Letter from Philadelphia

Dear Wags,

In the last hours of an election, even sensible types lapse into premonition. Pervasive apprehension can give way to febrile enthusiasm. Frantic campaigns will divine hope from mystical signs. Those signs can be mirages. But in a game of inches, they matter.

There are signs Kamala Harris’s cautious, methodical run for the presidency is paying off, even if Democrats—who turn doomsaying into an email avalanche—are too superstitious to say it. The headline is the Iowa poll from Ann Selzer, which shows Harris leapfrogging ahead of Donald Trump in a red state he has won easily.

Now, we have all been warned about polls. Take them for the cortisol-juicers they are. A hypervigilant insider I spoke with immediately fretted that good news would suppress turnout. But Selzer is not just any pollster. She, too, is cautious and methodical, and her track record is formidable. A Selzer poll showing Harris five points behind Trump in Iowa would prompt Democrats to celebrate.

So, we have one last vibe shift in this compressed contest. After signs Harris had stalled out in late summer, there is movement in the battlegrounds. In Pennsylvania, putting an erratic tech mogul in charge of Trump’s get-out-the-vote efforts is looking like an epic misstep. The Democrats are everywhere, and huge numbers of their joyful vote-wranglers are older women. Their enthusiasm is backed up by early voting stats. Meanwhile, Republicans seem to have slunk back to the clubhouse to tell more dirty jokes. “Keep calm-a-la and carry-on-a-la,” Harris said in this week’s SNL opener. The strategy is bearing some fruit.

Perhaps it’s another electoral phantasmagoria, to be swept away by a Trump surge on Tuesday. But if Harris wins, post-mortems will declare victory for that old saw about elections being won in the center. She has assiduously courted independents and Republicans who profoundly dislike Trump, focused like a laser on abortion, eschewed identity politics, and whittled away at her opponent’s advantage on the economy. Her campaign has not been distinguished by soaring oratory but by a workmanlike ticking of boxes. In the dash for the tape, she’s not laboring over the hurdles. Harris comes off as studied, but there’s a new looseness about her.

It helps that she has a spectacular foil. As he nears the finish line, Trump is reverting to chaotic form. It will shock nobody that his organization is reportedly a backbiting mess. He has always been less a politician than a monkey wrench, and his ego and impulsivity make coalition-building, within and without, impossible. He couldn’t run a normal campaign if he wanted to, and ardent supporters certainly don’t want him to. So, it’s back to the dopamine hits. In a tight race, he’s taking another gamble.

Another crop of advisors is learning an old lesson: Trump loathes advice and throws flunkies under the bus. The campaign’s play to disaffected younger men—a sensible idea— devolved into pandering to the online fringe. Attempts to make the election a referendum on the Biden economy are drowned out by a chorus of they/them. The pre-bunking of election results, coupled with giddy anticipation of violence, is an unhappy reminder of what America endured in 2020. That such crudeness might turn off moderate women (among others) didn’t enter the calculus. Because there is never calculus. There is only Trump, giving in to his urges.

That has often served him well. But Trump’s Madison Square Garden grotesquerie reminded Americans of what they dislike about him. He’s predictably doubled down since. In fairness, he never misrepresented himself. It's his tormented handlers who don’t get it. For a man obsessed with TV, he can only play one part.

For a long time now, presidential elections have been nail-biters. Trump’s ingenuity was to exploit the fear economy surrounding them. He intuited that our vast information infrastructure hums on anxiety. It requires cliffhangers like any reality series. He transgresses for the eyeballs, whatever the consequences. And by refusing to get off stage, he fundamentally changed American politics.

But even a hit runs its course. Trump’s celebrity is his greatest asset and limitation. His tendency to turn everything into a personally branded enterprise may have weakened the infrastructure of the GOP, which relies on people, not memes, to do the grubby work of vote-getting. If his margins are lousy with Republican women, remember they do a lot of that work.

Nobody should write an epitaph. But this is another collision between a digital realm, where trolls wind each other up, and reality, where human beings practice persuasion. The tangible world acquits itself well in such exchanges.

Trumpism is rooted in comprehensible human grievances, but it’s the attention industrial complex that hardened it into a durable force. It craves defeat nearly as much as victory because it cannot persist without its cherished enemies. A Harris victory would be another sort of windfall for MAGA’s cottage industries. After all, a movement requires more than true believers. There must be opponents who also become hooked on its provocations.

Political deadlock is unlikely to be broken. But this election may tell us if we are finally ready to break an addictive cycle—an itch to offend and take offense, a hunger for revenge, and the restless jones for another trigger. Like all addicts, we know it’s killing us. Still, we have been very reluctant to get clean.

