I saw Bob Roberts in 1992 and I thought it was funny.
It was funny. I want that entered into the record because watching it now makes 1992 me look like an idiot and a child and I was only one of those things at the time. Tim Robbins made a mockumentary about a right-wing folk singer running for Senate on grievance, greed, and a guitar full of songs about how hard rich people have it. Bob gets a campaign bus, a documentary crew, and crowds of people who believe every word. I laughed. I guess I filed it under clever and went on with my life mostly because I didn’t truly understand what the movie was trying to say.
The rallies. Nobody cheers this sincerely, I thought. That’s the bit, right?
Yeah. Well.
Those scenes don’t look exaggerated anymore. They look like campaign footage, right down to the faces in the crowd and their certainty that this wealthy man with a television smile has come to return the country to people who already own most of it. You could drop one of Bob’s rallies into the news tonight and the only thing giving it away would be the hair.
The press bothered me more this time. The reporters aren’t fooled. They can see Bob lying three feet away. They know the songs are propaganda. They point the camera at him anyway, ask campaign questions, cover the horse race, file the story. Nobody in that press gaggle has to believe Bob. They only have to keep putting him on television. Bob gets his coverage and everybody else makes deadline and that’s the whole dumb engagement.
Giancarlo Esposito plays Bugs Raplin as the reporter who knows Bob is dirty and cannot get anybody to care. I remembered Bugs as a crank. Bad clothes, bad hair, shouting questions from the edge of the room at just the right frequency that ensures some form of security arrives before he gets any answers. Before Bugs gets through a single question, we’ve decided what kind of person he is. Esposito doesn’t play him as a dignified prophet. Bugs is scared and furious and getting louder because being right has not helped him once in his crappy, undignified career.
The fake assassination used to be a great final trick. Bob takes a bullet, becomes a martyr, campaigns from a wheelchair, wins the election. A foot tapping in the wheelchair confirms the scam.
I admired that construction in 1992. This time I felt sick as soon as the wheelchair appeared. Watching a candidate discover that being shot at is the best thing that can happen to his campaign is not remotely funny anymore.
The songs piss me off because they’re so good. They’re catchy. The Dylan inversion is dead-on. Hand “Retake America” to the wrong crowd and it works without changing a word or a note. Robbins has never released the songs as an album because he doesn’t want them wandering around without the joke attached. Ahem… Correct decision. Some dipshit would put one on a rally playlist before the week was out.
This was Robbins’ first feature as a director and it doesn’t look remotely like one. He has the mockumentary voice from the opening minutes. Gore Vidal barely appears to be acting. Esposito is terrific. Alan Rickman smiles just exactly like a man who could have your house bulldozed before lunch and still make you feel rude for objecting. Can you tell I’m re-reading Hitchhikers right now? Robbins never gives Bob a big scene where the mask comes off. The tapping foot has taken care of that.
I’ve spent most of my life giving satire more credit than this. I believed that pointing at a lie with enough precision did some damage to it. Maybe it does. I can’t tell from here. Bob Roberts points at the music, the press, the money, the grievance, the fake blood, all of it, and gets all of it right. Then we lived it anyway, for crying out loud.
I can’t blame the movie for any of this. I am the one sitting here trying to figure out why being warned felt so much like being protected. Robbins was right. Fine. Congratulations to all of us. What did it buy?
Four stars. I would have said three in 1992, back when I was sure it was a comedy. I don’t know what to call it now. I would very much like for it to become funny again.