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John McCain, R.I.P.

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My Facebook news feed today has been inundated with articles about and tributes to him. He was the coqueluche of the Inside-the-Beltway media corps and the Congressional Democrats’ favorite Republican. There were a number of things one could say in his favor, most lately his detestation of Trump and casting the decisive vote to save the Affordable Care Act. His defense of Obama against racist Republican voters at the 2008 campaign rally was salutary, as was the graciousness of his concession speech that November 4th. Michael Lewis has a piece in Slate on McCain’s relationship with Mo Udall, which, Lewis says, reveals something positive about McCain’s character. That McCain requested that erstwhile electoral adversaries Obama and George W. Bush deliver eulogies at his funeral, but that Trump stay away, was commendable.

McCain was an old style mainstream Republican—à la Gerald Ford and Bob Dole, now a dying species—though a conservative, not a moderate; he was a “decent partisan,” in Yascha Mounk’s words, who worked with Democrats on specific issues (McCain-Feingold, etc), had a reasonable position on immigration, a principled stand on torture when those in his party endorsed it post 9/11, was not allergic to taxes, et on en passe (though his reputation as a “maverick” was somewhat overblown). One recalls his ‘yes’ vote on the 1986 South Africa sanctions bill, overriding President Reagan’s veto, not to mention his campaign (with John Kerry) to normalize relations with Vietnam. It was not for nothing that movement conservatives despised him. In March 2008, I listened to a right-wing Republican—the Fox News/Rush Limbaugh type—I happened to know (who was visiting Paris) explain to me why McCain was the worst possible GOP candidate, with awful positions on one issue after another. J’en ai pris acte.

But McCain at least partly redeemed himself with the right-wing—and my aforementioned interlocutor—that August, in naming Sarah Palin as his running mate. McCain gave us Palin, which is one very big stain on his record. McCain was also, pour mémoire, an Iraq war dead-ender—admitting it was a “mistake” only fifteen years after the fact—and, more generally, a leading figure in the Washington War Party (albeit with a Wilsonian streak—unlike raw militarists à la Dick Cheney and John Bolton—which was to his credit, one supposes). And then there’s the story that Erik Loomis, in a not laudatory obituary of McCain on the Lawyers, Guns & Money blog, reminds us of, of a nasty joke McCain told at a 1998 Republican fundraiser about Chelsea Clinton’s looks. For a grown man to speak this way about a woman—and particularly one who is barely 18-years-old—is low. McCain was, according to numerous accounts, not a very nice person. If his character had a positive side, it also had a negative one. People are complex. TNR’s Jeet Heer has a piece contrasting Trump’s nationalism with McCain’s and Vox’s Matthew Yglesias has one summing up his public life.

UPDATE: Jonathan Chait, who is always worth reading, has an interesting take, “John McCain tried to save the Republican Party from itself, and was crushed.” John Judis, who posted Chait’s piece on Facebook, added this comment:

Chait and I both wrote about the split in the GOP in 2000 and Chait’s article urging McCain to become a Democrat touched McCain (as I learned later, when I did a profile of McCain). The one important qualification here: 9/11 may not have happened under McCain because he would have listened to Clarke et al., but if it did, we might still have hundreds of thousands of troops in the Middle East. McCain was a passionate advocate of late ’90s era neo-conservative foreign policy. But on domestic and social/economic policy, the McCain of 2000 represented an older benign Republicanism that is now at the bottom of the dustbin of history.

Judis follows with up a post at TPM, “John McCain, Donald Trump, and the legacy of the American upper class.”

2nd UPDATE: I’m not a fan of Paul Berman but his article in Tablet is worth the read, “McCain and the Roman precedent: The late senator embodied the classical republican virtue of aristocracy, yet he was not above the barbarous opportunism that brought us Sarah Palin, and her political heirs.”

