed off for the polls on Election Day — only to be told by Louise Jefferson (Isabel Sanford), who was working the polls, that his name wasn't on the list of registered voters.

Archie couldn't believe it. He had lived in that neighborhood his whole life. In fact, he told Louise, he voted for Nixon for president. Louise said he must still be on the list because Nixon had been elected just three years earlier.

Then Edith interjected. The election that Nixon won was in 1968. Archie didn't vote in that election. He voted for Nixon against John F. Kennedy in 1960.

Louise was astonished that Archie hadn't voted in 11 years. Archie insisted he'd been busy. "Something was always coming up," Edith said. "One time he had a bad toe spasm."

Archie was not permitted to vote. He had been inactive too long, but he tried to talk Edith into voting his way since he couldn't vote. Whether she would or not was left undetermined when she went into the polling booth.

Later, when Mike and Gloria tried to get Archie to switch the TV channel to election coverage, he tried to discourage them by telling them their candidate couldn't win. Mike said turnout had been heavy. "She might squeak through," he told Archie.

"Yeah, how would you feel if Claire won by only one vote?" Gloria asked.

"Or two," Edith piped up.

And everyone knew how she had voted.

I guess the moral of the story was that there are some things that are too important to be left to someone else. Voting is one of them.

Who Ya Gonna Trust?

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Kathy (Faye Dunaway): Do you trust him?

Turner (Robert Redford): [shaking his head] Trust.

Kathy: Does he trust you?

Turner: He's in the suspicion business. He can't trust anybody.

Kathy: How could anybody fool them?

Turner: Maybe nobody did.

Kathy: Then ...

Turner: Maybe there's another CIA ... inside the CIA.

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As Roger Ebert wrote about "Three Days of the Condor," which premiered on this day 40 years ago, the story was "all too believable" in the aftermath of Watergate.

That was kind of an ironic observation, given that, within a year, Redford would co–star with Dustin Hoffman in a movie about the early days of the Watergate investigation. (A friendly warning: If you haven't seen "Three Days of the Condor" before, the images of the World Trade Center that keep popping up can be a little unsettling even though they were really only props in the movie, and it was made about 26 years before the terrorist attacks brought them down.)

His co–stars in "Three Days of the Condor" were Faye Dunaway, Cliff Robertson and Max von Sydow. The director was Sydney Pollack.

"How soon we grow used to the most depressing possibilities about our government," Ebert wrote, "and how soon, too, we commercialize on them. Hollywood stars used to play cowboys and generals. Now they're wiretappers and assassins, or targets."

Considering the times we live in, that makes me wonder what we'll be seeing on our movie screens in the not–so–distant future.

In this movie, Redford played a target, a seemingly naive character who worked as a reader for the American Literary Historical Society, which was actually a front for the CIA. And Redford was a CIA analyst (code name: Condor) who read books and periodicals from around the world looking for concealed meanings. In the early part of the movie, he filed a report on a spy thriller he had been reading, commenting on unusual plot twists and the number of languages into which it had been translated in spite of the fact that it wasn't commercially successful.

Then, one day, when Redford was out getting sandwiches for the office, someone came in and shot up the place. When he returned, he found everyone dead.

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From that point on, you really had to follow the story carefully because, in true spy thriller fashion, people got shot on a frequent basis. Characters you thought you knew. Characters you didn't know at all.

Faye Dunaway entered the story as kind of an innocent bystander. Redford spotted her in a store and, needing a place to hide, forced her to take him to her apartment, where he held her prisoner while trying to decide on his next move. As time went by, they became lovers.

Max von Sydow played a shadowy contract killer who had been behind the shootings in Redford's office. He turned his attention to Redford, the one who got away.

Cliff Robertson played Redford's section chief, but Redford had never met him and, knowing the environment in which they both worked, didn't exactly trust him.

