The Prose of Politics: Reflecting on Mario Cuomo’s Legacy Through a New Lens
There’s something deeply ironic about a documentary on Mario Cuomo being described as 'dry but persuasive.' After all, Cuomo himself famously quipped that politicians 'campaign in poetry and govern in prose.' Yet, Mario, the new documentary by the Kunhardt trio, feels more like a meticulously typed memo than a stirring sonnet. Personally, I think this mismatch between Cuomo’s eloquence and the film’s tone is where the real story lies—not in the man’s life, but in how we choose to remember him.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how the documentary mirrors Cuomo’s own struggle: the tension between aspiration and reality. Cuomo was a man who could deliver a keynote address that still resonates decades later, yet he opted out of the presidential race in 1988, leaving his supporters—and history—wondering what could have been. The film, too, aspires to capture the essence of a political giant but often settles for a chronological recitation of facts. It’s as if the filmmakers, like Cuomo, were afraid to take the leap from prose to poetry.
The Politician as a Man of His Time
One thing that immediately stands out is how Cuomo’s life was a series of collisions with history. Born during the Great Depression, shaped by FDR’s New Deal, and thrust into leadership during Reagan’s America, Cuomo was both a product and a critic of his era. From my perspective, this is where the documentary shines—briefly. It sketches a man who saw the impact of government on ordinary lives, particularly immigrant families like his own. But it doesn’t dig deeper. What many people don’t realize is that Cuomo’s Catholicism, for instance, wasn’t just a personal faith; it was a political tool he wielded to bridge the gap between progressive ideals and religious values. In an age where the right co-opted faith, Cuomo’s ability to reclaim it for the left was revolutionary. Yet, the film treats this as a footnote rather than a defining feature.
The Speech That Could Have Changed Everything
Cuomo’s 1984 Democratic National Convention speech is the documentary’s climax, and for good reason. It’s a masterclass in political rhetoric, a reminder of what the Democratic Party once stood for. But here’s where the film—and perhaps our collective memory—falls short. If you take a step back and think about it, Cuomo’s speech wasn’t just a speech; it was a blueprint for a more inclusive, empathetic politics. The fact that the party has struggled to find a voice as clear and compelling since then raises a deeper question: Did we lose Cuomo, or did we lose the ability to listen to him?
This raises a deeper question: Why do we romanticize figures like Cuomo while failing to replicate their vision? The documentary hints at this but never fully explores it. Instead, it lingers on the 'what ifs'—what if Cuomo had run in 1988? What if he had become president? These are interesting questions, but they’re also distractions. What this really suggests is that we’re more comfortable mythologizing the past than confronting the present.
The Personal vs. the Political
A detail that I find especially interesting is how the documentary tries—and largely fails—to humanize Cuomo. We get glimpses of the man behind the politician: his competitive streak on the basketball court, his grief over a key advisor’s death during the AIDS crisis. But these moments feel tacked on, like afterthoughts in a much longer memo. The use of his diaries, read by his children, could have been a powerful tool to reveal Cuomo’s inner life. Instead, it feels disjointed, lacking the emotional resonance it could have had.
This is where the film’s prose-heavy approach becomes a liability. Cuomo’s life was rich with contradictions—a consensus builder with a streak of superiority, a people person who hated campaigning. Yet, the documentary tells us these things rather than showing them. It’s as if the filmmakers were so focused on the facts that they forgot the story.
The Lingering Question: Where Are the Mario Cuomos of Today?
What makes Mario stick with me, despite its flaws, is the way it forces us to confront our own political moment. Personally, I find myself wondering: Where are the leaders who can articulate a vision as boldly and inclusively as Cuomo did? Why does the Democratic Party seem to have lost its poetic voice? These aren’t just questions about Cuomo; they’re questions about us.
In my opinion, the documentary’s greatest strength—and weakness—is its ability to evoke a sense of loss. It’s not just the loss of a potential president, but the loss of a certain kind of politics. Cuomo’s decision not to run in 1988 feels like a metaphor for something larger: the Democratic Party’s reluctance to fully embrace its own ideals.
Final Thoughts
Mario is a documentary that leaves you thinking, but not necessarily feeling. It’s a film that captures the prose of Cuomo’s life without ever reaching for the poetry. And yet, perhaps that’s the point. Cuomo himself understood the difference between campaigning and governing, between aspiration and reality. The documentary, in its own way, reflects that tension.
If you take a step back and think about it, the film’s dryness isn’t a flaw—it’s a statement. It’s a reminder that politics, like life, is often more prose than poetry. But it’s also a challenge: Can we find a way to write our own poems, or are we doomed to forever recite the prose of the past?