The beginning of the end

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That’s what political scientist Peter Dreier says and he’s right. There is no way Trump will survive what everyone agrees was the worst day of his wretched regime—and which is certain to be followed by even worse days. Benjamin Wittes, in a must-read analysis of Trump’s predicament, thus put it: “the mad king [is] surrounded, outmanned, outgunned, and that there’s no telling from where or when the next blow will come.” When I say he won’t survive, I mean finish out his term and then win reelection. Not a chance. À propos, Robert Kuttner had an incisive column earlier this month explaining “Why Trump won’t be the GOP nominee in 2020,” and which he followed up on three days ago with one on “the end game” of Trump’s fall.

So how will it end? There are two scenarios IMHO, the first of which has Trump finishing his term and running for reelection. One should normally not speculate on an election outcome two years ahead of time—and I normally never do so—but, in this particular case, I will categorically assert that, barring major voter suppression in key swing states (emphasis added), Trump will not and cannot win in 2020. There are two reasons for this: (a) The Democratic Party is nigh certain to be united behind its nominee (as there is no rhyme or reason why it won’t be) and with he or she equally certain to enjoy higher poll numbers than did Hillary Clinton in 2016 (but who still decisively won the popular vote, and losing the three famous rust belt states by razor thin margins in a freak electoral accident); and (b) Trump’s job approval rating will, on its own, all but guarantee defeat. I have written numerous times in regard to both US and French presidential elections that an incumbent president cannot win reelection if his job approval rating is below 50% on the eve of the vote. It’s perhaps possible at 49% but below that, he’s toast, as the election is, in effect, a referendum on him. The only exception here is if the challenger is an extremist—and with exceptionally high negative poll numbers—who unexpectedly faces off against the incumbent (e.g. Jean-Marie Le Pen in 2002), but such an occurrence is exceedingly rare in a consolidated democracy and invariably only happens in two-round systems (and won’t in America in 2020).

Anyone with the slightest interest in politics knows that Trump’s job approval rating is the lowest of any US president at this stage in his term, though which, at 41 or 42% approval, still seems appallingly high in view of everything the S.O.B. has said and done. What is more significant than the overall approval/disapproval number, though, is the ones that express intensity of sentiment, of those who strongly approve or strongly disapprove of his performance. And here, Trump is way underwater in every last poll that breaks down the numbers this way. Depending on the poll, Trump’s strong approval ranges from 21 to 34%—his hard core base—and with his strong disapproval ranging from 37 to 51%. The spread is substantial in every poll. E.g. the latest Fox News poll (which FiveThirtyEight.com gives a grade of A) has Trump at 25% strong approval and 44% strong disapproval among registered voters. The latest Rasmussen poll (which tends to have a Republican skew) has it at 32/44, the YouGov poll at 28/46, the Morning Consult-Politico poll at 22/42, and the Quinnipiac poll (graded A- by 538) at 30/48. Et ainsi de suite. Conclusion: a lot more voters loathe Trump than love him. People who feel strongly about a candidate are, needless to say, highly motivated to vote. And they rarely change their minds. As for those who have tepid feelings—who somewhat approve or disapprove of Trump’s performance—and could possibly move to the other camp, one notes in all polls that the number here is higher with Trump than against him. In other words, there is greater potential for erosion in Trump’s approval rating than in the disapproval. Trump is thus already near his ceiling of approval, at 44 or 45% of registered voters (and likely voters as well; and does anyone at this point seriously think it could go higher, that he could exceed his 46% of the 2016 popular vote?). It is not possible for an incumbent to win a free and fair election with this level of unpopularity.

The second end game scenario involves Trump leaving office before his term is up, no doubt in the course of 2019. If the Dems win back the House in November, which is looking increasingly likely, they will most certainly hold hearings on impeachment, as the threshold here has manifestly been crossed, even without the Mueller report and whatever it may reveal or recommend. The process will be inexorable, with eventual cynical electoral calculations by establishment Democrats—as to whether or not impeachment will hurt them in 2020—falling by the wayside. A House of Representatives controlled by the Democrats will impeach Trump, as the hearings on the question will necessarily reveal that he committed high crimes and misdemeanors (how could they possibly not?).

