Candidates Think Flip-Flopping is the Only Way to Win Elections

The fund-raiser was unremarkable, by L.A. standards. Under enormous chandeliers at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, wealthy donors mingled with showbiz types (Dennis Quaid, Samuel L. Jackson, Jennifer Beals) and ate endive spears stuffed with brie. Couples willing to donate $28,500 got to dine beforehand with the candidate, Barack Obama, who gave his usual stump speech and mocked his opponent, John McCain, for believing "that a bunch of oil rigs along the California coast was a good idea." (McCain had just recommended that states be allowed to opt out of the federal ban on offshore drilling.) This last zinger got a roar from the crowd, not a few of whom own shorefront properties in places like Malibu and Santa Barbara.

Raise some big bucks, ridicule your opponent, pander to the locals. Nothing unusual about that for a politician. But wait—wasn't this the candidate who was going to change politics as usual? Obama's decision to abandon the public financing system for the general election is a kind of change, but not what most voters had in mind when they voted for him in the primaries. By forgoing federal funding (and abandoning a pledge to first discuss the matter with his opponent), Obama will likely be able to outspend McCain, who is staying within the limits, by about four to one. Obama called the campaign-finance system "broken" and insists that he relies on small donors. But small donations to the Obama campaign have slackened, and in Los Angeles, Obama was able to take advantage of a loophole that allows him to circumvent the maximum individual donation ($2,300) by raising money for the Democratic Party. (McCain, who is staying in the system partly because he can't raise as much money as Obama, is exploiting the same loophole.)

Since he clinched the nomination, Obama has become a fairly traditional presidential candidate, shoring up the party base by telling interest groups what they want to hear. With polls showing a weakness with Jewish voters in Florida, a key swing state, Obama recently made a get-tough-with-Iran show of support for Israel before AIPAC, the American Israel Public Affairs Committee. To be sure, his show of devotion to Israel was no more fervent than John McCain's. McCain, too, has become an uncharacteristically cautious pol of late. The candidate who once loved to riff on the record for hours with reporters can now be seen reading his talking points from index cards. Just before he secured the GOP nomination in March, McCain seemed wistful about the free-wheeling old days. Appearing before reporters, flanked by two handlers, McCain said, "I think they think I'm going to say something I shouldn't." He raised his eyebrows as though he were a rebellious teenager talking about his overly strict parents.

Neither Obama nor McCain seems to enjoy the role of political hack. McCain has a slightly pained or hangdog look when he starts trying to appease the Republican right. Obama gets testy or huffy when reporters draw attention to his expediency. Last week, after the L.A. fund-raiser, a reporter asked him why he had abandoned the federal finance system. "Well, we talked about this, I think in Florida, I answered almost exactly the same question," he said in an exasperated tone, as if a candidate should never have to answer the same question twice over several days. "So, I will say it again," he said, and launched wearily into an elaborate and not altogether candid speech about his reliance on small donors.

The 2008 election was supposed to be different. McCain and Obama were the refreshing outsiders, the antipoliticians who fulfilled the public's desire for change. McCain had the bracing idea of putting on a road show with his rival this summer—standing on the same stage to debate the great issues, no reporters to ask canned questions. McCain wanted to debate every week, but Obama—wary of McCain's skills in informal "town hall" settings—suggested only two debates. The negotiations collapsed in accusations of bad faith.

It may be inevitable that presidential candidates become less free-spirited as they enter the general election. "When you get to the general, every huckster and ad man and consultant wants in," says Allan Lichtman, a presidential historian at American University. "And the consultants always push you to the lowest common denominator … Candidates are afraid to abandon the conventional wisdom of consultants, that the way to win is to be handled, controlled, scrubbed of all your rough edges."