Perhaps now you can see why Ebert said the movie was believable. And I believed the story, too — except for the part about Redford and Dunaway becoming lovers after he had abducted her at gunpoint. Let me clarify that. I didn't believe it at the time I saw it; since that time, I have heard of a number of incidents in which an abductee did fall in love with the abductor. Seems to me that is called the Stockholm syndrome — when a hostage bonds with the abductor. Anyway, it has more credibility with me now.

And I suppose that must have been what the movie was portraying in the side story about Redford and Dunaway.

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Hey, it had to be. Dunaway took a shower and, when she came out of the bathroom, witnessed Redford shooting a guy who had been sent by his superiors to kill Redford. And she stayed with him.

You really had to pay attention to the story, or you would miss something important. For some people, that is simply too much work. For them, movies are for escapism, something that should wash over you while you devote little effort to the experience. Spy thrillers (well, the really good ones, anyway) aren't that way in print, and they aren't that way in the movies.

"Three Days of the Condor" seemed like the kind of movie Oscar usually rewards, but it only received one nomination — for Film Editing — and lost to "Jaws."

Revelations While Taking Out the Trash

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Fifteen years ago tonight, The West Wing took an interesting approach to the subject of hate crimes — which, as I recall, was only emerging as a social issue at the time. Another instance of The West Wing being ahead of the curve.

It also examined the practice of dumping a bunch of unappealing stories (from the White House's point of view) on the press on Friday afternoon. The timing is purely political. As Josh (Bradley Whitford) observed, "No one reads the paper on Saturday." One such story, apparently, was to be the signing of a hate crimes bill that had been inspired by the murder of a gay teen whose parents would be in attendance. C.J. the press secretary (Allison Janney) was warned that the parents might be a problem — the father, really. The mother seemed to be on board with the law, but the father was said to be uncommunicative. C.J. concluded that he was grieving for his son — until it was suggested to her that he might be embarrassed by the knowledge that his son was a homosexual.

If I hadn't been a teacher — and had to answer similar questions — I would have found it hard to believe that C.J. had the following exchange with White House reporter Danny (Timothy Busfield). But I had a conversation with one of my college students several years ago who was genuinely surprised to learn that many religious leaders — of all faiths — had so little tolerance for those who did not share their views.

C.J.: "Is it possible that a father could be embarrassed about his son being gay even after his son was murdered?"

Danny: "Yes."

C.J.: "Possible to the extent that he would be disinclined to support a law that would impose stiffer penalties on the perpetrators of hate crimes, including the ones who tied his 17–year–old son to a tree and threw rocks at his head?"

Danny: "Yes."

C.J.: "It eludes me."

Danny: "I know."

So C.J. met with the parents and tried to confront the issue — and she and the viewing audience were stunned to learn that they had misunderstood the father's response. He was angry that the government and, in particular, the president hadn't done enough for gay rights.

The West Wing was good at that — throwing you a high hanging curve like that when you were looking for a fastball.

There was also an amusing side story about a report on sex education and sexual behavior among young people and a proposed program that encouraged abstinence among young people. A more liberal slant was given the program by renaming it "Abstinence Plus," which apparently encouraged everything except activity that could lead to the conception of a baby. Sam (Rob Lowe) was said to have nicknamed it "Everything But."

There were always several stories going on in an episode of The West Wing, especially in that first season when it was building a devoted audience base; eventually, though, they were all shown to be relevant to each other.

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An ongoing topic in the series in that first year was the revelation that the president's chief of staff (John Spencer) was a recovering alcoholic and drug abuser. The information had been leaked to leaders of the Republican Congress.

Turned out that a young intern had been the source of the leaked information, and Sam had her fired.

But Leo (Spencer) asked for her to be brought to his office before she left. He wanted to talk to her, to get to know her, to find out why she had leaked the information. When they were done, Leo gave her back her job — another interesting twist that probably wouldn't happen in a modern White House. I'm not so sure it would have happened then, either, but it is nice to think that there was a time in our history when people of principle still held positions of power in America.

