If you want to know why Kamala Harris lost the 2024 election, read her ode to Bill Clinton in “107 Days” (Simon & Schuster, 320 pages, $30), her memoir of the campaign that ended with the second election of Donald Trump.
“Bill Clinton knows how to weave a tale,” Harris writes. “He’s one of the best storytellers in modern politics.” It’s almost enough to make you forget Clinton’s lies, his creepiness, and his bromance with Jeffery Epstein.
To my mind, Harris is a far finer person and public servant than Clinton (whose reputation as the Republican boogeyman of the ’90s belied his conservative policies). Yet implicit in her praise of his artful charisma is a reminder that in one respect, he has her beat: He’s a better actor.
As a presidential candidate, Harris honorably (and fatally) disdained the inherent theatricality of campaigning. “That’s my guiding principle: Is it relevant?” she said in 2019. “Not, ‘Is it a beautiful sonnet?’” I wonder if she still believes that, following an election won by Trump’s vulgar verses (“They’re eating the pets of the people that live there!”).
While politics is the art of the possible, it is also the art of performance. It’s Ted Kennedy barking at Mitt Romney, “That’s what you have to do with legislation!” It’s Clinton making eye contact with a voter after George H.W. Bush made eye contact with his watch. It’s Barack Obama solidifying his debate triumph over Romney by firmly saying, “Get the transcript!”
(For politicians across the political spectrum, unmanning the equivocal Romney is practically a rite of passage.)
In a diseased nation festering with symptoms of decline—from relentless school shootings to lethal incompetence in the face of the climate crisis—no American has the luxury of dismissing politics as pointless gamesmanship. Our lives depend on investing in the outcome of the game, however absurd the rules may be.
That’s why it matters who’s playing. When Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez rousingly declares that “this is our country!” you are instilled with possibility and purpose; when Ruben Gallego offhandedly supports imprisoning migrants at Guantanamo Bay, you feel that the Constitution doesn’t matter and never did.
Unlike Harris, Ocasio-Cortez comprehends that being morally upstanding means nothing if you aren’t adept at grandstanding. You need a dash of actorly flair if you want to sell your morals to the masses—and you need to learn from both real and fictional political icons.
Hollywood may have embarrassed itself with gutless election tales aplenty (I’m thinking of George Clooney’s slickly nihilistic “The Ides of March”), but cinema is uniquely suited to dramatize the oldest war in politics: the battle between perceived artificiality and perceived authenticity.
To be blunt, I’m not convinced that the legions of bland Democratic governors plotting a run for president in 2028 can walk that gaffe-laden line (Gavin Newsom, the current frontrunner, seems to care more about trolling MAGA cultists than invigorating deflated Democrats).
That’s why I’ve compiled a list of lessons to be gleaned from the careers of movie politicians: one New York congressman, one (slightly) fictionalized Southern governor, and one actress who played a president onscreen and revealed the profundity of her political insights during (of all things) the Golden Globes.
I believe that the following tenets could help conquer J.D. Vance, Marco Rubio, or any other Trump whipping boy who becomes the Republican nominee in 2028. That said, no Democrat worth voting for will need this advice—and any Democrat who does may have already lost.
Acknowledge the Artifice
Senate candidate David Norris (Matt Damon) has just lost to the villainous Roger Linfield (who “is such a tool”). Nevertheless, being vanquished has its advantages—or at least that’s what David tells Elise Sellas (Emily Blunt), his British, ballet-dancing paramour.
“For one thing, as a politician, you’re never really alone unless you’re asleep, or in the bathroom, usually,” he says during a flirtatious restroom encounter in George Nolfi’s “The Adjustment Bureau” (2011). “That gets old.”
That line that might hoodwink a rank-and-file registered voter, but not Elise. “I don’t buy it,” she says mischievously. “I think you love it.” She sees straight through David’s transparent posturing, which he gleefully discards during his concession speech.
Released during Obama’s first term, “The Adjustment Bureau” echoes a distant era when an introspective admission of failure could elevate America’s admiration for a leader in retreat (as John McCain’s eloquent concession did in 2008).
