The French Way (17 page)

Debray added a note on international affairs to his confession that praised Charles de Gaulle for curing him of his former small-minded, bilious, reactive anti-Americanism by giving the French back their self-respect so that they no longer needed the American scapegoat. Don't, he alerted his New York listeners, expect France always to align itself with the United States because (citing de Gaulle again) France wanted allies, not masters. The fundamental aim of French foreign policy, in an age of increasing global interdependence, was still to reduce dependency to as low a level as possible.

Debray ended his confession by expressing his disapproval of how the mass media had dispossessed the intelligentsia—how the TV anchor had replaced the poet. And he worried about how France had become “wired” to America via the media so that the average Parisian felt closer to New York or Houston than to Hamburg or Madrid. This middle-age radical exposed his cultural traditionalism and republican values when he coyly expressed the wish that he would not be condemned as anti-American because he still believed in a civilization where one reads books; respects Sundays and the circumflex accent; honors citizenship and a republic that is elective rather than ethnic; esteems
la'icite
and the school as a transnational community rather than a pluralistic community; and believes that people are more than the sum of opinion polls (218).

Anti-americanisme primaire retreated to the margins of the debate over America in the 1980s. There may have been some strident believers of the old religion whom Jacques Julliard derided as political extremists, dissident Gaullists, vengeful traditionalists, and assorted intellectual mediocrities, but, unlike the early postwar decades, they no longer dominated the discussion. Among the implicit, if not explicit, critics of anti-americanisme primaire were the opponents of Jack Lang's “crusade” against American cultural imperialism; these included the likes of Alain Finkielkraut, Guy Konopnicki, Michel Tournier, Andre
Glucksmann, Pierre Daix, and Bernard-Henri Levy. It was the anti-antiAmericans who gained in confidence and status. From Jacques Julliard on the left to Georges Suffert at the center it became de rigueur to lampoon those who tried to give intellectual or political legitimacy to the scapegoating of America. Within the world of political journalism, former American baiters either lost their appetite for the fight or enlisted in the cause of giving America a fair assessment. This was true of such established leftist, or left-center, publications as
L'Express, Le Nouvel Observateur, Le Point, Esprit, Liberation
, and
Le Monde
, and weighty newcomers like
Le Debat
and
Commentaire
joined in. These were the most read publications. Circulation of weeklies like
Le Nouvel Observateur, L'Express
, and
Le Point
ranged from 300,000 to 500,000 copies, in contrast to the small run of the New Right's reviews, whose subscribers were less than 5,000. Notables like Pierre Nora, Jean-Marie Domenach, and Regis Debray, who stood at the center of French intellectual life and had (in the case of the Domenach and Debray) earlier expressed anti-American sentiments reappraised their stance and invited balanced and nuanced assessments of America while the academic community dissected and embalmed the phenomenon.

Cultural snobbishness still prevailed, and one could make fun of Americans and American culture, but this was far removed from a past when intellectuals like Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir could intimidate Saint-Germain des Pres with their anti-American posturing. In the 1980s, when Alain de Benoist tried to elevate the phobia to a megapolitical ideology or Jean Baudrillard attempted to transform it into a postmodern discourse, their efforts simply fell flat. Circumstances, of course, would change in the 1990s, and the old tropes about America would surface especially among the political class and in popular attitudes, but anti-americanisme primaire had lost its standing within the intellectual community. It would appear only in insufferable polemics.

According to Evan Galbraith, the American ambassador in Paris, Franco-American affairs in the early 1980s were “probably the best they had been since 1918.”
¹
Many contemporary observers viewed relations as a kind of reverie. Francois Mitterrand and Ronald Reagan, even if the two presidents were a study in contrasts, were usually congenial, while Mitterrand and George H. W. Bush respected each other and enjoyed what might, with only slight exaggeration, be termed friendship. Transatlantic relations were arguably better in this decade than at any time since the end of the Second World War. They were surely more relaxed than in the troubled years of the Fourth Republic, when the allies quarreled over most everything from Germany to Indochina, or the early Fifth Republic, when Charles de Gaulle removed France from the integrated command of NATO. And there was far less turmoil than the early 1970s, which witnessed the hostile crowds in Chicago assailing President Georges Pompidou and mutual recriminations about the war in Vietnam. Troubles eased somewhat later in the decade after Valery Giscard d'Estaing became president and Jimmy Carter won cautious approval from the French for his pursuit of detente and his advocacy of human rights, but his vacillating policies and his failure to recover American hostages in Tehran tarnished his reputation. There was marked improvement after 1982, and by 1984-85 the United States and, to a lesser extent, Ronald Reagan, were genuinely popular.

If the 1980s were, in comparison to what preceded and what followed, a kind of transatlantic reverie, like all daydreams they masked reality—and they had to come to an end. Despite the TV coverage of cheerful statesmen attending summit meetings and the upbeat polls for Reagan and Bush, there were sharp disagreements, mutual mistrust, and even some nasty spats—which occurred mostly off camera. For example, in 1981, Evan Galbraith publicly insulted President Mitterrand, who ranted in private that if Galbraith weren't ambassador he would have expelled him from the country.
²
Some officials in the Reagan administration never flagged in their expression of dislike for Mitterrand. The quarreling between the two allies that persisted throughout the seemingly decorous 1980s exposed a fundamental Franco-American rivalry that turned on American unilateralism, opposing conceptions of the Atlantic Alliance and the French quest for autonomy within that alliance.

