By Kevin D. Williamson
Thursday, April 25, 2019
Conservatives are acutely aware of our pop-cultural
deficit, and sometimes argue that we need more conservative stories on film, on
television, on stage, in books, etc. But we do not need more stories that are
conservative — we need more stories that are true.
The great works of art that appeal to the conservative
sensibility rarely if ever are constructed as self-consciously conservative
stories — propagandistic literature lends itself more readily to progressive
causes, in any case. What Coriolanus
tells us about populism and mass politics is not true because it is
conservative but conservative because it is true. The relationship between the
beautiful and the true helps to explain how it is that so many actual
Communists in Hollywood’s golden age produced works that were moving, true,
often patriotic, often speaking to religious faith, and in many cases
profoundly conservative. They weren’t out to make something right-wing, but
something great.
I doubt very much that either Game of Thrones or The
Walking Dead is the product of an overwhelmingly conservative group of
storytellers. (From what I can learn of the politics of the writers, that does
not seem to be the case.) But both shows are obliged by the nature of their
dramatic structures to consider the fundamental questions of politics, and both
invite deeply conservative interpretations.
The Walking Dead
is, at this point, a show that is only incidentally about zombies. It is mainly
a story about the origins of political order, one that has taken several
different approaches to Mancur Olson’s idea of the state as a “stationary
bandit.” Olson argues that political order has its origins in ordinary rapine
and pillaging — at some point, his theory goes, the bandit begins to understand
that his own interests are better served not by razing the villages, massacring
the farmers, and burning the fields, but by leaving his victims with just
enough to survive and to continue producing — so that there is something for
him to loot next season. (Murray Rothbard and others made similar arguments
describing the origins of the state as organized crime.) As the bandit begins
to identify his own long-term well-being with that of his victims, he discovers
incentives to stay in one place rather than roam hither and yon in search of
new victims — a dangerous undertaking even for the most ruthless of bandits. He
takes a proprietary interest in his victims’ property, which he begins to
protect from rival bandits. The spoils of pillage become tribute, feudal
duties, and, ultimately, taxation.
But reality is not much like “Whig history,” in which
mankind and its polities move inevitably and invariably in the direction of
progress and prosperity. Nations move backward and forward: Part of the shock
and horror of the Holocaust is the result of the fact that it was undertaken
not by a tribe of illiterate cannibals but by what had been Europe’s most
culturally advanced nation. Venezuela has not always been what it is today. Neither
has the United States.
The first part of The
Walking Dead’s broad political arc has to do with the attempts of former
sheriff Rick Grimes, a partisan of the law in a totemic lawman’s hat, to
establish something like the rule of law in the post-apocalyptic chaos. He
tries a bit of democracy and finds that wanting, but he continues to work
toward a settlement based on rules and procedure rather than ad hoc savagery.
And he fails. Much of the plot is the
story of Grimes devolving into just another wasteland warlord, albeit one with
some conscience and sense of decency. As the survivors begin to coalesce into
semi-permanent settlements, they deputize one of their members to draw up a
constitution — but a series of crises turns her into one of the coldest warlords
of all. She is not a bad person, but the opposite: loving, loyal, fair-minded,
deeply humane. She becomes a kind of left-handed military dictator not because
of her vices but because of her virtues. She ends up being a kind of mirror
image of the nefarious Negan, another warlord who sought not violence and
domination for its own sake but order and security.
Many of the characters from The Walking Dead would quickly understand the facts on the ground
in Westeros, the troubled kingdom(s) in which Game of Thrones’s titular contest takes place. Game of Thrones is, at its core, a Shakespearean succession drama:
Something is out of place in the state, and the gears of the social machine
must grind until a new stable settlement is reached. (Game of Thrones’s opening sequence, which presents Westeros as a series
of complex machines, is well-conceived.) To Shakespeare’s political sensibility
it adds a Dickensian scope, considering the life of the kingdom from many
different vantage points: kings and courtiers, yes, but also slaves and
prostitutes, religious leaders, children, common people, and literal outsiders,
the “wildlings” who live beyond the wall that demarks the northern limits of
civilization.
