For this I want to thank my beautiful wife Kathleen. She knew the challenges of this wide-ranging project and how to meet them. It was her generous and strategic counsel that made this book possible.
I want to thank my dad for getting me excited about the movies and my high school English teacher Gerald Tremblay for getting me excited about literature.
I want to thank my editor Dominick Anfuso for his leadership and friendship in once again turning an exciting concept into reality; also his assistant Wylie O’Sullivan and my other friends at Free Press: Martha Levin, Carolyn Reidy, Michele Jacob, Alexandra Fox, Edith Lewis, Nancy Inglis, Paul Dippolito, and Beth Maglione.
I want to thank my brilliant researcher Richard Lee. To paraphrase the slogan of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, he always gets the goods.
Whether it was a scene from a movie, a line from a novel, a relevant work of criticism or an episode from history, my relentless colleague tracked it down. Rich advised and counseled me from the start. Without him, this project could not have been undertaken, much less completed.
Ben Simmoneau, my second researcher, was my other wise and energetic partner. His fine intelligence was critical at the project’s beginning, decisive in its final weeks. He was ably assisted by Inez Russo, also by Julia Bain, Lindsay Jaffee, Meghan Dwyer, and Kristen Thorne.
I want to thank Michele Slung, once again, for her brilliant editing and counsel. You are indeed a friend when I am in need. I want to thank my assistant Meaghan Nolan for her excellent coordination of the project. As always, I am indebted to my loyal, audacious literary agent Raphael Sagalyn, who encouraged my book writing career from the outset.
I want to thank Nancy Morrissey of U.S. Congressman Edward Markey’s office for her help with the Library of Congress, also Nancy Ives and Rebecca Hanks of Senator John McCain’s office. Special thanks to Tim Dirks and www.filmsite.org for his contribution to my movie research.
From MSNBC’s Hardball, I want to thank my Washington colleagues Dominic Bellone, David Schuster, Christina Jamison, Howard Mortman, and Kerri Forrest. For his dynamic leadership, I thank Hardball executive producer Philip Griffin, also senior producer Noah Oppenheim and my Hardball colleagues at MSNBC headquarters: Rani Brand, Court Harson, Mike Tirone, Rick Jefferson, Jeff Wynnyk, E. J. Johnson, Beck Schoenfeld, Jessica Jensen, and Falguni Lakhani.
My special thanks, of course, to NBC chairman Robert C. Wright, NBC president Andrew Lack, NBC News president Neal Shapiro, and MSNBC president Erik Sorensen.
Finally, I want to thank Richard Leibner for representing me so extraordinarily well in my television work. His professionalism, loyalty, and moxie are in a class by themselves.
Prologue
France was a land, England was a people, but America, having about it still that quality of the idea, was harder to utter—it was the graves at Shiloh and the tired, drawn, nervous faces of its great men, and the country boys dying in the Argonne for a phrase that was empty before their bodies withered. It was a willingness of the heart.
F. SCOTT FITZGERALD
This is one man’s look at his country. It’s also a look at America the way we Americans want to be looked at.
For me, it has been a journey of rediscovery, an often nostalgic trip back through the books and movies of my youth and those heroes whom I’ve never forgotten. It was thrilling to learn that what worked for me then works for me now.
The journey took me further than I expected, back to the very beginning of this country. In uncovering the kinship between my literary and cinematic upbringing and the heroic history of my country, I was struck by the potency of our shared American-ness.
Talk about power. What stirred the souls of our ancestors two centuries ago—and through all the generations in between—still does.
Our cowboy love of freedom is a prime example. While it can mean different things to different people, it’s at the center of everything we Americans care about.
But there’s a lot more to being—and feeling—American than that. And now’s a damn good time to say what it is.
For myself, the answer to the question of just who we are can be found in the great American romance we have been celebrating for over two hundred years. What I mean by that is the picture of America and Americans that grabs at even the toughest heart. The best part of writing this book was revisiting that romance. I went back to my favorite characters—from Shane to Jay Gatsby to Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. I saw that they are part of something bigger, anchored in our unique history, present even now in our contemporary politics.
