Candidates Striving to Seem Real

Harry Bennett doesn’t know much about Bill Bradley. Just that he seems honest and down-to-earth, which is why Bennett is ringing doorbells for Bradley’s presidential campaign and dismissing Al Gore with a wave of his hand.

“You have to admire anybody who achieves the vice presidency,” said the 66-year-old retiree. “But he’s also attempting to achieve a glibness that bothers me. If you’re hiring a consultant to teach you how to behave, where’s the real Al Gore?”

Forget about 10-point economic plans or book-length education proposals. Amid a sea of tranquillity, with peace abroad and prosperity at home, what voters seem to crave is authenticity. And candidates are striving to deliver--even if they have to fake it.

“People are tired of the [garbage],” said Marjorie Van Nuis, a San Diego Republican activist, who likes Democrat Bradley but supports GOP Sen. John McCain of Arizona. “That’s what I love about McCain: He’s telling truths about how corruptible politicians are, and it’s so unusual to hear a politician tell us truths.”

Voters always want someone they can trust, someone who seemingly shares their values, who empathizes and can address their concerns. But in this post-impeachment era, there seems to be a heightened hunger for candidates who are unscripted and unrehearsed, who’ve slipped the bonds of pollsters and shunned the stylings of consultants. Or at least seem that way.

A recent poll by the Pew Research Center for the People and the Press found overwhelming majorities rank honesty and the ability to connect as priorities, well ahead of a candidate’s stand on issues.

“It’s another manifestation of ‘Clinton fatigue,’ ” said Nelson Warfield, a GOP strategist. “Sort of a guilty feeling among a lot of voters that, sure, Bill Clinton made us feel good, gave us what we wanted in terms of the economy, but gosh he’s a fake.”

Political Make-Overs Are Not a Novelty

Thus, it hardly seems coincidental that the candidates enjoying the best image right now are Bradley, McCain and Texas Gov. George W. Bush, who seem the most natural in public and the most at ease with themselves. (Never mind the quiet coaching Bradley has gotten from a team of Madison Avenue advisors.)

Or that Gore confounds voters as he seeks counsel from feminist guru Naomi Wolf, on everything from his wardrobe to his relationship with the president, in an effort to project a more hairy-chested image.

“People tend to be more comfortable with candidates who are comfortable with themselves,” said Doug Bailey, who created ads for numerous Republican clients over a long consulting career. “If you, as a candidate, communicate that you’re not quite sure of who you are, then people can’t be sure of who you are.”

Political make-overs are nothing new. In 1968, Richard Nixon became the “New Nixon,” who sought to bury his hatchet-man image by appearing on “Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In.” Twenty years later, Vice President George Bush commandeered an 18-wheeler and tooled around a New Hampshire truck stop to try to shed his preppy persona.

But few, if any, candidates have ever attempted as conspicuous a changeover as Gore, who has recast himself from his head (he now thinks as a candidate, he says, not a vice president) to his cowboy-boot toes. On a recent New Hampshire swing, even his motorcade was slimmed down by more than half, to a relatively few 12 vehicles.

The problem, as many observers see it, is that Gore has been so obvious in making changes--from shifting his campaign headquarters to ditching the vice presidential seal--that he risks seeming more packaged, not less.

“Whatever you do, just do it and don’t talk about it,” advised Michael Sheehan, a Democratic media coach whose past clients include Bradley and Gore. “When people make a point of it . . . you’re bound to fail.”

Or at least draw so much attention, it defeats the whole purpose. Voters who know little of Gore’s health care plan or education reforms now analyze the portent of his pullover-and-khaki combinations like the savviest of political insiders.

“I think he’s making a distinct attempt with his casual dress to try and come across as folksy, instead of the guy in the suit he’s been the past eight years,” said Eric Hinton, a 30-year-old political independent who attended a recent question-and-answer session with the vice president in Derry. “It’s an obvious change.”