The unhappy reality at the center of the political
economy of Game of Thrones is one of
particular interest in the Western world just now: that, as the proverb has it,
great men seldom are good men, that the characteristics that make one an
effective leader — a leader who is genuinely of use to his people — often are
the characteristics that make one a god-awful human being. And the converse:
that many of the virtues of good men make them poor leaders in difficult times.
Jon Snow, who recently (and at the most inconvenient of times) has learned that
he is presumably the legal heir to the Iron Throne, is a decent, fair-minded,
liberal man — and an almost completely incompetent leader of men. His first
real command (of the border patrol, essentially) ends with him being murdered
by mutineers. (He is resurrected.) In trying to unite the kingdoms against the
same threat that Sheriff Grimes et al. faced – zombies — he ends up getting
romantically involved with the conquering Daenerys Targaryen, who believes
herself to be entitled to sit on the throne. (She is also his aunt, but he did
not know that when he first went to bed with her.) That romantic entanglement
leads enemies and allies both to question his motives and calculations — and
not without good reason.
Daenerys, on the other hand, is a power-mad megalomaniac
— and, so far, a much more effective leader. She may be traveling the world
freeing slaves, handing down rough justice, and building multinational
coalitions for her own selfish reasons, but she understands her own reasons.
She knows what she wants, and that she has to give the people she rules what
they need if she is to achieve her own ambitions. This is not a matter of mere
calculation: Like most successful megalomaniacs, she sincerely believes that
her own destiny is fundamentally identified with the good of the people she
rules and those she means to rule. She can be transactional when necessary, and
will take good advice when she recognizes it, but she is a true believer, too:
in herself.
The Walking Dead
offers its survivors a couple of clear choices: They can have peace, trade,
security, material prosperity, the rule of law, and cooperation, or they can
have slaughter and brigandage. The choice would be obvious to almost everyone —
if not for the presence of the external threat and the trauma of social
collapse. Game of Thrones offers a
less clear choice, but does make an implicit case for things like federalism
and the separation of powers, inasmuch as most of the Seven Kingdoms’ domestic
troubles come from the fact that whoever sits on the Iron Throne expects not
only to reign but to rule, and that the very different peoples of the kingdoms
are, corporately, ungovernable — not even by terror, as the assassination of
the Mad King makes clear. Again, it is possible to imagine how a modus vivendi
might have evolved, if not for the external threat of the White Walkers and the
privations of the long winter.
That these stories should resonate so strongly in our own
political moment is a little strange. Unlike, say, at the height of the Cold
War, there is no existential foreign threat to the United States and our way of
life. Unlike, say, 1968 or 1861, there isn’t very much in the way of political
violence at home, either. These are reasonably peaceful and prosperous times.
But our mood is not the mood of peaceful and prosperous
times. That is, I think, the result of a series of earlier crises, minor and
major, that were stacked on top of one another in a particularly destructive
way: the convulsion of the 2000 presidential election, in which many Democrats
believed (with varying degrees of good faith) that they were robbed by the
Supreme Court; the events of September 11, 2001, shortly thereafter; the sense
of paranoia and crisis on both sides of the political aisle that followed; the
confusion about the Iraq War and its casus
belli; the 2008–09 financial crisis; that extraconstitutional abuses of the
Obama administration and the criminal misdeeds of the IRS and other agencies
during those years; the emergence of procedural maximalism as a congressional
political norm. Even with the Soviet menace, Vietnam, stagflation, etc., the
majority of Americans spent most of the postwar era feeling relatively safe and
secure in a way that no longer really holds. There is a sense that our
constitutional order has fallen into disorder, that the system — as figures as
different as Donald Trump and Elizabeth Warren insist — is rigged.
And so our minds naturally turn to the basic questions of
politics. By what sort of people do we want to be led? On what terms? Within
what limits? To what ends?
You won’t get much of that from our elected officials,
the professional commentators, or the academic philosophers. If you want to get
a real feel for our politics, you’ll have to turn to a couple of dopey
television shows about zombies.
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