True enough. Romney's explanation was transparently self-serving and contrived. That said, Romney cannot hope to compete in the phoniness league Newt Gingrich belongs to. At that level of play, candidates dare to suggest that they take huge retainers from Freddie Mac in order to offer advice "as a historian," and commit serial adultery because "partially driven by how passionately I felt about this country, that I worked far too hard and things happened in my life that were not appropriate."
Still, most of the time, when Gingrich speaks, his audience has a sense that they are watching a thoughtful person spontaneously expressing his views. When Santorum speaks, the listener doesn't wonder whether he's checked the reply with his pollster. With Romney, the feeling is more like pressing the buttons on a jukebox. Ask about defense and the "military second to none" disc slides into the player. Ask about the economy and the "businessman" record slips into the slot. Such competence is not easily attained, but the effect over time can be numbing, rather than inspiring.
Gingrich and Rick Santorum have advanced the process by highlighting this vulnerability of Romney's. Like New York Republican Thomas E. Dewey, nominated for president in 1944 and 1948, Romney seems to be the candidate from central casting. Dewey, commented Alice Roosevelt Longworth, "looks like the little man on the wedding cake."
It isn't that Romney lacks the ability to think on his feet. When reporter Andy Hiller asked a series of questions on gay rights culminating in what he clearly imagined was a gotcha -- "When is the last time you stood up and spoke out for increasing gay rights?" -- Romney parried with "Right now."
Something is causing to Romney to play it too safe. Without straying very far into armchair psychoanalysis, it is worth examining the experience of the candidate's father, George Romney.