What else did I learn?
That being an American means buying into some very distinct notions.
Start with our view of war. Remember the airport scene in Casablanca when Bogie gives up the girl he loves? He does it because he recognizes that even his desire for the beautiful Ilsa doesn’t “amount to a hill of beans” in the face of the ascendant Nazi evil. A stateless man of the world, he turns patriot once the stakes are clear.
George Washington would have understood. To the great general of the American Revolution, military action was a “last resort” and nothing more. War should be the exception to American life. He warned in his farewell address to avoid “permanent alliances” that would drag us into other conflicts. “I want an American character that the powers of Europe may be convinced we act for ourselves and not for others,” he told his friend Patrick Henry.
In today’s world Secretary of State Colin Powell, himself a former general, champions the same view. Like George Washington, he would be at home in Rick’s Café Americain. “War should be the politics of last resort,” he has written—and I believe he means it.
Our resistance to foreign entanglements is matched by our resistance to big government. It should be no surprise that the most beloved American political movie, Frank Capra’s Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, is about rot at the top.
Something of a scandal in itself when it opened in 1939, it showed the men running things in Washington as moral eunuchs. Angry senators stormed out of the premiere at Constitution Hall. The politically influential Joseph P. Kennedy, father of the future president, was so outraged that he demanded it be yanked from theaters.
This fable of youthful idealism triumphing over aging cynicism perfectly captures America’s mistrust of the ruling elite. We cheer for the gallant young Jefferson Smith, who refuses to be licked even when the entire establishment lines up to destroy him. It was his namesake, Thomas Jefferson, after all, who counseled that “a little rebellion now and then” was good for the country.
The spirit of the rebellious Mr. Smith lives on in the same way as does the reluctant fighter of Bogie’s Rick Blaine. If Secretary Powell can be considered the avatar of Bogie and George Washington, Senator John McCain is the embodiment of the democratic pugnacity that fueled the indignation of Jimmy Stewart’s Mr. Smith. As a defiant POW in North Vietnam, McCain stood up to his captors. As a U.S. senator, he has fought the corrupt role of money in politics with the same indignation as the celluloid Smith, once stirred to action, did.
There are other distinctly American notions:
■ We have this peculiar penchant for enshrining misfits as heroes. Think of the driven Ethan Edwards, as played by a demonic John Wayne, in The Searchers or that obsessed loner, Robert De Niro’s Travis Bickel in Taxi Driver. We love heroes who wouldn’t fit in unless they were heroes. Could this be because we as a country don’t quite fit with other countries?
■ Americans are a self-invented people. Here any person has a right to try and become who he or she wants to be. This could explain why The Great Gatsby retains its hold on our collective imagination. Even as it cautions against the grown-up dangers of acting out a youthful fantasy, it enshrines the lure that brings millions of people to this country ready to learn English, change their names, and grab for the brass ring.
■ We Americans love people who have proved themselves in action. This goes for writers as well as presidents. Ernest He
mingway is the Great American Writer—but not just because of the books he turned out. He was larger than life, certainly larger than anyone else sitting behind a typewriter. He was shot as an ambulance driver on the Italian front in World War I, ran with the bulls in Spain, and hunted big game in East Africa. By force of his life’s example, he took the writer’s life out of the garret and placed it against a panorama of high adventure.
■ Americans cherish the idea that any regular person can rise even to the country’s highest office, if they have the right stuff. Three of our most legendary presidents, Andrew Jackson, Abraham Lincoln, and Harry Truman, had practically no formal schooling. They were common men of uncommon ability, and that was what counts.
■ Americans root for the underdog. Oprah Winfrey is a media colossus for a reason. She does more than empathize with wounded people trying to heal themselves. She is someone who was hurt herself but refused to quit. This same unwillingness to stay down is what made Rocky a movie that had audiences applauding with tears in their eyes.
