A Regular Guy

“The Woody” is billed as “the most outrageous inside Washington satire since ‘Primary Colors.’ ” “Primary Colors” was a wonderful book. But it wasn’t a satire. It was a realistic novel and a roman a clef.

A simple dictionary definition of satire is “the use of sarcasm or irony in exposing human folly.” It refers to works that use exaggeration or literalization of a metaphor to bring some aspect of reality into sharp relief. Examples that come instantly to mind are Aristophanes’ “Lysistrata,” in which the women of Sparta go on a sexual strike to stop war, and “A Modest Proposal,” in which Jonathan Swift suggests that the children of the Irish poor should be raised for food like piglets.

Presumably it is not Peter Lefcourt, a fine writer, but the nameless editor-packager, who has mis-billed the two books.

“The Woody” is dedicated to Gary Hart, Alan Cranston and Bob Packwood. As well it should be. It is a mix of their various troubles. Its hero is a senator named Woodrow “Woody” Wilson White, who is having difficulty getting a woody. Erectile dysfunction, a kidnapped dog, Vermont gangsters with early American history names and a sexy lobbyist willing to wear a nurse’s uniform and shave scrotums are Lefcourt’s additions to the public record.

“The Woody” works as an amusing comic romp. It has some funny lines, some humorous conceits, but as satire, it misses.

First up are the issues. We live in a rich, peaceful, ideologically fuzzy time. Our wars are brief. We believe in rights, generally, for everybody. The vast majority believe in consumerism as the highest good. The only moral issue that will move the average person to action is whether service providers and goods providers live up to their warranties. What we should care about, however, is corruption. It costs, in an extreme example, $10 million to run for a post that pays less than $150,000 a year. Where does that money come from? And what does it cost?

The quid pro quos involve access and long and incomprehensible bills and mean public relations so that the public thinks that bribery for the sake of some piece of new law might be a good idea. Might not. But might be. Fuzzy.

Satire needs something that puts corruption into such sharp relief that it burns through our habitual way of viewing things and makes us see clearly what conventional wisdom obscures.

In “The Woody,” White accepts two campaign contributions of $400,000 each. Assuming that is legal--which it’s not and that’s why we have the whole soft money situation--the things that the senator does in return are quite inoffensive. The quid pro quos are to support U.S. aid for Togo and federal funding for research into Tourette’s syndrome. Maybe we should do both.

It’s hard to satirize senators. Take former Sen. Bob Packwood. He was a political science geek who made it to the “most exclusive club in the world” through the intelligent and original application of very, very hard work. From the outside he appeared to be a great man leading an important life. But the inside was so empty it echoed. Instead of power being the greatest aphrodisiac, he was a loser with women. He was divorced. He had no family life. He had no private life. His innermost thoughts, as later revealed in his diary, were amazing only for their banality. Even his political fervor had hollowed out. His best friends were lobbyists. He had begun to take money and to solicit money in return for the sale of his votes.

The splendid irony is that corruption did not bring him down. Even though he was a strong supporter of women in his political life, it was an avenging feminist who destroyed him. Packwood had made passes at women. He had even gone so far, usually when inebriated, as to embrace and force unwanted kisses on them (that’s the most that ever happened on the record).

That’s a fascinating reality. A great realistic novel would have taken us into the heart of Packwood. A great satirical novel would have used its humor to savage the corruption, our acceptance of corruption and the perversities of feminism, PC be damned. In terms of outrageousness and comic invention, the ongoing reality of Clinton, Lewinsky, Longwood, Lott and Larry Flynt has outpaced the book.

Still, it’s possible to capture the Packwood syndrome and to satirize it. Warren Beatty’s “Bulworth” showed us the empty weariness that political money chasing leads to, and it came up with something more outrageous than reality: a senator who pays for his own assassination, falls in love with an African American girl, adopts her culture and runs as the rap candidate. It has an edge because it has issues, tackling a totally cash-run political system. That may be why it failed commerically, while “The Woody” went straight to the bestseller list. But Bulworth’s artistic success is so complete as to almost be definitive.

Lefcourt’s White is likable though his only issue is his own survival. In spite of the vicious wife with the Finnish lesbian ice skater lover and the dog-napping and the Italian Fascist house boy, Woody is a regular guy. He’s likable. Readers can identify with him. It could be me or you that all that happens to, and wouldn’t it make a funny story? “The Woody” is an amiable tale with enough memorable bits to occupy a flight from D.C. to L.A.