Joe Purvis is a bear of a man, a southern lawyer whose easy drawl and relaxed mien complement his natural gifts as a storyteller. He nods at the replica of a brown trout mounted on the wood-paneled wall of his cluttered Little Rock office ("that one went 10 pounds, 2 ounces," he beams) and proceeds to explain how he hooked it in a pool of "gin-clear" water, patiently waiting for the fish to exhaust itself before reeling it in, weighing it and then photographing it from several angles so a craftsman in town could construct a facsimile.
Next, in a practised cant, he turns to a more elusive subject: Hillary Clinton. Mr. Purvis, 61, has known her since the late 1970s, when he was the assistant to Arkansas' attorney-general at the time, Bill Clinton. He grew up four blocks from the former president in Hope, Ark., where the boys attended kindergarten together, and has remained a close family friend ever since.
Like many of the couple's confidants, he believes that Ms. Clinton has got a "bum rap" from her legion of critics. And, like many of their friends, he was enlisted this winter to help humanize her campaign for the presidency in a video testimonial as part of a charm offensive titled The Hillary I Know.
"Hillary is not as naturally open to people she doesn't really know," Mr. Purvis explains, leaning back in a leather chair. "I remember, several years ago, the Hillcrest softball league had its annual picnic out at Ray Winder Field. A whole group of us were there — and I look over and here's my wife and Hillary, sitting on the curb, engaged in as intense of a conversation as you could ever imagine about our two girls, and the things that are going on, and just about any stuff that you would expect a parent sitting around a neighbourhood barbecue to be talking about.
"And I thought, 'Here she is, the first lady of the State of Arkansas, wearing a pair of shorts and a knit top or whatever, and just as relaxed as she can be.' And I thought, 'This is the lady I'd like everybody to see.'"
There is a deeply held belief in Little Rock that Ms. Clinton is misunderstood at best and, often, purposely mischaracterized. Eager to set the record straight, her supporters enumerate a laundry list of pro-bono work she has performed for various civic organizations, or her establishment of the first legal clinic at the University of Arkansas.
They are fond of detailing how she reformed the juvenile code, developed kindergarten and advocacy programs for children, took pains to write thoughtful notes and even secured better treatment, unbidden, for a child afflicted by cancer.
To hear Arkansans proclaim her virtues with an uncannily similar, near-missionary conviction, is to grapple with an improbable duality: Down here, everyone seems to feel that somehow, one of the most psychoanalyzed and otherwise scrutinized figures in American politics of the past generation remains a mystery to vast swaths of the public. Behind her starched countenance, her friends insist, lurks a warm, funny and genuinely caring person.
So far, however, not enough voters appear able or willing to grasp this alternative reality.
Despite what many Democrats view as superior experience and qualifications, Ms. Clinton, now 60, continues to lose ground to her more charismatic rival, Barack Obama, 46, who has built what some pollsters view as a near-insurmountable lead heading into next week's primary showdown in Texas and Ohio.
For all the talk about strategic blunders and tactical missteps, many believe the real Achilles heel of her campaign is the likeability factor. The very fact that Ms. Clinton's handlers have assembled people to retell stories of her at the ballpark or make videos to vouch that she has a sense of humour underlines how difficult it is for her to connect with voters on a personal level.