As for the Senate, which the Dems could well take in the event of a salutary Republican wipe-out, that will depend. A year ago to this day, I predicted that the Congressional GOP leadership would, maybe before the end of 2017, decide to quickly impeach and convict Trump, that they’d just do it. I was clearly off on that, as I was in opining that Trump was losing the acquiescence of that GOP leadership. He clearly did not, au contraire. But as Never Trumper Eliot A. Cohen reminds us, “[s]ooner or later, tyrants are always abandoned by their followers.” Tyrants—and tyrant wannabes like Trump—are unloved. They have no friends. When it’s sauve qui peut, the rats jump ship. If the Republican wipe-out happens in November inshallah, there will, objectively speaking, be no reason for the Congressional GOP to continue to support Trump, at least not in the way it has up to now. If he’s impeached, they will tell him, as Barry Goldwater & Co did to Richard Nixon in August 1974, that he needs to resign. In a Senate trial, all sorts of information will come out, e.g. on Trump’s taxes, if it hasn’t already in the House hearings. If Trump decides to go down fighting, he will likely be convicted by the Senate, after which he will face the consequences. If he follows the friendly GOP advice, then he will stand a good chance of being pardoned, along with his family, by President Pence—which will no doubt be part of the deal. And the lickspittle sycophant Pence will willingly go along, knowing all too well that he wouldn’t be anywhere near where he is without Trump having put him on the ticket in ’16.

That is what will likely happen, as it will clearly be in the interests of both Trump and the Republicans. As for the Repubs, Pence will pursue precisely the same policy agenda as Trump—to the extent that he can in view of Democratic control of one or both houses of Congress—and with the stock market soaring to boot. Policy-wise, Pence will be every bit as bad as Trump, as Jane Kramer elaborated on last October, but at least the Dems and others will be able to focus on “the issues” and not be distracted by crazy tweets and outbursts, as political scientist Stephen Zunes submitted, or his vulgar, gross personality. And the far-right evangelical Pence—the inevitable GOP 2020 nominee—will be an even weaker general election candidate than Trump, if such is possible.

La messe est dite. À suivre, bien évidemment.

UPDATE: Republican media consultant and Never Trumper Rick Wilson—whose writing style I love—has a great column (Aug. 22nd) in TDB, “Manafort, Cohen, Omarosa: This is how it always ends for Trump’s scuzzy friends.” The lede: “Far from taking a bullet, Cohen shot a proverbial one at the Con Man in Chief, and Manafort may end up doing the same. The train wreck of Trump’s life is finally being exposed.”

2nd UPDATE: People have probably seen the comparisons of Trump’s behavior and mentality to that of a mob boss but if not, don’t miss Jeffrey Goldberg’s piece (Aug. 23rd) in The Atlantic, “Donald Trump’s Mafia Mind-Set: Listening to a legendary American mobster and hearing the president of the United States.” Also see NYT White House correspondent Mark Landler’s ‘memo’ (Aug. 23rd), “With a vocabulary from ‘Goodfellas,’ Trump evokes his native New York.”

3rd UPDATE: Continuing with the Mafia parallel, The Nation’s Joan Walsh has a good commentary (Aug. 27th), “The President is a white-nationalist mob boss—and his base doesn’t care.” The lede: “Diehard Trump supporters represent at most a quarter of the electorate, but dominate media discussions of the president’s standing. They shouldn’t.”

4th UPDATE: Paul Starr throws some cold water on what I’ve written above, in a sobering piece (Aug. 29th) in TAP, “No, Trump is far from finished: The Manafort and Cohen convictions haven’t changed the political realities.” I don’t disagree with anything Starr says, in fact. If the Democrats fail to win Congress—or at least the House—this November, then Trump will obviously finish his term—and with America in a very bad place by that point.

5th UPDATE: Former NYT Executive Editor Howell Raines has a ‘hot take’ piece (Aug. 18th) on the NBC News website, “Trump Twitter target Jeff Sessions is quietly doing exactly what he came to Washington to do.” The lede: “Following in the footsteps of Deep South segregationists, Sessions has weaponized the legal system against minorities, immigrants and political opponents.” Voilà one more reason why it is so imperative that the wretched Republican Party be destroyed, and ASAP.

