It was billed as a celebration of the arts, but Donald Trump’s Kennedy Center Honors announcement looked more like a late-night cable variety special scripted by a committee of sycophants and sleep-deprived improv comics. The backdrop was respectable enough: the Kennedy Center stage, flanked by two women in glittering evening gowns. The premise was straightforward: name the honorees, George Strait, Michael Crawford, Sylvester Stallone, Gloria Gaynor, and KISS, and bask in the reflected glow of cultural achievement. But Trump could no more keep it to the nominees than he could keep a rally speech under an hour.
He opened with the awards but quickly made himself the protagonist, lamenting that he never got a Kennedy Center Honor, then musing aloud that the solution was simple: “I’ll become chairman and give myself one.” What followed was less an awards announcement than a grab bag of grievances, boasts, and half-formed policy declarations stitched together by free-association. In the same breath he lauded Stallone’s filmography, he declared he was fine with Russian hacking, “that’s what they do… we’re actually better at it”, and casually admitted he couldn’t persuade Putin to stop bombing civilians in Ukraine.
The honorees themselves became props in a broader ideological display. Trump bragged that he personally rejected “woke” nominees because, in his view, the Kennedy Center should be “very different than it used to be.” “I would say I was about ninety-eight percent involved,” he boasted when asked about the selection process. “They all went through me… I turned down plenty. They were too woke. I had a couple of wokesters.” In his telling, this wasn’t political, just a matter of taste, though the criteria ....
It was billed as a celebration of the arts, but Donald Trump’s Kennedy Center Honors announcement looked more like a late-night cable variety special scripted by a committee of sycophants and sleep-deprived improv comics. The backdrop was respectable enough: the Kennedy Center stage, flanked by two women in glittering evening gowns. The premise was straightforward: name the honorees, George Strait, Michael Crawford, Sylvester Stallone, Gloria Gaynor, and KISS, and bask in the reflected glow of cultural achievement. But Trump could no more keep it to the nominees than he could keep a rally speech under an hour.
He opened with the awards but quickly made himself the protagonist, lamenting that he never got a Kennedy Center Honor, then musing aloud that the solution was simple: “I’ll become chairman and give myself one.” What followed was less an awards announcement than a grab bag of grievances, boasts, and half-formed policy declarations stitched together by free-association. In the same breath he lauded Stallone’s filmography, he declared he was fine with Russian hacking, “that’s what they do… we’re actually better at it”, and casually admitted he couldn’t persuade Putin to stop bombing civilians in Ukraine.
The honorees themselves became props in a broader ideological display. Trump bragged that he personally rejected “woke” nominees because, in his view, the Kennedy Center should be “very different than it used to be.” “I would say I was about ninety-eight percent involved,” he boasted when asked about the selection process. “They all went through me… I turned down plenty. They were too woke. I had a couple of wokesters.” In his telling, this wasn’t political, just a matter of taste, though the criteria ...
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