On February 15, Hillary Clinton attended the Broadway revival of Sunset Boulevard and posed for a picture with the show’s star, Glenn Close, who was still in full stage makeup. So there they were, the lonely, desperately self-deluding gargoyle who doesn’t realize her career is over, and Norma Desmond. One pictures Mrs. C spending a lot of time sitting in the dark in Chappaqua these days, a pitcher of pina coladas near at hand (because everything about her has to be P.C.), ordering her stone-faced butler John Podesta to cue up the next flickering clip from glory days. “Play the tape where I say, ‘I don’t know who created Pokémon Go, but I’m trying to figure out how to get them to Pokémon-go-to-the-polls!’ haw haw haw.” Then, after one drink too many: “They really are deplorable, you know.” Then, after three drinks too many: “Why didn’t Obama save me from the Russian hacking? get mr. ‘hope and change’ on the phone right now.” Podesta: “Of course, Madam. Right away, Madam. Perhaps Madam would like her sleeping pill now.” She is big: it’s this sexist, racist, transphobic country that got small.
Joe’s willingness to be corrupted collides with his vanity, and the wreckage is his corpse.
Untroubled by the commotion that attended Clinton’s presence, I saw this most enjoyable show the following evening (at the Palace Theatre through June 25) and was awestruck again by the freshness and ingenuity of