Aretha Franklin, R.I.P.

I grew up listening to her. Musically speaking, she was a part of my 1960s childhood and early adolescence. There are a number of Top 10 and Top 20 lists of her greatest songs out there but this is my personal no.1.

Le Bureau des Légendes

In English: The Bureau. In my last post, on Icelandic films, I mentioned the French actress Florence Loiret-Caille, who plays a character in this brilliant, excellent, terrific French TV series, the first three seasons of which my wife and I binged-watched (on DVD; yes we still watch stuff on those) over the past couple of months. I had been hearing about the series—which began in 2015—for the past year, notably from dear friend Adam Shatz, who deemed it sufficiently compelling to devote a post to on the LRB blog (the series may be viewed subtitled in the US and most everywhere else).

In short, the series centers on the deep cover section of the DGSE (the French CIA)—dubbed “le bureau des légendes”—its operatives, and their operations, notably in the Middle East (and principally in Syria, with ISIS and all). It’s a French version of ‘Homeland’ but is far superior (I watched three seasons of the latter before abandoning it). There is no comparison between the two when it comes to the sophistication of the screenplays and knowledge of its subject matter (espionage, the Middle East, etc). The geopolitical knowledge is indeed very good and numerous languages are spoken by the French agents—English, Persian, Arabic, Hebrew—which one does not see in ‘Homeland’, needless to say. The Middle East-North Africa scenes—here, Iran, Syria, Algeria—are naturally shot in Morocco, as in ‘Homeland’, but are pulled off much better (e.g. the scenes in Tehran really do look like Tehran—so much as I imagine Tehran, at least—though the ones in Algiers were admittedly rather obviously shot in Casablanca; bon, a minor detail). And the CIA and Mossad naturally figure.

The pacing is not Hollywoodish, that’s for sure. If you like high octane, edge-of-your-seat action thrillers, with car chases and explosions, ‘Le Bureau des Légendes’ is probably not for you. On ne peut pas plaire à tout le monde

As for the casting, it’s stellar, with well-known French actors of the big screen: Matthieu Kassovitz, Jean-Pierre Darroussin, Léa Drucker, Sara Giraudeau… And then there’s the Nadia El Mansour character, played by the Franco-Moroccan actress Zineb Triki—her Syrian Arabic accent is impeccable, so I am told—who is quite simply one of the most beautiful women on this planet (there is a developing consensus on this among both men and women I know).

In short, if you loved The Wire, you are certain to feel likewise about ‘The Bureau’, no two ways about it. The fourth season debuts on Canal+ this fall (and which is focused on Russia, so one reads). Will binge-watch when the whole thing is available.

I’ve been intending for almost the past month to post something on the antics of the mentally deranged dotard who presently resides in the White House, as—along with just about every American person, wherever s/he may happen to live—I obsessively follow his actions and words, wondering—as we all have since late January 2017—how much longer this can possibly go on. Answer: probably for another 2½ years. The problem with doing blog posts on Trump is that he will say or do something bonkers or downright insane, e.g. trash-talking and insulting leaders of Western democracies, threatening trade wars with America’s most important trading partners, sucking up to Vladimir Putin and against the agencies of the American state, etc, etc, and by the time I get around to offering my own commentary, it’s already old news. So last week, as we’ve moved on to the next crazy ass thing he’s said or done.

