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The Death of Dr. Evil The Death of Dr. Evil

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The Death of Dr. Evil

Kim Jong Il caused the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people and defied the world, yet we could never quite take him seriously. Perhaps we should at last: North Korea’s tyranny will go on.


In this Wednesday, Aug. 24, 2011 photo North Korean leader Kim Jong Il waves goodbye to Russian President Dmitry Medvedev, not seen, after a meeting an a military garrison, outside Ulan-Ude in Buryatia. Russian President Dmitry Medvedev arrived Wednesday in remote eastern Siberia for a summit with North Korean leader Kim Jong Il expected to focus on energy deals, economic aid and nuclear disarmament.(AP Photo/RIA Novosti, Dmitry Astakhov, Presidential Press Service)

Kim Jong Il was a real-life Dr. Evil, intent on being taken seriously and yet almost unfailingly laughed at.

Strutting and pouf-haired, a self-described connoisseur of fine wine and cigars as well as (according to North Korea’s ever-inventive media) a brilliant inventor who shot 38 under par his first time playing golf, Kim would have been outright comical had one been able to get past the fact that he brought death and untold misery to millions of people. And that he endangered many more around the world with his reckless pursuit of a nuclear bomb and other weapons. Kim, whose death at age 69 was announced by North Korean media on Sunday, was also the master of what may be the last truly totalitarian dictatorship on earth, one that is likely to continue now under his son Kim Jong Un, his apparent successor.


Even as democracy seems to flourish anew elsewhere, the bizarre, undying dynasty of death and defiance that the Kim family has overseen for 65 years is likely to be affected only marginally by the passing of Kim Jong Il. 

I first became convinced of  the peculiar staying power of the North Korean regime 11 years ago, when I got to see Kim Jong Il up close. The date was Oct. 22, 2000. Like much of what he did as North Korea’s “Dear Leader,” the encounter came as a big surprise. A group of us reporters were accompanying then-Secretary of State Madeleine Albright on her historic visit to North Korea. As the sun set over Pyongyang, the capital of Kim’s reclusive country, we were ushered into a giant circular stadium. We had been told we were about to see a "gymnastics show." The stadium was silent as we walked in, as if empty. But when we looked around, we saw that every seat was filled with what North Korean officials later said were more than 100,000 people. On the field, arrayed before us, were tens of thousands of performers dressed in brightly colored outfits and carrying red flags. They all just stood there, unmoving and unspeaking, like set pieces in a vast diorama.

Then, suddenly, in walked Albright and Kim Jong Il, the Mao-suited "Dear Leader" of this communist nation of 21 million people. Kim was an odd-looking fellow, pudgy and not much taller than the diminutive secretary, with his hair bouffed up to gain another inch or two. But you wouldn’t know it from the reaction: Instantly the entire audience stood and erupted into torrential applause and shouts, every black-suited Korean craning toward Kim, each trying to out-clap the other. As one, the performers on the field surged forward, cheering and jumping up and down in front of him.


Just as suddenly, as if by the flick of a master switch, the cheering stopped and the lights dimmed. Kim and Albright sat down next to each other. What followed was at once awesome, somewhat terrifying, and by far superior to any halftime show at the Super Bowl. Demonstrating a degree of precise synchronization that would have made any Broadway choreographer envious, some 100,000 acrobats and dancers performed for an hour themes from the 55-year history of their glorious "revolution" (which, in truth, was the Soviet installation of Kim Jong Il's father, Kim Il Sung, in 1945). Thousands of legs and arms moved in near-perfect unison; hundreds of petite, rouge-cheeked girls no more than 7 or 8 years old did multiple handsprings to the tune of such numbers as "The Leader Will Always Be With Us" and "My Country Under the Sunshine of the Party." Acrobats slid along ropes hundreds of feet above the performers, or were catapulted across half the length of the stadium onto nets. Barely anyone missed a step.

At the far side of stadium, vast images of the great moments of the revolution flashed and shifted before us. It took only several minutes before we realized that this portion of the stadium consisted of what officials later said was another 50,000 people, each with a book of colored placards in his hands. By turning the placards in tight array on cue from a conductor, this multitudinous cast pulled off amazing trompe l'oeil feats. They created giant ocean waves and flashes of lightning in the "raging sea of difficulty" faced by the revolution. They depicted tractors plowing up fallow earth to defeat the 1997 famine, and a global map of the "54 occasions" that Kim Il Sung had to visit his erstwhile communist friends (all gone now) abroad. Thematically, it was ridiculous; pictorially, it was brilliant.

The show had been intended to impress upon Albright, the most senior American official ever to journey to Pyongyang, that communism was alive and well, if only in this lonely Asian outpost. It succeeded somewhat. “Only a totalitarian state could bring this off,” I whispered to one of my companions, trying to make up in glibness what I lacked in comprehension.  

I thought of that scene often in subsequent years as I heard U.S. officials predict that North Korea would soon go the way of other communist and totalitarian dictatorships. And I thought of it again on Sunday when the North Korean state media, reverent to the end, announced that Kim had died of a heart ailment on a train on Dec. 17 due to a "great mental and physical strain" during a "high intensity field inspection."

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