■ We are a country that will not abandon its pioneer past. The American frontier may be gone but its spirit lives on. From Daniel Boone in the Kentucky wilderness to Charles Lindbergh soaring high and alone above the choppy Atlantic to John F. Kennedy and his daring call to shoot for the moon, we Americans don’t like to get anywhere second.
■ We are also a country of unabashed optimism. Even our critics see in us a confidence about our future that sets us apart and that has a way of being self-fulfilling. In what were some of our darkest times—battling a huge economic crisis at home or military foes overseas—Franklin Roosevelt understood the thirst the American people have for optimism. “This great nation will endure as it has endured,” he said with perfect confidence that first day from the Capitol steps, “will revive and will prosper.” FDR was handsomely rewarded for his optimism with an unprecedented four terms as president.
■ Finally, we Americans see ourselves endowed with a special destiny. Even before the Puritans reached landfall, John Winthrop spoke of building a “city upon a hill,” a role model for all the world. Thomas Paine saw the American Revolution as a break not just with Europe but with the past. “We have it in our power to begin the world all over,” he wrote.
I write this book uplifted by the fact that America has outdone the grandest notions of its founders. Yet I worry that we might unknowingly forfeit this legacy of who we are.
I hope, as you read these chapters, you will grasp the stakes. We Americans learn early these notions from our shared past. If we’re lucky, they never leave us. They are what make us and our country great. The purpose of this book is to remind us of that single splendid fact.
CHAPTER 1
A Self-Made Country
The truth was that Jay Gatsby of West Egg, Long Island sprang from his Platonic conception of himself.
F. SCOTT FITZGERALD, THE GREAT GATSBY
There was once an upscale men’s shop in the Georgetown section of Washington, D.C., that featured a shiny metal nameplate over the door of its dressing room. It noted that the shop had been honored to have had among its patrons Mr. Cary Grant. It seemed that the gentleman had experienced some unusually warm weather during a visit to Washington and needed a lighter weight suit than he’d brought along. It concluded the historic note by saying Mr. Grant had used this very same changing room to try on his unexpected purchase.
Why would a relatively posh men’s store in a high-end neighborhood make such a big deal out of a movie star stripping down to his underwear on its premises? Why would a store serving the well-to-do and the sophisticated get so wobbly in the knees as to give this guy the “George Washington Slept Here” treatment?
The best answer is to see one of his movies.
In a whole string of roles from Topper, Bringing Up Baby, Holiday, and Gunga Din in the 1930s to His Girl Friday, The Philadelphia Story, and Notorious in the 1940s to To Catch a Thief, An Affair to Remember, and North by Northwest in the 1950s, Cary Grant was the very model of the debonair American gentleman. He was both democratic and aristocratic, a man so charming and self-assured that every woman wanted him, every man wanted to be like him. He was an acrobat in a business suit, a man of dignity with the subtle physicality of a clown, a regular guy knowing full well how fortunate he was to be wearing such an expensive, well-tailored suit.
“Do you know what’s wrong with you?” one of his screen partners had pretended to scold him. “Nothing.” Director Alfred Hitchcock dared to say, “Cary’s the only thing I ever loved in my whole life.”
As a matter of fact, the man we know as Cary Grant loved the idea of becoming this world-class charmer so much that he decided early in his adulthood to do it. Born in Bristol, England, in 1904, Archibald Alexander Leach was the son of a tailor’s presser. How he got from there to having his nameplate on a Georgetown men’s shop is a great American story.
He began as a working-class English kid doing pantomimes at the theater. Then he got himself into music hall acts mimicking the popular singers of the day. He later picked up some magic tricks. The praise he was denied at home he earned at the theater. Stagestruck, he came to America. Here he picked up odd jobs, earning five dollars a day, ten dollars on Saturday and Sunday, as a stilt-walker on Coney Island.
By 1931, Archie Leach was what he wanted to be—a working American actor. Landing the part of Cary Lockwood in a Broadway play, he liked the character’s first name and decided to take it. He added “Grant” to make him sound more American.