So in lieu of depressing commentary on US politics, here’s a post on Icelandic cinema, beginning with the good, fun, enjoyable film, ‘Woman at War’ (its international title), directed by auteur Benedikt Erlingsson, which opened in Paris earlier this month to thumbs-up reviews from critics, and has received likewise from Allociné spectateurs. It’s a crowd-pleaser for the type of people who go to Icelandic movies, about a late 40s-something choir teacher in Reykjavik named Halla (actress Halldóra Geirharðsdóttir), beloved by everyone, who moonlights as an eco-terrorist, single-handedly taking down electrical power pylons in the countryside with a bow and arrow, to thwart a mega-investment project of a Chinese conglomerate that threatens to scar Iceland’s pristine landscape, and with the security forces of the Icelandic state hot on her heels (and with technical assistance from the country’s NATO allies). Some of the sequences are very amusing, as are some of the (goofy) characters. The Hollywood Reporter’s Jordan Mintzer, who saw the pic at Cannes, characterized it as “offbeat, poignant and visually exquisite;” Variety’s great critic Jay Weissberg, for his part, called it “an intelligent feel-good film that knows how to tackle urgent global issues with humor as well as a satisfying sense of justice.” Indeed. Trailer is here.

I saw the film with two cinematically-discerning friends, Rebecca and Sylvia, who loved it (as did my friend Joëlle, who writes screenplays for movies and TV series for a living). At a restaurant afterward, I told my two friends about several Icelandic films I had seen in recent years, which they didn’t know about. So I promised to do an informational blog post on them. Voilà.

One that I loved is ‘Rams’ (in France: Béliers), directed by Grímur Hákonarson, which came out in late 2015. It’s about two bachelor brothers in their 60s (actors Theódór Júlíusson and Sigurður Sigurjónsson), both sheep farmers in a remote northern part of the island, who live practically next door to one another but had a falling out forty years earlier and haven’t spoken since. But then a sheep in the area is diagnosed with scrapie, with the sanitary authorities thus decreeing that the brothers’ entire herds have to be destroyed. They respond to the tragedy in different ways but are inevitably brought together. If you liked ‘Woman at War’, you’ll like ‘Rams’, and vice-versa. US critics all gave the pic the thumbs up, e.g. Kenneth Turan, A.O. Scott, Todd McCarthy, and Alissa Simon. Trailer is here.

After ‘Rams’ there’s Sparrows (the pic’s international title), directed by Rúnar Rúnarsson, which came out in France in July 2016 (but seems not to have in the US). It begins with the protag, a 16-year-old boy (actor Atli Óskar Fjalarsson) who lives with his mother in Reykjavik—parents are divorced—being put on a plane (at the municipal airport, not Keflavík, known to all who have flown Icelandair or WOW Air) to join his alcoholic father, who lives in the middle of nowhere on a fjord in the northwestern part of the island. As a city boy—and with talent as a singer—he’s out of place, to put it mildly, with his age cohorts, who’ve never been anywhere and don’t know anything about anything. In effect, the folks up there are the bas-fonds—Icelandic white trash, if you will—for whom the only work available is gutting cod in local fisheries, and where there is little else to do in one’s free time but get drunk, consume whatever drugs are available, raise hell, and fuck. It’s a good film. Trailer is here.

Also released in 2016 was L’Effet aquatique (in English: The Aquatic Effect), a Franco-Icelandic comedy directed by the Franco-German-Romanian Jewish-American-Icelandic Sólveig Anspach, who sadly died (of cancer) before the film came out (I much liked her 2014 Lulu femme nue), and which begins in France, specifically in the Paris banlieue of Montreuil. At Montreuil’s big public swimming pool, la stade nautique Maurice Thorez (of Communist Party fame), 40-something Samir (actor Samir Guesmi), who’s a simple working class guy, develops a crush on swimming instructor Agathe (actress Florence Loiret-Caille, who, for those in the know, is the Marie-Jeanne character in the series Le Bureau des Légendes). To make Agathe’s acquaintance, Samir pretends that he doesn’t know how to swim, so he can take lessons from her. But, after a few sessions, she sees that it’s all a ruse, is not impressed, and, in effect, tells him to take a hike, after which she flies off to Reykjavik, to an international congress of swimming instructors, where she’s the French representative. Samir, totally smitten, hops a flight to follow her and, once in Reykjavik, finds the congress. Seeing that the Israel seat is vacant, he passes himself off as the Israeli delegate—who happened to be late to the event—and is then called upon to speak, so he improvises a speech in broken English, where he catches Agathe’s attention. No need to describe the scene here except that it’s hilarious. He becomes the star of the congress. And so Samir and Agathe connect in Reykjavik, funny things happen, they have an escapade around the island, and voilà. An enjoyable, heartwarming film. Trailer is here.