Here in New Hampshire, Gore has taken to the open-mike format with a vengeance, trading the cloister of staged events and photo opportunities for a marathon of give-and-take. A single evening might cover everything from Kazakhstan to the perils of genetic engineering. “I’ll be here all night if that’s what it takes to answer all your questions,” Gore volunteers. And, three hours later, he has outlasted most of the crowd of 150 or so.

While earning high marks for accessibility--”he’s dressing like the rest of us,” says an approving Carol Miner--there is a forced exuberance and an eagerness to ingratiate--”thank you, thank you for your question, thank you very much”--that suggests how hard the candidate is working to make his efforts seem effortless.

Still, the Gore camp is convinced the strategy is working, citing his uptick in the latest polls. “The vice presidency by definition is perceived as a weak, emotionless, passionless person,” said one senior campaign advisor, suggesting that a bit of exaggerated expression may be necessary not just to break through that stereotype but also Gore’s inbred reserve.

In contrast, his Democratic rival moves to a more measured rhythm. Bradley’s demeanor is determinedly low-key, his voice a laconic drone. With his slouched shoulders, frumpy suits and reading glasses, the former New Jersey senator can seem more an itinerant professor--or philosopher--than presidential candidate. “What is love in a larger social context?” he asks a class of inner-city students in Boston.

At his own open meeting in Somersworth, N.H., Bradley shows up 15 minutes late, ends seven minutes before the allotted hour and leaves at least 10 questioners with their hands still in the air. His answers are long and discursive; a rhapsody on the environment leads to his hometown in Missouri, its limestone bluffs and cottonwoods.

But the heart of Bradley’s appeal is his portrait of an anti-politician, pledging “honesty and integrity” and vowing to go with his beliefs “and not what the polls tell you.”

At the back of the room, hands thrust in his jean pockets, Robert Steen nods vigorously. “I trust the man,” he says. “I trust him to make a decision and not go for the focus group.”

Packaging the ‘Bradley Brand’

In fact, like most, the Bradley campaign does conduct focus groups--which test candidates like consumer products--and opinion polls as well, though aides are loath to discuss the use of such devices. “Basically, it gives you a deeper insight into how best to communicate,” Bradley said. “It doesn’t tell you what to believe.”

The campaign is similarly secretive about the candidate’s consultations with a group of Madison Avenue advertising executives, who’ve discussed ways to promote the “Bradley brand.” As Adweek revealed, the group led by Mark DiMassimo has worked with Bradley on everything from his campaign logo to upcoming TV spots to phrases used in his stump speech. DiMassimo declined to be interviewed, at the instruction of the Bradley campaign.

“This is not a campaign where everyone talks to the press,” said spokesman Eric Hauser. “We strive to have a little more focus and discipline than that.”

Of course, there is such a thing as too much authenticity. McCain has been buoyed by his image as the unvarnished truth-teller of the GOP campaign. At the same time, however, he has been dogged by accounts of his molten temper and sometimes less-than-congenial campaign style. “You’re wrong!” he barked at one New Hampshire talk show caller, who misstated congressional procedure.

“You’ve got to stop worrying,” shrugged campaign pollster Bill McInturff, “and let John be John.”

With seeming regularity, presidential campaigns produce at least one candidate who trades on his artlessness and evident lack of polish, catching voters’ fancy before fickleness, or their rivals’ attacks, take them down.

In 1992, the late Sen. Paul E. Tsongas of Massachusetts enjoyed his moment, making deficit reduction his eat-your-spinach cause. Four years before, it was then-Sen. Paul Simon of Illinois, of the fusty bow ties and jug-handle ears, whose sheer nerdiness proved appealing for a short while. “My media probably wasn’t as good as it should have been,” the decidedly untelegenic Simon now says, with more than a trace of irony.

However, the most successful exemplar of authenticity would have to be Jimmy Carter, the unassuming peanut farmer and former Georgia governor who parlayed the public’s disgust over Watergate into an improbable ride to the White House.

Just as in 1976, McInturff argued, “there are scars and a deep residue left” from Clinton’s impeachment and the sense that he besmirched his office. “If ever there’s going to be a breakthrough election cycle,” he said, envisioning another Carter-like triumph, “this would be it.”