Parliamentary no-confidence debates were a highpoint of the political drama of the 1990s. They were shown on live TV. They became gladiatorial contests between ministers and opposition MPs. They attracted viewers who simply enjoyed the oratory of Chuan, Samak, and Chalerm. They had interesting props like blown-up photos and statistical charts. Most of all, they introduced the mass of people to the idea that the powerful could be publicly challenged. They became an annual fixture, a sort of political cup final.

The issues in these debates were about the abuse of power, especially the capture of government budget for schemes which deliver fat commissions, favour a minister's constituency, or boost private business interests. The opposition arguments were an extension of the increasingly vigilant criticism exercised by the press, NGOs, and academics.

The debates themselves were not fatal for the ruling coalition. The theatre was more elaborate than that. If the debate created public excitement, then the press and other public critics could build this into a krasae (wave) which would shake the foundations of the ruling coalition. The climax came in 1996 when Banharn's government faced two no-confidence debates which ultimately drove the cabinet out of office.

But in 1999, this phase came to an end. The opposition launched a no-confidence debate and started with the usual litany of petty scandals. The charges were as awful and credible as ever. But hardly a dog stirred.

Possibly these debates had simply lost their novelty. More likely they were overshadowed by other forms of criticism. The press and academia had become more strident. Ministers were now subject to regular critique on TV—on the new channel, ITV, and on independently produced talk-shows on the regular channels.

Then something extraordinary happened. At the end of the no-confidence debate, Chaturon Chaisaeng was scheduled to criticise the Democrats' economic policies. Chaturon was not famed as an orator. He was not a senior figure in the opposition. His speech lacked the usual allegations of money-grubbing. But the temperature of public interest shot up.

Chaturon questioned what the Democrat government's IMF-inspired economic policies were doing to the Thai economy and to the Thai entrepreneurial class. It was a defining moment. It marked a realisation that the parliament has two important functions. First it acts as a market for the money-making opportunities created by political power (commissions, privileges, monopolies). Second, it makes policies which affect everyone in the nation. The earlier no-confidence debates had created a mechanism for monitoring the parliament's function as a market. But they had not been used to challenge big policy issues, until the heightened conditions created by the 1997 financial crisis.

More than anyone else, Thaksin and the advisers to his fledgeling Thai Rak Thai (TRT) party understood the significance of this change in the public theatre of politics. Scandals were out. Issues were in. At the 2001 election, TRT used all the old election techniques—log-rolling candidates, promising local projects, distributing red notes. But it won by fighting on a platform of issues, and attracting reformers as advisers, candidates and voters.

Then TRT seemed to lose its way. In his first six months in power, Thaksin was fighting the possibility that the Constitutional Court might remove him from office. He wooed popular support with a highly public, presidential style, and a string of rapid but often superficial reforms. Then he turned his attention to building a coalition so big it would last at least one full parliamentary term. This meant allying with more old-style politicians at the expense of the reformers. Throughout, he could not avoid taking care of the telecom businesses on which his wealth and influence rests. Finally he and his allies tried to stifle criticism by intimidating outspoken opponents and muscling the media.

Thai Rak Thai's promise to be a party of issues, change, and reform was fading as fast as a monsoon sunset.

Thaksin’s earache has served as a kind of intermission in the political drama—a gap which separates one act from the next. At the end of the last act, the krasae was building. Activists were turning critical. The money-laundering probes had made the press more hostile. The enlarged coalition had become a ramshackle creation, wired together by deals in the political marketplace, and straining at the seams.

As the curtain rises again, Thaksin is trying to prevent the wave building. He has suddenly confronted many of the cause celebres of the NGOs and the liberal press. The gates of the Pak Mun dam will remain open long enough to do serious research on the fish stocks. The long-running disputes over compensation at the Rasi Salai dam are being settled. The Bo Nok and Hin Krut projects will be delayed. Several smaller issues of land settlement have been cleared up. Thaksin went to the Klong Dan wastewater plant and acknowledged that it's a scandal.

At the same time, every single public and semi-public agency is talking up the Thai economy's prospects. The data foundations for this optimism are scarce and many private businesses (e.g. Bangkok Bank) are openly sceptical. But there is clearly an attempt to make confidence in the economy a self-fulfilling proposition.

According to the pre-billing, the Democrats are scripting the no-confidence debate according to the classical rules—a parade of grubby deals presented with pictures, statistics, and cutting words. But Thaksin is trying to convince us that such play-acting is no longer fashionable. He is reminding us of his earlier, brief, and almost forgotten starring role as the saviour of the economy and the friend of the poor. The opposition cries “Scandals!” He replies, “No. Issues.”

Maybe this is a real rebalancing inside TRT. Maybe this is just a delaying tactic designed to survive this hot, hot season. Only time will tell. But one thing is clearer than ever. A government empowered by such a majority and burdened by so much self-interest must be guided by constant criticism both inside and outside parliament.