Lest I forget, I saw a not bad Icelandic film in 2013, ‘The Deep’, that I wrote about at the time (here, scroll down).

Then there’s Greenland, which is next door to Iceland, though is completely and totally different—there is no comparison between the two—though I should nonetheless mention the crowd pleasing 2016 French comedy Le Voyage au Groenland (in English: Journey to Greenland), directed by Sébastien Betbeder. In this one, two 30ish Parisian buddies both named Thomas (real life actors Thomas Blanchard and Thomas Scimeca), both of whom are unemployed actors registered with Pôle Emploi, decide to take a break and travel to a remote village on Greenland’s western coast—is anywhere in Greenland not remote?—where one of their fathers has been living for twenty or so years. And so they hang out with the local Inuits and get to know them and their culture. It’s a light film, enjoyable, and ethnographically interesting, insofar as one gets an idea as to how Inuits have entered the globalized world of the 21st century. Trailer is here.

As it happens, there’s a Franco-Danish film set in Greenland, Une année polaire (A Polar Year), that opened in Paris two months ago and is still playing, but which I have not seen. Maybe I will.

UPDATE: Here’s an article from The Washington Post, dated 29 April 2017, on the impact of climate change and modernity in a village in northern Greenland.

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I am presently watching, as I write, the triumphal descent of Les Bleus—who just arrived from Moscow—down the Champs-Élysées in the open top double-decker bus. The crowd—who number in the high six figures, maybe a million, who knows?—is naturally delirious. What a spectacle. After yesterday’s wild-and-crazy final, aptly described by one observer as truly bonkers—if anyone wants to know what I thought of the game as it unfolded, here’s my running Facebook commentary—I went in to Paris to check out the ambiance. La folie furieuse, comme on dit. People were so happy. I took a few short videos, which I tweeted here, here, and here. My wife, who’s down south in Sète, took some pics (here) of the celebrations there. The ‘black-blanc-beur’ thing of ephemeral 1998 fame, which was subject to so much mythologizing, certainly seemed real to me yesterday. The multitudes in Paris—younger rather than older, naturally—were as multiracial/ethnic as you can get in this country, and with everyone so happy and communing together. And as both my wife and I observed, there were far fewer Algerian (and Moroccan, Tunisian etc) flags than in 1998. The young people of Maghrebi origin—not to mention African—were waving the tricolore. It’s a new generation out there, who barely remember 1998, if at all—Kylian Mbappé wasn’t even born—and whose identities are not constructed in the same way as those who are now in their 30s and 40s.

I have more to say and could drone on—for sharp commentary, I refer all to my friend Akram Belkaïd’s blog—but will end this post now, with an open letter to Didier Deschamps by faithful AWAV reader Michel Persitz, who lives in the south of France and goes by the nom de plume Massilian, which he sent me earlier today and that I am taking the liberty of copying-and-pasting

Thank you Didier !

Thank you for resisting all kinds of pressures and having built such a beautiful team of inspiring brilliant young sportsmen who love France, respect the republic and sing the Marseillaise without back thoughts.

Thank you Didier !

Because until late into the night, young people made a great, noisy, joyful, parade on scooters, motorcycles, cars, in the streets of Marseille, waving French flags.

Not so long ago, but with a different coach and a different team, I witnessed noisy parades, with many of the same youth waving Algerian flags because of one stupid demagog brilliant player.

Thank you Didier !

We had the greatest need to teach love of France to our young ones. You showed that hard work, solidarity and fraternity do bring better results than individual egos.

On the other hand, Didier, you gave us a kind of “Französische Mannschaft”, rather cold blooded, solid, very lucid, very technical, very realistic, but whose game aside from occasional brilliant flares of great talent is not that exciting to watch. The contrast with the fiery Croatian, Argentinian, Uruguyan, Belgium teams was striking. Yet I know, they all lost.

