Barry Levinson’s political comedy is sharpest when Dustin Hoffman treats deception as a production problem. The performances and dialogue earn the laughs; the satire is less searching than its confidence suggests.
Wag the Dog is a good political comedy with a narrower reach than its premise promises. Barry Levinson takes a spin doctor, a Hollywood producer and a presidential scandal, then lets the first two solve the third by inventing a war. The pleasure comes from watching people take such professional satisfaction in something appalling. David Mamet and Hilary Henkin give them dialogue quick enough to make the scheme entertaining before we have time to object.
Hoffman’s Stanley Motss is the reason to watch. His producer’s self-importance makes the fraud feel like another opportunity to demonstrate how useful he is, and Hoffman gives that vanity a cheerful persistence. We laughed at his pleasure in the work, then felt slightly ashamed of ourselves: fabricating a war has become an occasion to enjoy a man’s enthusiasm. The performance keeps the joke attached to a recognisable human failing, the wish to be appreciated for doing a job well.
Robert De Niro’s Conrad Brean gives him a useful partner. De Niro makes the spin doctor’s competence persuasive without asking us to admire him, keeping the performance economical beside Hoffman’s expansive vanity. Their pairing gives Levinson something more dependable than topical jokes: two people whose ways of getting things done are funny together. We do not need to approve of either man to want their conversation to continue.
Stu Linder’s editing is a substantial part of the appeal: at 97 minutes, the film moves briskly between problems and proposed solutions. That pace suits Mamet and Henkin’s dialogue, where an outrageous suggestion can be treated as settled business almost before its implications register. Some of the story’s leaps are much too easy, though, and cutting quickly past them does not make them persuasive. We can enjoy the efficiency while noticing how conveniently obstacles make way for the next joke.
Robert Richardson’s cinematography gives the scheming a polished finish, and Wynn Thomas’s production design helps politics and show business feel like compatible workplaces. That smoothness suits the plotters’ confidence, although it also makes their activities rather comfortable to watch. Mark Knopfler’s music makes less impression than the rhythm of Mamet and Henkin’s exchanges. The actors are funniest when they give an outrageous proposal the courtesy of sober consideration.
Political satire should be able to make us question our own judgement, and here the film is less successful. It is too pleased with how easily the deception can be organised. The media’s hunger for a story gets a thorough mocking, while our confidence that we would never fall for such nonsense goes largely undisturbed. There is little curiosity about why people might believe a lie, or how their trust was won in the first place.
Still, a comedy need not explain the entire political system to earn its laughs. Levinson gets enough from the vanity and ingenuity of his plotters to make these reservations worth arguing about afterwards, rather than reasons to stay away. If political farce is what the evening needs, Hoffman’s producer is excellent company, provided we do not give him anything important to arrange.