What has been remarkable about Harris is her sobriety. It is not always inspiring. It lacks Trumpian entertainment value. It will hardly mend all the flaws in her party, let alone solve the enormous problems that plague us. But after a decade of disruptions, it may be the thing America likes most: Something new.

Yours Ever,

M.V. Fenwick

Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang

The Day of the Jackal (Nov. 7, Peacock/Sky). What is it about black turtlenecks and assassins? Eddie Redmayne wears the hitman’s uniform in this stylish riff on Frederick Forsyth’s 1971 thriller. There’s a special place in our hearts for Edward Fox, who played the contract killer in Fred Zinnemann’s 1973 picture, but Redmayne puts his spin on a homicidal master of disguise. Lashana Lynch is the flinty MI6 agent on his tail. Their cat-and-mouse game plays out in beautiful locations.—Per Lundquist

Right now, some people really need to make up their minds. But they’re not alone; humans make about 35,000 decisions a day and it’s hard! Journo Bruce Whitfield talks to people who make tough calls for a living, which may help you feel better about your own choices. First up: Author Lee Child on how good decision-making influences his bestselling novels.—Zofia Zawistowska

This is the end of every song that we sing/The fire burned out to ash and the stars grown dim with tears/Cold and afraid, the ghosts of all that we've been. After a 16-year break, Robert Smith of the Cure is ruminating again, and it’s gorgeously gloomy. The band’s new album, Songs for a Lost World, is a meditation on life and loss. Sorry, there’s no boppy New Wave single in the mix. Tracks like “Alone,” are complex reflections on what it means to bear grief. Sometimes, we toast with bitter dregs, to our emptiness. Oooh, dregs! Enjoy them with or without black eyeliner.—Allison Reynolds

I’m the last on the tree/the autumn took the rest, but it won’t take me. The One and Only Willie Nelson, 91, is in no hurry to make an exit. His latest album, Last Leaf on the Tree, is an elegant testament to hanging in. The title track is a sweet rendition of the Tom Waits tune “Last Leaf.” They say I got staying powеr/Here on the tree/But I've been here since Eisenhower/And I've outlived even he. Live forever, you old cuss.—Mac Sledge

Run Away, Run Away!

This is when people say they are running away from it all. Talk is cheap, but if you’re serious about escaping, here’s a plan: Head to Minaret Station Alpine Lodge, tucked into a glacial valley on the South Island of New Zealand. No road leads there—the retreat is only accessible by a 20-minute chopper ride through the magnificent Southern Alps. There are just 12 cozy chalets, each with an outdoor hot tub overlooking rolling meadows and high peaks. Owned and operated by the Wallis family, the refuge offers heli-skiing, wilderness hiking, and fly fishing. You’ll dine on delicious local fare at the Mountain Kitchen restaurant. Bring many enormous books (Minaret Bay, Wānaka Town, New Zealand).—Flora McGrath

Bette Midler, all hopped up in front of the Martin Beck Theater, 1973 (Susan Liston).

And I am all alone/There is no one here beside me/And my problems have all gone/
There is no one to deride me.

At times like these, we agree with the wise but high-maintenance lady who told us ya got ta have friends. They come in useful for more than derision, you know! Imagine if Elon Musk had had a few growing up. Social media might have been sociable.

If you’re watching election returns, you are going to an Old Pal beside you. That’s a cocktail, silly. It was invented in the 1920s by our guru, Harry MacElhone of Harry’s New York Bar in Paris.

The Old Pal is a close cousin of the Boulevardier (another Harry invention) and is named after one of his old pals, Sparrow Robinson, the sports editor of the New York Herald Tribune. Both drinks are part of the Negroni clan, but the Old Pal is warm and sprightly, not too bitter. Just the sort of friend that’s nice to have around.

Elements

• 1 oz rye whiskey

• 1 oz Campari

• 1 oz dry vermouth

• 1 lemon twist for garnish

Directions

1. Pour the rye, Campari, and dry vermouth into an iced-filled mixing glass.

2. Stir until everything is chilly.

3. Strain your concoction into a chilled coupe glass.

4. Add your lemon twist as a garnish.

5. Remember what Charlotte the spider said to Wilbur the pig: You have been my friend. That in itself is a tremendous thing.

CultureWag is the brainchild of JD Heyman, former top editor at People and Editor-in-Chief of Entertainment Weekly (among other gigs), and staffed by the Avengers of Talent. Our goal is to cover interesting topics with wit and integrity. We serve smart, funny recommendations to the most hooked-in audience in the galaxy. Questions? Drop us a line at intern@culturewag.com.

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Easy Wagging is damn hard writing.—Nathaniel Hawthorne