I guess you can’t have it all and if I have to choose, considering the benefits for morale of the country, I prefer a winning team. And I do enjoy the perfume of victory. Twenty years ago I was revving up my motorcycle engine and blasting my horn on the Champs-Elysées for the greatest pleasure of my ten years old son screaming and waving his arms behind me.

Football is fine, it is a highly popular sport, but it is only a game. The sudden tsunami that is taking over the country by storm after such a victory and which turns every brave Frenchman into a brilliant, heroic, proud, two-stars Frenchman, amazes me and also scares me a little !

During the world cup, the hazard made me read a book by the great Argentinian writer Adolfo Bioy Casares (1914-1999) : “Journal de la guerre au cochon”(1969). I was struck by this sentence : “The strength of demagogues is that they make outcasts aware of their dignity.”

Amitiés triomphales !
Michel

Très bien, though I am personally not worried about some future demagogue channeling the collective joy on the streets and squares of France last night, let alone toward nefarious ends.

À propos, the Bleus’ victory has knocked every other story off the news here today. Nothing on the unbelievable Trump-Putin meeting, which is dominating commentary on Facebook and Twitter feeds from people stateside. More on that very soon.

UPDATE: Vox has a six-minute video (July 10th), which is well worth watching, on why “France produces the most World Cup players.” Spoiler alert: it has to do with immigration, but not only.

2nd UPDATE: FT Paris correspondent Simon Kuper has a nice piece (July 18th) in the New Statesman, “A victorious World Cup team made in the multiracial Paris banlieues: Football is the bit of French society where I’ve seen integration work best.”

Kuper has a similar one in Le Monde dated July 19th, “Des terrains de banlieue au stade Loujiniki, une éclatante réussite d’intégration.”

Don’t miss the post (July 12th), by Australian sports sociologist Darko Dukic, on the Run Repeat blog, “Most World Cup talent are born in France (data analysis).”

3rd UPDATE: Everyone is au courant by now (July 20th) of the exchange between Gérard Araud and Trevor Noah, and particularly Noah’s response to the French ambassador, which has gone viral on social media. I found Noah’s response pretty good, but particularly like the reaction on Facebook by my (Indian-born) friend Leela Jacinto, of the English service of France 24

This identity business is so boring! So, the French ambassador could have been a bit more nuanced. But know what, just ask the players & they’ve reiterated, individually, time & again, they’re French. As I’ve snapped at countless clueless, well-meaning folks, ‘I’m not about to be your little brown girl in the ring. I have a US passport, French residency & I feel at home & a stranger anywhere. So stop telling me who I am.’ When I see first-hand how countries in Asia, Mideast, Africa treat their own immigrants/refugees & their diasporas wank on about hyphenated identities, assimilation blah-blah, I see stones pelted from glass houses. The point is, do you have equal rights, face discrimination – that’s the issue. If you know a country, language, culture well for whatever reason, that’s great. But your identity is your own bloody problem, so stop boring me.

À propos, see Zach Beauchamp’s post (July 19th) on Vox, “Trevor Noah’s feud with France over race, identity, and Africa, explained: The feud involves the World Cup, jokes, differing ideas of citizenship, and Noah’s French accent.”

See as well the provocative commentary (July 20th) by Hudson Institute research fellow Benjamin Haddad, who’s French, in The American Interest, “Multiculturalism and the World Cup: Why American liberals celebrating the French team’s ‘Africanness’ are making common cause with Jean-Marie Le Pen.”

4th UPDATE: See the intriguing analysis by Alternatives Économiques journalist Vincent Grimault, posted June 8th on the Alter Éco website—a week before the tournament began—”Pourquoi la France va gagner la Coupe du monde de football (ou presque).” The reason? Because France has a high level of taxation. N.B. the article, it is specified at the end, is “(relativement) sérieux.”