Watching the great playwright-actor Noël Coward in Private Lives he decided to be Coward.
To achieve this transformation, he spent endless hours practicing how Coward walked, how he spoke, even his facial expressions. “I pretended to be somebody I wanted to be and I finally became that person,” he would confess years later. “Or he became me. Or we met at some point.”
At the age of twenty-seven, the man we would love as Cary Grant was born.
It wasn’t as easy as it appeared. “I cultivated raising one eyebrow, and tried to imitate those who put their hands in their pockets with a certain amount of ease and nonchalance. But at times, when I put my hand in my trouser with what I imagined was great elegance, I couldn’t get the blinking thing out again because it dripped from nervous perspiration.”
What won Grant special devotion, however, was his refusal to deny who he was born. When we in the audience forgot about his background, he would remind us. “Listen!” he erupted in His Girl Friday, “the last man who said that to me was Archie Leach just a week before his throat was cut.”
“It was a knowing wink to the audience, his audience, a secret shared with strangers,” Grant’s biographer Graham McCann noticed. “It was the kind of gesture that would have endeared someone like Cary Grant to someone like Archie Leach. Cary Grant was not conceived of as the contradiction of Archie Leach but as the constitution of his desires.”
We couldn’t imagine him ever dying, of course. This was especially true as he aged gracefully, giving up films to become an executive with Fabergé. “I don’t know how I consider death,” he said. “So many of my friends have been doing it recently. My only fear is that I don’t embarrass others.”
He didn’t. Grant died at eighty-two during rehearsal for a touring one-man show featuring his old movie clips. “Everybody wants to be Cary Grant,” the actor once admitted amid all the fawning. “Even I want to be Cary Grant.”
Much like this beloved matinee idol, America itself is a confection. In the years after the Revolution, the Founding Fathers had a vision of a country and government they wanted. They then very consciously, not unlike Archie Leach, turned that vision into reality.
Confecting a Capital
On a June afternoon in 1791, two gentlemen on horseback looked down from Jenkin’s Hill onto a stretch of Maryland flatland banking the Potomac River. One, an architect, had designed a new national capital for this spot. The other, a trained surveyor, was the new government’s first
president.
Both Pierre L’Enfant and George Washington were men of vision and optimism. They had settled on a grand plan indeed: a capital city fit not for what had been just thirteen seaboard colonies but for a vast continental power. Jenkin’s Hill, which L’Enfant called a “pedestal waiting for a monument,” would one day be called Capitol Hill. L’Enfant’s blueprints would become the world capital bearing the name of his companion on horseback that day.
When you think about it, this country designed itself. Just as L’Enfant and Washington built a capital from scratch, so did Thomas Jefferson and James Madison and the others design a new kind of government on a blank page. And if it seemed precocious for a French-born architect who’d never before done anything like it to design a national capital, it was more precocious still for a group of men who had never done anything like it before to confect a country, to guarantee as “unalienable” a set of rights the world had never before recognized, to ensure not only its citizens’ lives and liberty but also their right to pursue “happiness.”
And just as Washington and L’Enfant set wide bounds for the future growth of the new capital’s geography, the designers of the Constitution generously conceived the new nation’s freedoms. Americans could decide who they wanted to be and try to become it. A country that had dared design itself based on its own grandest notions would not stand in the way of its citizens harboring and pursuing their own grand notions. America would be a place where a person could be who he or she wanted to be.
And it was to be a place were people thought big.
If L’Enfant could choose a “monumental concept, with a capitol building and a ‘president’s house’ ” connected by a grand “public walk” to serve as the national seat for thirteen recently united colonies, then the American people could dare to be equally monumental in charting the contours and heights of their own lives.
Chris Matthews Complete Library E-book Box Set: Tip and the Gipper, Jack Kennedy, Hardball, Kennedy & Nixon, Now, Let Me Tell You What I Really Think, and American Page 165