Unfortunately, David’s speech gets off to a schlocky start. “We had a rule in my neighborhood,” he tells his supporters. “When you got in a fight, it wasn’t whether or not you got knocked down, it’s what you do when you get back up. And I came here to tell you tonight that I will get back up!”
As the crowd cheers David’s proclamation, his features harden into an expression of grim uncertainty. Somehow, he knows that they’re applauding not because they want to, but because they’re supposed to. He’s getting—ugh—sympathy claps.
“It’s bullshit,” he says quietly, veering from his prepared remarks in a moment of reckless inspiration. “We didn’t have that saying in my neighborhood. It’s just one of those phrases that had some traction with the focus group, and so we kept using it, but it’s not true.”
This time, nobody cheers—and everybody listens. Rather than shed his Beltway affectations, David has seamlessly retired one stale character (the routed but defiant institutionalist) in favor of a compelling alternative (the blunt but idealistic populist).
“This isn’t even my tie,” he grouses, holding up his red-and-blue striped cravat. “This tie was selected for me by a group of specialists in Tenafly, New Jersey, who chose it over 56 other ties we tested.” It’s a novel strategy to appear authentic: acknowledge your inauthenticity.
David’s speech culminates with him ruminating on the ideal amount of scuffing for a politician’s shoes. Too little and he’ll alienate working-class voters; too much and he’ll repel the lawyers and bankers who funded his campaign.
“Do you know, we actually paid a consultant $7,300…to tell us that this is the perfect amount of scuffing,” David confesses as he holds his shoe aloft—an image that is immediately drafted into history by eager photojournalists (thereby igniting David’s next senate campaign).
If you think David’s detour into fashion commentary is far-fetched, you probably didn’t follow the campaign of Seattle Mayor-Elect Katie Wilson, who chronicled her quest for the perfect debate outfit at Goodwill on Instagram.
“I feel confident about my policies, but I do not feel confident about my wardrobe,” Wilson said. It takes tremendous confidence to admit to a lack of confidence—and to pull off a suavely self-deprecating power move that David Norris would be proud of.
Love Thy Constituents, Love Thyself
At the 2024 Democratic National Convention, Bill Clinton was scheduled to speak for 12 minutes. He talked for more than 25, excoriating Trump in strikingly poetic terms.
“His vendettas, his vengeance, his complaints, his conspiracies—he’s like one of those tenors opening up before he walks out onstage, like I did, trying to get his lungs open by singing, ‘me, me, me, me, me, me,’” Clinton recited with fervor. “When Kamala Harris is president, every day will begin with you, you, you, you.”
Clinton, of course, is the maestro of blending “me, me, me, me, me, me” with “you, you, you, you”—of expressing himself in a manner that flatters his colossal ego, yet affirms a voter’s hunger to be heard. He’s living proof that running for office requires an arrogance that must be rerouted in service of your country (a perilous tradeoff that, needless to say, was nearly his undoing).
David Denby once wrote that narcissists can make “you feel blessed when, even momentarily, the beam of their self-love turns toward you.” That seductive logic applies not only to Clinton, but to his cinematic alter ego, Jack Stanton (John Travolta), the governor seeking the presidency in Mike Nichols’ “Primary Colors” (1998).
(Written by Elaine May, the film was adapted from Joe Klein’s 1996 novel of the same name, which was inspired by Clinton’s primary clash with Jerry Brown.)
With a cloud of gray hair and a deceptively guileless grin, Travolta is a highly convincing Clinton surrogate. He doesn’t just look the part; he internalizes Clinton’s instinct for human connection, especially in an early scene where Jack visits an adult literary class.
That instinct is activated when Dewayne (Mykelti Williamson) recalls the humiliation of receiving a mere certificate of attendance at his high school graduation—all because none of his teachers bothered to teach him to read.