Independence for France and for Europe was, as is usually pointed out, the fundamental goal of French diplomacy. There were several reasons for this pursuit of autonomy, such as the security that comes from being master in one's own house. But, as this chapter stresses, the American Gulliver also served as a foil for the nation's identity in the world. The degrees of separation from the United States, more than the strength of the partnership, determined self-esteem and France's role as a major player in global affairs. Independence helped define what it was to be “French” on the international stage, and it was the U.S. superpower that deprived France of attaining this status.

Mitterrand's France employed various strategies aimed at channeling or curbing the energies of the superpower, ranging from acting as the U.S. government's confidant to resorting to obstructionism. Nothing worked—except when other European countries joined in and faced the United States as a solid front. At international summits France often felt both isolated and dominated, and on one occasion Mitterrand threatened to stay away altogether. Frustration became most apparent when he had to yield to President Bush and watch the Americans and the West Germans manage German unification.

This chapter will blend the narrative of relations between Paris and Washington with the response of the French media, elites, and public. Before embarking on this story it is important to sketch a picture of French attitudes toward American power, policy, and leaders on the eve of the elections of Presidents Reagan and Mitterrand.

As evidence for perceptions, the principal sources are opinion surveys and the print media. The two were tightly related. As one expert has pointed out, opinion in this case was “an echo of an echo”—meaning that surveys reflected largely how the media informed the public.
³
And the press and television acted as the principal conduits of information about international affairs. Elites depended more on the press, and the public more heavily on the little screen.
⁴
A historian must be careful about survey data because attitudes could be ephemeral and inconsistent, respondents were often poorly informed, and answers depended on wording and context. It made a difference if pollsters asked about views of the United States as opposed to those about Ronald Reagan. It made a difference when polls were conducted—for example, during or after major incidents—and what choices were allowed. Nevertheless, there is a sufficiently large body of survey data, some of which are continuous, as well as print materials, to provide a fair idea of how people viewed Franco-American affairs.

A distinction must be drawn between elites and public opinion. Among the elites there were policy makers who were directing relations with Washington; intellectuals, mainly situated in Paris, debating the relevance of America for France; and other opinion makers like journalists and television reporters. Then there was everyone else. Sometimes elites and the public were aligned, as they were during the mid-1980s, but at other times they were at odds. In principle, one should also expect inconsistency, ambivalence, and contradictions when either elites or ordinary French citizens expressed themselves about America.

The United States had lost its luster in the 1970s as a world power because of the sad end to the war in Vietnam and the turmoil surrounding
the Watergate scandal. Then came the Soviet buildup. Beginning in the early 1970s, less and less of the French viewed the United States as the most powerful country in the world, and by 1977 twice as many believed the Soviets, rather than the Americans, were ahead in total military strength. In tandem came dimming perceptions of American economic advantage, which declined to the point that by 1980 almost as many thought the Japanese and the West Germans were economically as strong as the United States.
⁵

None of this rebounded to the advantage of the other superpower. Over the same years the Soviet Union suffered from a deteriorating reputation; it steadily lost its standing, even among the French Left, as a progressive country that was committed to peace. The so-called Gulag effect was operating here. Accompanying this darker image was growing concern about expansionism, especially after the Soviet Union's interventions in Africa and Afghanistan, as well as deepening anxiety about Moscow posing a military and political threat to Western Europe. On the eve of the French presidential election in 1981 a majority believed the military might of the Eastern bloc was greater than that of the West; and more of the French, after the declaration of martial law in Poland later that year, believed the USSR was the greatest danger to world peace.
⁶
But the scowl from Moscow did not mean the French wanted a return to the Cold War. It may have led some to welcome a more assertive America, but many in France remained committed to detente, or at least expressed a strong preference for negotiation, rather than adopting a confrontational posture vis-a-vis the Soviets. And it certainly did not recommend that they lean more heavily on the Atlantic Alliance. Yes, the Soviets were more threatening, but the danger seemed abstract and remote rather than real and immediate. The French in the late 1970s worried almost as much about the danger to international peace emanating from the United States as they did that represented by the Soviet Union, while they were also apprehensive about other problems like instability in the Middle East. In fact, many continued to prefer “a nonbinding relationship” with the
United States and a path that fell between the superpowers; some even wanted strict neutrality in the Cold War. A 1979 survey on the Atlantic Alliance indicated that most of the French hoped for an independent stance in the Cold War and, surprisingly, only one in five opted for a military alliance between Western Europe and the United States.
⁷

America's faltering power was only part of its diminished reputation. When asked to select between favorable and unfavorable views of the United States, the latter grew from the early 1970s and continued to increase during the early years of the Reagan administration. By late 1981 unfavorable views were as high as they had been at any time during the Fifth Republic.
⁸
To be sure, the British and the West Germans recorded a similar pattern. If the question posed in surveys was more narrowly circumscribed as whether or not the respondent had confidence in U.S. leadership, the trend was the same. From the nadir, which came in 1975 at the end of the war in Vietnam and the Watergate scandal, the level of confidence rose under President Carter, but remained low; it then declined again in 1981-82. The arrival of Ronald Reagan at the White House did not, at least at first, stem this downward trend in French perceptions of how Washington managed world affairs.