5th UPDATE: Political scientist and public intellectual Yascha Mounk has a typically thoughtful commentary (July 24th) in Slate, “Trevor Noah doesn’t get to decide who’s French.” The lede: “The Daily Show host says his critics in Europe missed the context of his World Cup commentary. But he’s making the same mistake.”

In his piece, Mounk links to one by The New Yorker’s Adam Gopnik, dated July 16th, that I missed, “The French World Cup win and the glories of immigration.”

Today is Bastille Day, when people here are supposed to feel a little more patriotic than they normally might—and particularly if they watch the parade on the Champs-Élysées—I never miss it myself (on TV)—and then La Marseillaise at the end, which moves me in a way The Star-Spangled Banner never does (and the way things are going stateside, likely never will). Everyone will certainly be feeling more patriotic tomorrow, with Les Bleus meeting Croatia in the World Cup final. Can anyone who is not Croat and maybe Algerian—for whom opposing France is part of the national DNA—possibly be for Croatia and against the excellent and sympathique French team? I was disappointed England didn’t make it, as I was hoping for a France-England final—ça aurait eu de la gueule—but the Croats deserved to win the semifinal. From the 2nd half onward, they were the superior team. C’était ainsi. Needless to say, the level of excitement here—since Les Bleus’ well-merited victory over Belgium on Tuesday—is palpable, possibly even greater than in 1998.

The 20th anniversary of Les Bleus’ glorious victory over Brazil was two days ago, which everyone born before, say, 1988 is recalling and recounting—me, le vieux, to my daughter (who was 4 at the time) and her friends. It was a great team and with players we all got to know and love. And they have not been forgotten, not a single one (not by me, that’s for sure). It was exhilarating being at Place d’Italie after the game (I was living in the 13th) and observing the wild celebrations. People were so happy. Me too. And then there was the mythologizing over the feel-good ‘black-blanc-beur’ team and ‘la France de toutes les couleurs’. It felt real at the time—and I still think there’s reality in it. Not to be un empêcheur de tourner en rond, though, but in recounting le bons vieux temps to the young people, I nonetheless have to say something that few will admit, which is that the broad French public did not, in fact, jump on Les Bleus’ bandwagon in the 1998 tournament—and despite it being played in France—until after the victory over Italy in the quarterfinal (a soporific 0-0 game at the Stade de France that was settled in a penalty shootout—during which I was so anxiety-ridden that I could barely watch). In the round of 16 game against Paraguay five days earlier—also a soporific 0-0 affair, won with Laurent Blanc’s golden goal in the 114th minute, thus avoiding a shootout against the redoubtable Paraguayan goalkeeper—Le Monde described the crowd in the stadium in Lens as “éteint” (it was, admittedly, a hot, sunny afternoon). At a press conference before the quarterfinal, a frustrated Emmanuel Petit said something to the effect of “Come on people, get with us! We need your support!” (I’m recalling this from memory).

The fact is, France has historically not been a big soccer/football country, at least not compared to the rest of Europe. There are reasons for this: the absence of a major Paris team until the 1970s and of two or more first division teams in other cities, and thus derbys and intense local rivalries (based on rival parts of town, ethno-confessional groups, social class; cf. the UK, Italy, Spain, etc); the preeminence of rugby in the southwest and cycling in the west; the past disinterest, indeed disdain, of the bourgeoisie and intellectuals for the game… Even today, French fans do not travel to games in nearly the same numbers as do their European and other counterparts.

But 1998—and the quarterfinal victory—changed all that, when everyone got with the program and Gloria Gaynor. And everyone is with the program today, in 2018 (though not with Gloria Gaynor, as ‘I Will Survive’ is just so 1998).

As for Croatia tomorrow: we met them, if one will recall, in the 1998 semifinal, for which Lilian Thuram will forever be remembered. The last 15 minutes of that one were among the most stressful of my life, with France playing a man down—Laurent Blanc having been sent off with a red card, for a manifest dive by Slaven Bilić—and fending off a relentless Croatian counterattack. C’était chaud. But we held them off and won.

And inshallah, we will again.

Stade de France, July 12 1998

 

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