The Mystery of Hillary Clinton

ICONFESS I’ve always had a soft spot for Hillary Rodham Clinton. But then, asked to name my favorite Marx Brother, I usually cite Margaret Dumont. In A Night at the Opera and A Night in Casablanca, she was the haughty, imperious grande dame standing on her dignity while Groucho prowled around, waggling his cigar at every other woman in sight. The rock, the anchor of every great double-act is always the straight man, and the best straight man—or woman—is one who never really gets the joke in the first place.

And so it goes in that long- running gag-fest Two Terms at the White House: Like Groucho, the leering Clinto waggles his (unlit) cigar and staggers from one catastrophe to another, but through it all Hillary Rodham Dumont remains ever more serene and queenly. It’s a magnificent performance, and harder than it looks: While most of the country seems content to have a president who’s a laughingstock, the First Lady has to glide by, pretending that the thongs and DNA aren’t there. To the public, Bill’s the funny one, with his amusing pants- drops and distinguishing characteristics. But, to old showbiz pros, to connoisseurs, that kind of shtick’s a little obvious: The genius in the act is Hillary. Not many of us would relish having to stand in front of an audience and crank out the same old lines night after night at rally after rally, in the stilted cadences of that computerized voice in your car that tells you to fasten your seat belt: “I. Am. So. Proud. Of. My. Husband. And. Our. President. Bill. Clinton.”

About the Author

Mark Steyn

Mark Steyn is an international bestselling author, a Top 41 recording artist, and a leading Canadian human-rights activist.

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ICONFESS I’ve always had a soft spot for Hillary Rodham Clinton. But then, asked to name my favorite Marx Brother, I usually cite Margaret Dumont. In A Night at the Opera and A Night in Casablanca, she was the haughty, imperious grande dame standing on her dignity while Groucho prowled around, waggling his cigar at every other woman in sight. The rock, the anchor of every great double-act is always the straight man, and the best straight man—or woman—is one who never really gets the joke in the first place.

And so it goes in that long- running gag-fest Two Terms at the White House: Like Groucho, the leering Clinto waggles his (unlit) cigar and staggers from one catastrophe to another, but through it all Hillary Rodham Dumont remains ever more serene and queenly. It’s a magnificent performance, and harder than it looks: While most of the country seems content to have a president who’s a laughingstock, the First Lady has to glide by, pretending that the thongs and DNA aren’t there. To the public, Bill’s the funny one, with his amusing pants- drops and distinguishing characteristics. But, to old showbiz pros, to connoisseurs, that kind of shtick’s a little obvious: The genius in the act is Hillary. Not many of us would relish having to stand in front of an audience and crank out the same old lines night after night at rally after rally, in the stilted cadences of that computerized voice in your car that tells you to fasten your seat belt: “I. Am. So. Proud. Of. My. Husband. And. Our. President. Bill. Clinton.”