Covering Trump’s speech at the UN General Assembly yesterday was one of the wilder experiences I’ve ever had as a journalist.
Have you ever noticed Trump’s slack-armed amble when he mills around during important gigs? It’s such a blatant admission of his indifference to the events he’s witnessing and shaping. He looks like he’s been told to be somewhere but he’s not sure why. He’s not opposed to being there, but he’s not committed to it either. That is, until the moment that he steps up to the podium and he speaks. And then his body comes alive with such force that it’s almost as if it’s a different person. He barks and points and sneers and flashes his teeth. It almost seems as if he’s a ventriloquist manipulating his own body. But then he misses and stumbles over words, and places the emphasis on the wrong part of sentences, and you remember that the passion has less to do with the language than it does with him harnessing the power of the scene. He is animated by the spectacle, given life by the authority to command. He is pantomiming the American affect, and revealing its darkest essence.