HOW MANY times can a man be burnt at the stake? Michael Moore is so fond of portraying himself as a victim of corporate America that he is on his way to becoming the world’s first recyclable martyr. Brushing a fresh load of cinders from his baseball cap, the radical polemicist made another bid for sainthood this week when he accused Walt Disney of attempting to censor his forthcoming film, Fahrenheit 911, a muckraking documentary which, so the publicity claims, uncovers the Bush dynasty’s secret links with the rulers of Saudi Arabia.

In an open letter posted on his website, Moore claims that the Disney subsidiary Miramax is being prevented from distributing the film — due for release here this summer — because of fears that its harsh criticisms of President Bush will cause economic and tax problems for Mickey Mouse’s minders in Florida, the state which just happens to be run by Dubya’s brother, Jeb. “I would have hoped by now”, writes Moore “that I would be able to put my work out to the public without having to experience the profound censorship obstacles I often seem to encounter.”

Disney denied that there was any political motive. A spokesman noted that the decision was taken a year ago, and claimed that Moore was indulging in a PR stunt to drum up column inches in advance of the documentary’s screening at the Cannes Film Festival.

This is, of course, precisely what the spat has done. Moore’s instinct for commandeering the news pages has paid off handsomely once again, as has his brand of populist leftwing politics. Sceptics cannot help pointing out that his remorseless campaigns on behalf of the working man have brought him ample riches. Nor does he seem reluctant to hitch himself to the corporate wagon when it suits his interests. Only a few months ago, the San Francisco Chronicle — no rightwing tabloid — pointed out Moore’s willingness to use a company jet for a California book tour. But then, the world would be a much duller place without champagne socialists.

It is Moore’s determination to portray himself as a brutalised victim of the capitalist machine which is much more puzzling. Take a look around your local Borders or Waterstone’s, and it surely won’t be long before the great man’s face comes grinning into view. His anti-Bush screed Stupid White Men has spent months atop the bestseller lists, while its sequel Dude, Where’s My Country? seems set to enjoy a similar run. Moore would have you believe that he has been the victim of a US media blackout, orchestrated by a vicious gang of literary editors. It never seems to occur to him that American journalists find his outpourings slightly embarrassing and prefer not to treat him as a latter-day Tom Paine.

But Moore gets a free ride from most of the media. Bowling For Columbine was showered with prizes despite being filled with a string of assertions which were at best dubious, at worst downright dishonest. Only a few cultural commentators have broken ranks to criticise it. They include one of America’s most distinguished film reviewers, Richard Schickel, himself a leftwinger, who told me last year: “He’s careless with his facts, hysterical in debate and, most basically, a guy trying to make a star out of himself. It’s all hysteria — but, I think, calculated hysteria.”

If Moore had been pushing a conservative agenda, he would have been dismissed as a crank. Like the Republican hit-woman Ann Coulter, he prefers ad hominem attack to genuine debate. But because his simplistic views fit neatly into the media class’s web of anti-American conspiracy theories, he is treated as a prophet. His new film takes its title from Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury’s tale about a world that makes a virtue of illiteracy. The author of Stupid White Men is living proof that Bradbury’s world is closer than we think.

Clive Davis is comedy critic of The Times

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