How to Change the Subject

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Tracy (Kirsten Dunst): What would they do to me if I did tell someone about this?

Conrad (Robert De Niro): They could come to your house in the middle of the night and kill you.

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I thoroughly enjoyed "Wag the Dog," which debuted on this day in 1997, and to no small extent because I understood and appreciated the nature of the title. But it did require a little explanation.

When I first heard the title, I thought it was the name of a character — you know, like Bozo the Clown. Logically, I figured that it was a dog named Wag and, if the title character was a dog, it must be a cartoon — you know, kind of like Felix the Cat — although perhaps not (this was around the time that "Babe" was in the theaters).

But then I discovered it was a variation of the old saying that "the dog wags the tail, the tail doesn't wag the dog."

When applied to a political context — as it was in this movie — it meant to distract public attention from a matter of great importance to focus on a matter of lesser importance — or, in the case of this movie, a matter that didn't really exist.

In the movie, the president is facing the voters in his bid for re–election. Foolishly, he sexually assaults a member of some Firefly Girl group that is visiting the White House in the closing days of the campaign, and he needs the help of a spin doctor played by Robert De Niro to get him over the hump (as it were) to Election Day.

(In my own defense, the plotline encouraged some really bad puns.)

De Niro, in turn, recruits a Hollywood producer (Dustin Hoffman), who is bitter over never receiving the recognition he craves for the work he has done, to help him create a phony war to distract attention from the abuse allegations.

And, thus, an elaborate deception was born.

Hoffman's character put together such an impressive visual depiction of a war that he himself observed it was "the best work I've ever done in my life, because it's so honest."

Well, honesty was relative.

Or, in the words of the movie's producers, "Why does a dog wag its tail? Because a dog is smarter than its tail. If the tail were smarter, the tail would wag the dog."

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Hoffman's undoing was in not being satisfied with the knowledge that it was his "best work." He wanted the credit that had been denied to him throughout his career.

"You're playing with your life," De Niro's character warned him, but he wouldn't listen — and he wound up dying shortly thereafter, officially of a heart attack while sunning himself by his pool.

Overseeing all of this was Anne Heche's character, Winifred the presidential adviser who acted as the buffer between the president and everything else. At times, she was severely tested, as when she was informed that the hand–picked "hero" of the fictional conflict — played by Woody Harrelson — was an unsavory sort who had been convicted of raping a nun.

"Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God," she kept muttering.

Hoffman assured her that, as long as the "hero" took his medication, "He's fine."

What if he doesn't take his medication, Heche's character wanted to know.

"He's not fine."

To be fair to Hoffman's character, he did design a credible war backdrop for the cover story, enlisting Kirsten Dunst to play a peasant girl running from assailants with a kitten in her arms (the kitten and the scenery and sound effects would be edited in later — Dunst was told to run through a sound stage carrying a bag of tortilla chips).

In a classic example of the misdirection used by the spin doctor and his associates, De Niro's character urges people like the press secretary to make up denials about non–existent rumors — such as the one about the B–3 bomber.

There is no such thing, of course, and no one had been talking about it, but De Niro's character still protests that he doesn't know how such rumors get started — and the direction of the conversation is changed.

Roger Ebert made an intriguing observation in his review of the movie in the Chicago Sun–Times: "It's creepy how this material is absurd and convincing at the same time. ... Even when a conflict is real and necessary ... the packaging ... is invariably shallow and unquestioning; like sportswriters, war correspondents abandon any pretense of objectivity and detachment, and cheerfully root for our side."

Coincidentally, the movie came out around the same time that Bill Clinton's relationship with Monica Lewinsky was in the news, and he was facing impeachment. The Clinton administration also engaged in some saber rattling against Iraq — which critics alleged was an attempt to shift the focus of the public conversation. It was, they said, a real–life "Wag the Dog."

"['Wag the Dog'] is a satire that contains just enough realistic ballast to be teasingly plausible," Ebert wrote, "like 'Dr. Strangelove,' it makes you laugh, and then it makes you wonder."

