argument.
“So the polls tell us,” said John, with a secret smile.
“Ours or theirs?” Mike’s laugh was hardly secret.
It was Lamont who chose ingenuity. “The great imponderable at the convention—aside from our man if he takes off in the next four or five weeks—will be Mr. Hoover.”
Apparently the Cowles brothers were not prepared for this piece of news. Each said the same thing: “You’re not serious.”
“I may not be serious but President Hoover is very serious about being nominated again and then beating the man who beat him eight years ago. Hoover can still rally a lot of Republicans who went over to Roosevelt and are now ready to come back, just to stay out of war.”
It had never occurred to Tim to film Hoover and now it was too late. He only hoped Lamont was wrong. The return of Herbert Hoover to the presidency would be a macabre miracle on the order of the raising of Lazarus, and to have missed it in his film … His mouth had gone dry.
Two state troopers appeared in the doorway of the diner. All eyes turned on them as the diner’s owner hurried forward to greet the tall blond young man they were escorting.
“His Excellency the Boy Governor of Minnesota.” Mike Cowles rose, as did the rest of the table. Harold M. Stassen was now headed towards them while his two guards stationed themselves back of the table, eyes on the door to the diner, where who knew how many assassins lurked.
“Harold!” The Cowles brothers were amiable, Mr. Lamont polite, rather like the ambassador from some minor power, trying not to be noticed at a great powers conference. As Harold Stassen warmly shook Tim’s hand, he confided: “You know that movie of yours,
Hometown
, was probably the single decisive factor in my going into politics.”
Tim shyly acknowledged the thrill of having inadvertently made so large a contribution to history. Actually, as Stassen was now thirty-three, he could very well have been influenced by a movie that, Timliked to say, had gone from box-office failure to classic without an intervening success. Such films often haunted the imagination of those who saw them at an impressionable age. Tim had felt the same when he saw D. W. Griffith’s
Intolerance
, vowing that not only would he make films himself one day, but he would never allow himself to get involved in such a gorgeously haunting mess.
Stassen sat between the Cowles brothers and showed them the text of his introduction. “Only five minutes,” he said. “Radio time is expensive. I realize that.” Tim slipped away, aware, as was everyone who read
Time, Life, Fortune
, and
Look
, that he had been, for a moment, in the company of the next president but two or, perhaps, the more cynical politicians said, three. Stassen was a true political miracle, everyone agreed, and the same age, Tim noted with a flash of Holy Cross piety, as our Lord when He was crucified.
The ballroom was full; the heat was intense and the largely Scandinavian audience sweated rather more, Tim thought, than did leaner Mediterranean types.
The stage was poorly lit but, Tim decided, the lack of clear definition might make the point that here was something slapdash and unprofessional—like the candidate.
Tim stood just back of the proscenium arch, maintaining eye contact with his cameraman in the center aisle, on a rickety wooden stand above the audience.
Governor Stassen was introduced. Boyish but statesmanlike; he shone like a figure out of some obscure Norse legend as he took his cue from the CBS radio director down front and began his speech. Then, out of the shadows of backstage, appeared Wendell Willkie, clutching a speech. Tim had the sense that he had seen him before until he realized that, by now, there had been so many thousands of pictures of Willkie that he must have seemed entirely familiar to everyone who read glossy magazines. Dark curly hair was cut in farm-boy style, one lock carefully trained to fall over his right eyebrow, pale blue
“So the polls tell us,” said John, with a secret smile.
“Ours or theirs?” Mike’s laugh was hardly secret.
It was Lamont who chose ingenuity. “The great imponderable at the convention—aside from our man if he takes off in the next four or five weeks—will be Mr. Hoover.”
Apparently the Cowles brothers were not prepared for this piece of news. Each said the same thing: “You’re not serious.”
“I may not be serious but President Hoover is very serious about being nominated again and then beating the man who beat him eight years ago. Hoover can still rally a lot of Republicans who went over to Roosevelt and are now ready to come back, just to stay out of war.”
It had never occurred to Tim to film Hoover and now it was too late. He only hoped Lamont was wrong. The return of Herbert Hoover to the presidency would be a macabre miracle on the order of the raising of Lazarus, and to have missed it in his film … His mouth had gone dry.
Two state troopers appeared in the doorway of the diner. All eyes turned on them as the diner’s owner hurried forward to greet the tall blond young man they were escorting.
“His Excellency the Boy Governor of Minnesota.” Mike Cowles rose, as did the rest of the table. Harold M. Stassen was now headed towards them while his two guards stationed themselves back of the table, eyes on the door to the diner, where who knew how many assassins lurked.
“Harold!” The Cowles brothers were amiable, Mr. Lamont polite, rather like the ambassador from some minor power, trying not to be noticed at a great powers conference. As Harold Stassen warmly shook Tim’s hand, he confided: “You know that movie of yours,
Hometown
, was probably the single decisive factor in my going into politics.”
Tim shyly acknowledged the thrill of having inadvertently made so large a contribution to history. Actually, as Stassen was now thirty-three, he could very well have been influenced by a movie that, Timliked to say, had gone from box-office failure to classic without an intervening success. Such films often haunted the imagination of those who saw them at an impressionable age. Tim had felt the same when he saw D. W. Griffith’s
Intolerance
, vowing that not only would he make films himself one day, but he would never allow himself to get involved in such a gorgeously haunting mess.
Stassen sat between the Cowles brothers and showed them the text of his introduction. “Only five minutes,” he said. “Radio time is expensive. I realize that.” Tim slipped away, aware, as was everyone who read
Time, Life, Fortune
, and
Look
, that he had been, for a moment, in the company of the next president but two or, perhaps, the more cynical politicians said, three. Stassen was a true political miracle, everyone agreed, and the same age, Tim noted with a flash of Holy Cross piety, as our Lord when He was crucified.
The ballroom was full; the heat was intense and the largely Scandinavian audience sweated rather more, Tim thought, than did leaner Mediterranean types.
The stage was poorly lit but, Tim decided, the lack of clear definition might make the point that here was something slapdash and unprofessional—like the candidate.
Tim stood just back of the proscenium arch, maintaining eye contact with his cameraman in the center aisle, on a rickety wooden stand above the audience.
Governor Stassen was introduced. Boyish but statesmanlike; he shone like a figure out of some obscure Norse legend as he took his cue from the CBS radio director down front and began his speech. Then, out of the shadows of backstage, appeared Wendell Willkie, clutching a speech. Tim had the sense that he had seen him before until he realized that, by now, there had been so many thousands of pictures of Willkie that he must have seemed entirely familiar to everyone who read glossy magazines. Dark curly hair was cut in farm-boy style, one lock carefully trained to fall over his right eyebrow, pale blue
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