Last winter, with no MLB games to set my clock to, I re-watched the first four seasons of Law & Order—a showcase for Michael Moriarty as Executive Assistant District Attorney Ben Stone, whose contentious departure (he was feuding with Bill Clinton’s horrific Attorney General Janet Reno because of her threatened clampdown on TV violence, too much for NBC) after the fourth season left the Dick Wolf ground-breaking cop procedural even more formulaic—and as you might expect for a TV show that began 36 years ago, it was a different landscape. The words “nigger,” “kike,” “mick,” “fag” and “dago,” for example, were sprinkled into the dialogue and didn’t cause much stir. What’s fascinating now is how often Donald Trump’s name is dropped, whether as a wealthy developer or staple of “Page Six.” It makes sense, since the series is set in New York City, but it’s a reminder of how long the current president has been a household name.
Not sure why, but in the past month I’ve re-watched the first two seasons of Aaron Sorkin’s popular The West Wing, which debuted in 1999, and grabbed me at time, not because of its abhorrent liberal dogma but for the fact I like political and legal TV shows and movies. (The last season of The Practice and spin-off Boston Legal, starring James Spader and William Shatner, were far superior.) I can’t stand supernatural or space-predominated entertainment, but generally, as someone who’s seen all seven seasons of The West Wing, I’m not really a TV snob.
The West Wing is diminished by a lot bad acting (Bradley Whitford, Martin Sheen as President Josiah Bartlet, John Spencer as chief-of-staff), and its silliness is distracting, but it’s a decent reminder of what centrist politicians and journalists remember as the “the normal days” when politics was perceived as more than entertainment. That’s not entirely true, although the volume was at five rather than 14—“In your guts, you know he’s nuts,” about Barry Goldwater in 1964 and “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?” during the mid-late-1960s—and one supposes there was less (at least in public) squabbling in the White House, as Trump replaces cabinet/advisers on a whim.
But Sheen’s President Bartlet, with angels on his shoulder, is comical: a commander-in-chief who knows, and trots out quotes from, the Bible, Shakespeare, Walt Whitman, and every word of the Declaration of Independence and the Magna Carta; is alternately “one of the guys,” playing poker and making chili and then demands a “Thank you, Mr. President” from everyone who speaks to him; is keen on gossip (unless it’s about daughter Zoe—a winning Elizabeth Moss—who, but of course, is dating a young black man; and bores his aides on arcane topics. My favorite part is that Bartlet, not unlike Bill Clinton, gets angry when he has to compromise with Republicans, but almost always does. Sheen, whose character’s family is entrenched in New Hampshire for so long that one of his descendants received a gift from Paul Revere, only half-attempts a New England accent.
Allison Janney, who plays the White House press secretary (often tangling with reporter Timothy Busfield, now exiled for his arrest over sexual assault) is the best actor on The West Wing, with a wit that comes naturally and is the only character (aside from the dry, and wonderfully sarcastic Richard Schiff as chief communications director) who draws real laughs from at least this audience of one. Janney’s probably the most ubiquitous actress in the business, although she’s not a patch on J.K. Simmons, who not only stars in movies and TV shows, but plays bit characters and… is in demand for commercials. That guy, who can’t be so hard-up for dough, apparently just loves to work. And I’ve never cared for Rob Lowe’s star turns in “Brat Pack” movies, but in The West Wing, after drying out after that sex tape of him at the ’88 Democratic Convention put him on the no-fly list, he does a pretty job (as Schiff’s assistant) for a very handsome guy without much talent.
That Lawrence O’Donnell, one of today’s most sanctimonious #NeverTrump public figures, wrote and produced countless episodes of The West Wing (even though he’s a wealthy “socialist”) says a lot about Sorkin’s fantasy White House, which might’ve been the inspiration for 2024’s short-lived Kamalot, the playground for most of the easily-suckered media. Writing in The New York Times in 2024, James Poniewozik, reminiscing about The West Wing, says: “It was the last of the big, morally uncomplicated network melodrama, and it knew how to pluck our heartstrings like a concert harp.” That’s so kooky, it sounds like Bartlet. Maybe the critic was heartsick, anticipating Harris’ presidential loss just five week later.
The accompanying picture is of two my older brothers, flanking me on the left and center, at a nephew’s wedding in Houston. The fading days of appropriate attire for such an occasion. It was an extended family weekend, the highlight an enormous barbecue spread at a shack about 25 miles outside the city. It was The West Wing’s last season, and I asked them—always up on politics—if they watched, and both shot me a look that said, “Are you nuts?”
Take a look at the clues to figure out the year: Mike Wallace makes his final appearance on 60 Minutes; South Beach, Love Monkey, Dexter, Ugly Betty and 30 Rock all debut on TV; Bill Frist is Senate Majority Leader; The Steelers win the Super Bowl; Warren Buffett leaves the board of the Coca-Cola company; Ang Lee wins Best Director Oscar; Google buys YouTube for $1.6 billion; Barron Trump is born and Lou Rawls dies; Alice Munro’s The View from Castle Rock and Will Self’s The Book of Dave are published; and Geraldine Brooks wins the fiction Pulitzer Prize.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023