State-to-state relations were essential to the cozier atmosphere of the 1980s. Governments set the mood and, to an extent, the public followed their lead. Thus, any explanation of this belle epoque of transatlantic relations must address policy makers—especially Francois Mitterrand, who managed how France dealt with the United States for five years after he became president. Even after 1986, when legislative elections brought a conservative majority, thus forcing Mitterrand to share power with Jacques Chirac, the president permitted the Gaullist prime minister little room for defining transatlantic policy. In short, the historian must look first to Mitterrand and his foreign policy team for answers.

When speaking of “French” or “American” policy one must be aware that such terms homogenize often conflicting views among those
making decisions. While President Mitterrand, for example, may have been the most important player, he and his team at the Elysee had to work with the prime minister and his or her government; the military or defense establishment, which was generally keen on closer ties with the Americans; and the foreign ministry or Quai d'Orsay—an agency that was reputed to be the least amenable of all policy-making bodies toward working with the Americans. Nor did unanimity reign within these circles of power even among the Elysee staff. For example, not all of the president's advisers agreed with the radical agenda of Regis Debray, who subscribed to the principle that “there is more power in rock music, videos, blue jeans, fast food, news networks and TV satellites than in the entire Red Army” and wanted to promote revolution in Central America.
⁹
Mitterrand also had to take into account socialist leaders, who watched closely lest he betray the party's ideals by aligning too closely with the United States and international capitalism, as well as his communist governing partners. As for public opinion, Mitterrand paid close attention to it, but he was not subservient.
¹⁰
Similarly, the White House made policy with the advice of the National Security Council, the State Department, the intelligence community, the Treasury, and the Pentagon, among others; it should not be assumed these actors always held the same views in dealing with France, because the Reagan administration was notorious for its infighting over the control of foreign policy.

Mitterrand, as we have seen, thought of himself as a friend of the American people. Whatever affection he may have had for Americans, however, did not, prior to his presidency, translate into admiration for the American dominated Atlantic Alliance. “I like Americans,” he wrote, “but not their policy. Under the Fourth Republic I was exasperated by the climate of submitting to their least desires. I did not recognize their right to pose as the world's gendarmes.”
¹¹
During the 1967 legislative elections he spoke for a negotiated, step-by-step elimination of both the Atlantic Alliance and the Warsaw Pact. In 1972 the Socialist Party's program called for the “renunciation” of France's nuclear
deterrent and denounced NATO because it tied “all signatories to American imperialism and…expose[d] them to preventive attacks.” Moreover, Mitterrand as party leader complained that the alliance facilitated France's “economic colonization by the United States.”
¹²
He wrote in 1980 that he felt “no more attached to the Atlantic Alliance than a Rumanian or a Pole did to the Warsaw Pact.”
¹³

As the presidential elections of 1981 neared, however, the socialists muffled their reproaches, endorsed the force de frappe, and accepted NATO while still warning about aligning with “imperialist”—that is, American—positions in world affairs. Political reality had forced the socialists to adjust. If the Left had any chance of coming to power in the Fifth Republic by attracting moderate voters, it had to accept the fact that France's independence and prestige depended on maintaining its nuclear deterrent and that NATO, if in need of reform, was increasingly vital to national security. The prime mover behind this shift was the growing threat in the 1970s from the Soviet Union, which had been building up its conventional forces in Central Europe and deploying intermediate-range multiple-warhead missiles (SS-20s) targeted at countries like France. The Cold War balance in Europe had tilted against the West. Soviet intervention in Third World hot spots like Angola heightened the sense that the Russian bear was on the prowl. But it was the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan in 1979 that confirmed suspicions that communism was on the move again. The read from Paris was that the Cold War had returned and detente was on hold. The United States, meanwhile, distracted by Watergate and adhering to detente under Presidents Richard Nixon, Gerald Ford, and Jimmy Carter, seemed to be meekly committed to Europe's defense. To make matters worse, West Germany, as it pursued its
Ostpolitik
in the 1970s, appeared to be embracing its own form of detente with Eastern European regimes and the USSR. The arrival of SS-20s, or the popularly named “Euromissiles,” on their borders intensified the appeal of neutrality among the German populace, and President Carter's decision to compensate by deploying American intermediate-range Pershing II
and cruise missiles in Western Europe (though not in France) roused open opposition among many members of the Social Democratic and Green Parties, both of whom called for nuclear disarmament. The fear was that the West Germans were losing their commitment to the Atlantic Alliance and seeking security by dealing with Moscow. As Mitterrand famously quipped about the Germans, “The missiles are in the East, but the pacifists are in the West.”
¹⁴
He believed France needed to bolster the Atlantic Alliance both to keep Germany from slipping away and to offset the Soviet threat.