“I want to thank you for sharing that with us, Dewayne,” Jack says gently. It’s a moment of genuine tenderness (in fatherly fashion, Jack pats Dewayne on the shoulder) with an initially baffling follow-up: Jack’s monologue about his Uncle Charlie, a World War II veteran.
Why, you wonder, is Jack boring a roomful of strangers with a byzantine account of the Japanese soldiers Charlie slew at Iwo Jima and the Medal of Honor he received from Harry Truman? It’s a seemingly narcissistic detour into Jack’s family history, but the beam of his self-love is about to shine on Dewyane and the rest of the class.
It turns out that the tale of Uncle Charlie has a tragic ending: He returned home and was offered a scholarship to a state university and managerial roles at a sawmill and a bank, yet spent his days on the couch smoking Lucky Strikes…because he was ashamed that he couldn’t read.
“He had the courage to win the Congressional Medal of Honor, but he didn’t have the courage to do what each and every one of you is doing right here,” Jack tells the students somberly. “He didn’t have the courage to admit he needed help and get it. So I want you to know that I understand what you’re doing, I appreciate it. And I honor your commitment.”
Jack doesn’t simply honor Dewayne and his classmates; he makes the case that they are more courageous than his uncle, a war hero. For a politician, transforming “me, me, me, me, me, me” into “you, you, you, you” is an act of alchemy—and Jack has just created solid gold.
Make America Meryl Again
While Meryl Streep has plenty of Democratic street cred (and a Presidential Medal of Freedom, courtesy of Barack Obama), she has portrayed conservative politicians both imagined (President Orlean in “Don’t Look Up”) and infamous (British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher in “The Iron Lady”).
“It’s really humbling to consider that she was at 10 Downing Street for [over 10] years,” Streep said of Thatcher in 2011. “I admire that achievement. I stand in awe of it, even though I didn’t agree with a lot of her policies.”
Streep’s strategic empathy is reflected not only in her choice of roles, but in her speech at the 2017 Golden Globes, where she accepted the Cecil B. DeMille Award—and grandly raged at Donald Trump, who was sworn in as the 45th president of the United States just 12 days later.
“So Hollywood is crawling with outsiders and foreigners,” Streep said, denouncing Trump’s xenophobia with withering force. “And if we kick ’em all out, you’ll have nothing to watch but football and mixed martial arts, which are. Not. The arts!” I don’t know about you, but I could listen to her all. Day. Long.
To Streep, acting is empathy incarnate. “An actor’s only job is to enter the lives of people who are different from us—and let you feel what that feels like,” she decreed. “And there were many, many, many powerful performances this year that did exactly that. Breathtaking, compassionate work.”
That year, the breathtaking, compassionate performances the Globes chose to honor included Emma Stone in “La La Land” and Casey Affleck in “Manchester by the Sea.” Streep, however, spotlighted an actor who wasn’t nominated, but would soon infect the Oval Office with his grotesque talents.
“There was one performance this year that stunned me,” Streep said. “It sank its hooks in my heart. Not because it was good—there was nothing good about it—but it was effective and it did its job. It made its intended audience laugh and show their teeth.”
Streep went on to castigate Trump for his public mockery of Serge Kovaleski, a New York Times reporter who suffers from a congenital joint condition. “Disrespect invites disrespect,” she said. “Violence incites violence. When the powerful use their position to bully others, we all lose.”
While those are words to live by, they are different lyrics to the same anti-Trump ballad that many liberal celebrities sang. The heft of Streep’s speech lay not in her principled outrage, but in her chagrined concession that Trump was “effective.”
In that spirit, Democrats must nominate candidates who will confront the desperate conditions (economic inequality, for one) that made Americans more amenable to Trump’s cruelty. Candidates who won’t waste time raving about a “battle for the soul of the nation,” since the soul of any nation that would elect Trump twice may be nearly tainted beyond redemption.
I can’t predict who will lead the cleanup crew in 2028 (though I have my hopes). I am, however, certain that future candidates would do well to emulate David Norris, Jack Stanton, and Meryl Streep—or anyone who is as good at playing themselves as Donald Trump is at playing Donald Trump.
