La Noonan hits it out of the park

La Noonan hits it out of the park

by digby

Peggy Noonan, worshiper of jesus dolphins and Ronald Reagan's elegant feet, has outdone herself today with an imagined outline for one of the slated Hillary movies. Yes she goes there, and goes there in such magnificently lugubrious La Noonan fashion that I think this may just define her ouvre forever more.

It's very long and you must read it all to fully appreciate it. But here's just a tiny amuse bouche to whet the appetite.  We've done the early days at this point, in which the awkward, Eleanor-esque "ugly duckling" fails to properly wear a headband and repeatedly gets humiliated at the hands of the pretty girls who thinks she "comes on strong." She's met and married Bill, whose mother (in a "comic scene") tarts her up to "look like a whore" and teaches Hillary that she has something to learn from women who didn't go to Ivy League schools. Finally:

The Clintons take the White House. Burst of hope. Hillary has new first-lady role, one that recognizes the importance of women. She is not some Christmas tree ornament in the East Room but a serious policy official in charge or remaking U.S. health care. She will get the poor, the minorities, and the women covered. America says: Whuh? Hearings. Anxious Hill Republicans awed by her, unsure how to play it. It is Pat Moynihan of her own party, in the Senate, who defeats her bill. The Clinton White House forgot not to disrespect the ol’ crocodile.

Defeat, retreat, mascara. Triangulation: Is this good? Does it mean we’ve become what we hated? Or does it mean we’ve become practical? The point is power. Preserve it at all costs. Lincoln bedroom good place to park donors. You have to compromise to win.

Triumph. Economy good. Rope-a-dope Newt and the Contract With America nuts. Good legislation. Finally, everything good. The future all sunrise.

But woven throughout a sense of . . . women. Scene: A beautiful blond gives a last lingering look back at the Oval Office as she hurries away in the morning light. Hillary, on her way to a breakfast celebrating funding for women and children in poverty, sees. On her face we see surprise, confusion—she thought this was all over—and fear.

Then: Monica. Tears, “How could you ruin what we’ve built?” Scandal, horror, rage, slap.

The silence at Martha’s Vineyard.

Repair. Reading. Eleanor Roosevelt biographies. Scene: Hillary is alone, looking out the window of the residence. In the background, Bill’s televised deposition. She stares at the tourists at the fence. They want in. She wants out. They’re freer than she is, locked up in this cage, locked in by her choices. Scene: She’s with girlfriends late at night in the residence. They’re telling stories, commiserating, drinking wine. “When Joe and I had our hard time we decided to stay in it, work it through. We had a life, a commitment, kids, a reasonable amount of love and a big sloppy dog. Looking back we did all right.” Another, a tough talking New Yorker: “Look, fall in love with a guy who can dance the Shirelles, ya gotta expect he’ll dance with a few shirelles!” Hillary laughs, hugs her. The conversation continues.

A Senate seat opens up. Moynihan, the ol’ crocodile, is leaving.

She runs in New York, where they love her. The poor, the marginalized, women: They too have been hurt by life.

There's more. So much more. She really put her all into it. So much so that I think someone should do a short movie about her, writing that column:

Scene: Noonan. Alone. Hungover. The stale scent of cigarette smoke and Hai Karate still clinging to what's left of her sagging brazilian blowout. The mid-afternoon sun peeks through the crooked slatted blinds as she desperately tries to summon the energy to crank out yet another column about Hillary Clinton. It's hard, so very hard. So many years. So many words. And she's still there.

She stares at her own reflection in the dark computer screen, absently fingering the pearls she never removes from her swanlike neck, even to shower. "How did she do it? The woman didn't even know how to wear mascara!" she whispers. Madness.

She closes her eyes briefly as the corners of her mouth turn up ever so slightly. "Ah, that's it," she sighs. "She's ugly. Most women are ugly, at least compared to me. Doesn't that explain it all?"

She hits a switch and the computer whirs to life. Noonan takes a long deep swig of her lukewarm latte and Makers Mark, flips her hair and starts typing.

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