The Front Runner (All the Truth Is Out Movie Tie-in). Matt Bai

about what they believed and how they had come to believe it. Their existences were guided by a single imperative, which was to say nothing unscripted and expose nothing complex.

      Defensively, almost unconsciously, we tried to obscure this new reality from our readers and viewers. Reporters of my generation (some of us more than others) showed up on cable TV all day long and spoke wryly and knowingly of what the politicians thought, in tones that suggested we had just come from a private dinner or a late-night bull session, that we enjoyed the same insight as our role models. As time went on, some Americans who paid close attention to the news began to suspect that we were holding out on them, that our studied detachment was masking deeper convictions about our subjects, things we really knew about the candidates but were afraid to say because we might lose our precious access or jeopardize “cozy relationships,” or because it might violate the outmoded tenets of objectivity. The truth was harder to admit: most of the time, we had no real access, and we really didn’t know anything about the candidates personally you couldn’t have learned from browsing their websites or watching speeches on YouTube. And absent any genuine familiarity or argument of ideas, our glib prognostications sounded cynical and bland. There existed an unbridgeable divide—our own kind of troublesome gulch—between our candidates and our media.

      There were lots of reasons that our politics had grown so dispiriting and so destructive over the years. They ranged from the growing dominance of political consultants to the decline of the industrial engine that once drove the American economy. And there were plenty of people, including a lot of campaign operatives, who argued that the shrinking influence of the professional class of political journalists was a good thing, that new technologies had broken the monopoly once held by a handful of self-appointed guardians of the public good, that candidates could now go around the media and speak, unfiltered, to the American voter. But when candidates no longer dared to speak unguardedly, or to explain the evolution of their thinking, or to say anything that might contradict anything else they’d ever said, they lost the ability to grapple with nuanced or controversial topics; essentially, they gave up trying to win the larger debate in the country, choosing to focus solely on the tactics of the next election, instead. New digital tools may have enabled them to reach voters directly, without a middleman, but all those voters were getting were the same old platitudes and scripted evasions, issued in a tweet or a video instead of a press release.

      There was no single moment when all of this had suddenly come to pass. But as I chronicled one candidate’s campaign after another, grasping for some moment of authenticity or illumination, it was clear to me that something in the political culture had been badly broken in the years since Cramer had written What It Takes. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, Hart began to creep back into my thoughts.

      It started as a stray reflection here and there, the brief connection of synapses as I drove across Iowa under an inky black sky, or as I sat in some god-awful roadside New Hampshire hotel, staring out at the snow-covered interstate at dawn. It grew into a doubt more pressing—a sense of something important that I had left unfinished or unexplored. I noticed how often Hart’s name came up now in the articles about John Edwards or about Tiger Woods, as if his was the most important or immoral one-night stand in the history of one-night stands, the standard of public humiliation against which all others had to be measured. Perspective, I could hear Hart saying. Perspective.

      I began to notice how the issues he had first brought to the debate in the early 1980s, like energy independence and Islamic terrorism, were the same ones we were debating now, because so little had been achieved in all the time since. When a friend sent me a link to a sale on eBay, in which some collector was selling the issue of People from 1987 with Donna Rice sprawled across the cover in a bathing suit, I paid fifteen bucks for the plastic-wrapped magazine. I had no real reason to buy it, except that I suddenly felt compelled to take it out of circulation. I figured I was sparing the man one more indignity.

      It wasn’t guilt, exactly, this feeling that had led me back to Hart’s cabin almost seven years after my first visit, like an archaeologist searching for shards of a lost political age. What I had written about Hart back then, a story I had now reread so often that I knew it almost by heart, hadn’t been wrong, at least not in any technical sense. But I had now come to believe there was something deeper I had missed, a connection between Hart’s defining moment and the era I inhabited. And I felt pulled to retrace that connection in order to understand how our politicians became so paralyzed and our media so reviled. It was worth figuring out what had really happened at Troublesome Gulch, and why, and how it had led the rest of us here.

      For two decades after his abrupt exit from politics, Hart said almost nothing revealing about the incident that had precipitated it. (In a 240-page memoir published in 2010, titled The Thunder and the Sunshine, he dispensed with the entire scandal in a few lines, noting, “The circumstances are too well known, and to some degree, still too painful, to require repetition.”) This was, in part, because people stopped asking. After a few months, the TV producers and reporters had moved on to other scandals, and the lecture agents were only calling, sporadically, to see if Hart might want to do some kind of crass confession tour. Eventually the gravel road through Troublesome Gulch, like the ancient city of Petra, became lost to political explorers, too remote for anyone to care.

      It was also because Hart thought—foolishly, as it turned out—that the rest of the world would move on faster if he didn’t keep reminding us of what had happened. Sitting in his cabin, far removed from affairs of state and having established himself as a prolific author and a specialist in international law, Hart would occasionally persuade himself that no one really thought about any of this anymore, that he might at last be remembered for his brilliance. Away from Washington, he could go months, even years, without feeling the prurient stares of strangers or the judgment of old friends. Then someone like me would come along, or some other politician or celebrity would be caught in an adulterous affair, and Monkey Business would surface again, tawdry and unsinkable. Even into his seventies, he could not outlast it.

      But more than any of this, Hart stayed quiet because he held fast to the central conviction that had guided him, disastrously, through his existential career crisis in 1987—that what happened or didn’t happen with Donna Rice or any other woman was nobody’s goddamn business but his and his wife’s, and about as relevant to his qualifications for higher office as a birthmark or a missing tooth. For more than twenty years, despite the instant opportunity for public redemption it would have afforded him, Hart would not admit to the affair or shed any light on the events that had led to his disgrace—not to interviewers, and not to the friends and former aides who were more reluctant to broach the subject. He believed the entire question, even now, to be an incursion into his zone of privacy, a triviality that it was his duty, as a public figure, not to legitimize.

      Once, over drinks, one of Hart’s close aides from the period told me that Rice, like Hart, had steadfastly denied, even in private, having consummated an affair. I asked him whether he was actually suggesting that Hart, despite his reputation for promiscuity at the time, hadn’t slept with the woman who would forever be linked to his ruined ambitions. The former aide looked around the bar and leaned closer to me, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I fear not,” he said, looking genuinely pained.

      If this was so, then the historical irony was hard to fathom. Because the story of Hart and the blonde didn’t just prove to be Hart’s undoing; it was the story that changed all the rules, a sudden detonation whose smoke and soot would shadow American politics for decades to come. Somehow, political and personal lives had collided overnight to create what was, in hindsight, the first modern political scandal, with all the attendant satellite trucks and saturation coverage and hourly turns in the narrative that Kafka himself could not have dreamed up. The unrelenting assault that Hart and family and their closest advisors had encountered during those five days would become an almost predictable rhythm of political life at the dawn of the twenty-first century, and it would spawn an entire industry of experts who knew—or claimed to know—how to navigate it. But it was Hart, the standout prodigy of a new generation, who opened the door.

      All these years later, Hart confided, he mostly remembered snippets from that week, painful and disjointed scenes that surfaced only when he allowed them to. Like the moment in New Hampshire when, nearly