It still does.

All The President's Men

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I guess the really implausible part of the whole Watergate story was the idea that the president of the United States — a man who had been nominated for national office five times and had been elected president twice — could be such a charlatan.

That was the great leap that I believed most people had to take. They had to accept that they had been so utterly fooled by Richard Nixon — when they should have known better.

I reflected on that in March 2010 when Turner Classic Movies was set to televise the film.

At the time, I was baffled by TCM's decision to show the movie when it did — TCM's annual "31 Days of Oscar" had just concluded, I observed, and then I pointed out that the scheduling decision may have had something to do with the fact that March 4 had been the traditional inauguration day for presidents until the 1930s.

By the time of the Nixon presidency, I observed, inaugurations were held on January 20, as they are now. The only link between the date the film was scheduled to be shown and the film itself was the presidency.

"But the thing is that a movie about Watergate," I wrote, "has a great deal of relevance to the presidency — well, presidential power, at least. And Watergate was the story of how one president abused his power beyond the point that most Americans would have thought possible."

The thing that made the story implausible in real life also made it implausible in the often fantasy world of the movies.

And the reason why few newspapers picked up the articles that were printed by the Washington Post in the early days of the investigation — and, consequently, relatively few Americans had heard of Watergate when they went to the polls in November 1972 — was neatly summed up by one of the Post's editors following a staff meeting during the movie.

The Democratic challengers to insurgent candidate George McGovern were self–destructing in the spring of 1972, which made the activities at the Watergate (about a month before the Democrats were scheduled to nominate McGovern) even more suspicious. Nixon appeared to be on his way to an easy victory that fall. Why would the Republicans feel the need to do something like that?

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But even in the fantasy world of motion pictures, the idea that someone like Nixon (who was as despised — even by those who voted for him — as any public figure I have seen in my lifetime) could hoodwink millions and be elected president twice seemed too incredible.

In 1976, nearly two full years after Nixon resigned, that idea was still too far out there for some people — even though movie audiences of that time readily accepted stories that dealt with the concept of the antichrist, a giant ape on the loose in New York City, a telekinetic (and vengeful) high school girl who wrecks her prom and a past–his–prime boxer who gives the defending champ a run for his money.

There was nothing make–believe about the people in "All the President's Men," and one of the best was the rather understated character of Washington Post editor Ben Bradlee — portrayed admirably by Jason Robards.

Robards delivered some of my favorite lines in the film ...

Like when he said, "We're about to accuse Haldeman, who only happens to be the second most important man in this country, of conducting a criminal conspiracy from inside the White House. It would be nice if we were right."

Or when he said pretty much the same thing when he reminded Woodward and Bernstein that they were "about to write a story that says the former attorney general, the highest–ranking law enforcement officer in this country, is a crook!"

But especially when he urged them, near the end, to get some rest. The lesson was that there is no rest for those who protect freedom from those who would chisel away at it. Constant diligence is required, the same as is asked from those who stand between you and identity thieves — or between you and terrorists.

After 15 minutes of rest, Robards told Woodward and Bernstein, "Get your asses back in gear. ... Nothing's riding on this except the First Amendment to the Constitution, freedom of the press and maybe the future of the country. Not that any of that matters, but if you guys f**k up again, I'm going to get mad."

Even if you've seen it before, watch it again. It's a reminder of how important a free press is in a free society.

The Stackhouse Filibuster

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"Don't ever, ever underestimate the will of a grandfather. We're madmen, we don't give a damn, we got here before you and they'll be here after. We'll make enemies, we'll break laws, we'll break bones, but you will not mess with the grandchildren."

President Bartlet (Martin Sheen)

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It's hard for me to believe that it was 10 years ago today that one of my favorite West Wing episodes was shown for the first time.

