Kinsley's mag shows seriousness, but misfires in first issue
By GARY KAMIYA
After a buildup only slightly exceeded in length, fervor and stick-twirling bombast by the interminable drum solo on Iron Butterfly's "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida," Slate, the Great Web Legitimizer, has finally made its entrance before a gaping world. Not even the most epochal of publications could have lived up to this not-since-amoebas-crawled-from-the-primeval-ooze hype, and by the iron laws of Trendoid Journalism a revulsion against all things bright and Kinsleyesque will inevitably follow. Before donning surgical mask and gloves, therefore, we will pause for a brief moment of commiseration with our new Web colleagues. Pause. OK, nurse, hand me that chain saw.
Actually, to "get medieval" on Slate's ass -- in the immortal words of the displeased, recently-tortured gangland leader in "Pulp Fiction" -- would be not only unkind, it would be unwarranted. Slate has its problems -- the front-of-the-book section is claustrophobically spin-obsessed, there is a major shortage of witty or beautiful writing and a coherent overall editorial vision seems lacking -- but it's far from a disaster. For all of its faults, Slate does show the one indispensable thing: seriousness of purpose. Besides, putting out a magazine is like playing baseball: it's a long season. And with its editorial talent and roster of top-drawer writers, and Microesus behind it signing checks, Slate will have plenty of time to get up to speed.
The issue opens with a lengthy editor's note from Michael Kinsley. Aside from the welcome announcement that Slate will have no truck with puerile Web boosterism, Kinsley doesn't reveal much about what he conceives his magazine's editorial purpose to be: no Citizen Kane-like "Statement of Principles" here. In the overheated world of Web rhetoric, such sobriety is refreshing -- as is Kinsley's declaration that "we have a preference for policy over politics." Unfortunately, although there are substantial (sometimes to the point of wonkdom) policy pieces in Slate's feature well, few of the eight front-of-the-book "Briefing" sections do much to substantiate that assertion. In fact, several of them take meta-commentary -- media writing about media -- to new and hideous depths.
The ickiest section is the first (never a good idea), a two-headed monster called "The Week/The Spin." The problem with this section is made clear in its title: it's unclear if it's about what happened, or what Time (or the Times, or The New Republic, or the Post) said about what happened. This approach can work, but only if writers are given enough room to develop an actual thesis. These dinky tidbits are just irritating "insider" dish -- and stale at that. (The Bulls won the title!) Who cares what a Washington Post writer thinks about the Bulls' place in history -- we want to know what a Slate writer thinks. Lingering too long in this half-sycophantic, half-cynical spin-world leaves one feeling queasy.
Equally superficial is the next section, "In Other Magazines," mini-accounts of some leading periodicals. Does anyone outside of a Beltway-obsessed editor (not a large demographic) really need a regular précis of what Time and Newsweek had on their covers? Save it for the 3 p.m. news meeting, guys. And what conceivable purpose is served by telling us that The New Yorker has its fiction issue up this week? This isn't even fodder for cocktail chit-chat.
Other people's punditry is also kowtowed to in "The Horse Race," which factors in the opinions of fixtures like Jack Germond and Mark Shields as well as polls in handicapping the '96 campaign. And by the time the reader has finished reading another regular section, "Varnish Remover," a deconstruction of a Republican ad attacking Clinton, she is likely to feel that she has been escorted into the ninth circle of Beltway hell, where damned souls are forced to listen to media consultants debating poll interpretations for all eternity.
Two sections in "Briefing" do contain some actual substance, but they're puckeringly dry: A cautious, statistic-filled piece evaluating Clinton's drug war weakened -- or at least made terminally square -- by its author's failure to distinguish between marijuana and other drugs, and yet another polemical essay asserting that the much-ballyhooed "downsizing of America" is nothing to worry about. Rounding out the front of the book is a cartoon by the always amusing Mark Alan Stamaty -- and the issue's nadir, a nauseating "diary" by director David O. Russell. ("My agent calls to ask if I can have dinner with Jennifer Aniston. I like my job." Thanks for drooling that over us, Dave: we love to be made privy to the gloatings of celebrities.)
Slate's brain trust may have gone the meta-commentary, game-oriented, inside-baseball route in the front of the book because they decided that the Internet is essentially a quick-hit, gossipy, information-driven medium. Whatever their reasoning, however, it was a mistake. This approach capitulates to some of the worst contemporary cultural trends, rather than resisting them. The world needs another nanosecond-by-nanosecond analysis of how political minutiae is received by the media like it needs George Magazine.
The feature well is somewhat better, but there are no home runs here either. The strongest piece is the long e-mail exchange between defenders and critics of Microsoft on whether the behemoth of Redmond plays fair. It is a pleasure to watch Atlantic Monthly stalwart James Fallows and technology writer James Gleick relentlessly flay Microsoft's hapless defenders. (When Microsoft vice-president Steve Ballmer piously wraps himself in Republican rhetoric, claiming that the company's critics want -- gasp! -- "governmental regulation," Fallows hands him back his head with colorful parsley garnish: "I can't believe that someone as sophisticated as you can really believe this. From Dick Armey, yes ... or maybe a character in an Ayn Rand novel, but not someone who knows how the agreed-on rules of competition affect corporate strategy.")
The other features, however, are disappointingly weak -- in particular a thin piece by the usually reliable Nicholas Lemann on how Asian-Americans have become "the new Jews." Lemann's less-than-earth-shattering thesis: the status-driven obsession with educational achievement formerly pursued by Jews is now the province of Asians; Jews are now playing hockey and trying to be well-rounded. Because it never examines the two groups' differing cultural motivations, Lemann's piece remains strictly a one-note gag, cute rather than significant.
The final feature is Jodie Allen's wonk-until-you-drop piece on why tax cuts are a bad policy idea. This New Republic-esque essay is solid, unimpeachable and will probably be read by 37 people.
The back of the book, the province of Slate's cultural writing, is decent, but one expected more flair and fireworks. Ann Hulbert's review of Miss Manners' new book is solid but uninspired; Sarah Kerr's piece on endings of TV shows is cobbled together, lacks a thesis and meanders off into a corner; Cullen Murphy's wry examination of "Talmudic" versus "Jesuitical" produces a small smile. The most interesting piece is Larissa MacFarquhar's essay on quick-fix psychiatry, but even this seems choppy, lacking in elegance.
Overall, this is a disappointingly uptight issue: it gives off an odd feeling of constraint, even turgidity. One has the feeling that the editors are still struggling with the length constraints of the medium -- or that Slate may have been rushed into production. (The embarrassing absence of a reader-response forum -- the only real reason to publish online -- seems to indicate a certain haste.)
Now that Slate has established its Beltway gravitas (as if any of us doubted the existence of same) it should loosen up a little. Yes, there are a lot of dumb kids in this medium and a lot of hyperbole. So what? As a coach says to a player when he comes out cold and misses his first six shots, "Just play your game."