The program was aired about three–quarters of the way through the series' second season — which was a season of incredibly high quality, I must say. And I couldn't imagine what the creators of the series would do for an encore — until later that year, after terrorists hijacked four airplanes and crashed three of them into the Twin Towers and the Pentagon, postponing the start of the season and inspiring Aaron Sorkin to write "Isaac and Ishmael" for the West Wing.

It aired less than a month after the attacks.

Although it had no real place in the time line of the series, the episode was its highest rated of the year and is still mentioned by people in conversations about Middle Eastern history and conflicts.

That, of course, was still in the future.

On this night 10 years ago, I marveled at the story I saw (co–written by Sorkin, by the way) and literally couldn't imagine how the program, which had long since become my favorite on network TV, could be any better.

As a matter of fact, the series actually did exceed the standard it reached on this night a decade ago a couple of times before the season ended. And it would match or exceed that standard several times before going off the air in 2006.

But at the time, in nearly two full seasons, it was a level the series had rarely achieved, even though it had already developed its reputation for quality writing, acting and, well, everything.

In the episode, the West Wing staffers were anticipating a big congressional victory with their health care legislation that appeared to enjoy bipartisan support and were focusing on their plans for the weekend when an unexpected filibuster began in the Senate.

The filibuster was the "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington" kind in which a single senator ties up the chamber, which is sort of old–fashioned these days. Modern filibusters tend to be more organized, more coordinated, and they tend to resemble tag–team wrestling matches, but this filibuster, like the one in the old Jimmy Stewart classic, was engineered by a single senator.

That senator was a character named Howard Stackhouse, an elderly senator from Minnesota who had proposed an appropriation to fight autism but had been turned down. That request had been inspired by Stackhouse's love for his autistic grandson, a motivating point that he did not mention, but the White House staffers figured it out, and they rushed to help.

After an impassioned defense of grandfathers, the president told his personal aide, "I want to call senators. We'll start with our friends. When we're done with those two, we'll go on to the other 98."

The story of Stackhouse's improbable battle was told through three characters' e–mails to relatives.

One of the best lines in the story came from C.J. Cregg, the press secretary, who was explaining to her father why she wouldn't be able to attend his milestone birthday party.

"Tonight, I've seen a man with no legs stay standing, Dad, and a guy with no voice keep shouting," she wrote. "And if politics brings out the worst in people, maybe people bring out the best."

There were gathering clouds in the story that would play roles in the series for years to come, and followers of the series could look at that show now and see foreshadowing of future problems with the vice president — and the president's deception about his health.

But few dramatic TV episodes could match "The Stackhouse Filibuster" when it came to inspiration.

'All I Know Is What I Read in the Papers ...'

Will Rogers knew considerably more than he read in the papers. His gift was his ability to paraphrase it.

It takes a brilliant mind to make some of the observations he made during his lifetime — a lifetime that began on this date in 1879.

By the time of his death in 1935, Rogers was the highest-paid performer in Hollywood, having made 71 movies. He also wrote more than 4,000 nationally syndicated newspaper columns.

"You know everybody is ignorant," he wrote in the New York Times in 1924, "only on different subjects."

In 1931, after it had been suggested that he should run for president, Rogers wrote, "A comedian can only last till he either takes himself serious or his audience takes him serious."

And, in a thinly veiled reference to President Calvin Coolidge's declaration a few years earlier that he did "not choose to run," Rogers wrote, "I not only 'don't choose to run' but I don't even want to leave a loophole in case I am drafted, so I won't 'choose.' I will say 'won't run' no matter how bad the country will need a comedian by that time."

Even today, more than 70 years after the plane crash in Alaska that took his life, Rogers has words of wisdom to share with the men who are vying today for the presidency.

If Barack Obama loses today's election, it would be appropriate for Democrats to reflect on this 1931 observation by Rogers: "Politics has got so expensive that it takes lots of money to even get beat with."

And if John McCain loses today's election, he and the Republicans should remember the advice Rogers offered to Al Smith after he and the Democrats lost to Herbert Hoover in 1928: "We can make this thing into a Party, instead of a Memory."