Trump’s a riot, but his growing authoritarianism is no joke

Donald Trump is very funny, often inadvertently, sometimes quite deliberately. For writers at Saturday Night Live, there are weeks when he almost serves up their script.

How often have we read commentary likening his Oval Office antics to an episode from Veep, a comparison I have doubtless drawn myself. His parades and military tattoos are tailor-made for mockery. His buffoonish Truth Social posts – especially those ending with his trademark sign off “Thank you for your attention to this matter” – frequently raise a laugh. “Donald is being ‘The Donald’,” has become a typical response in podcastland, that new media realm where journalism and entertainment are often entwined. “Classic Trump” is another go-to, delivered with a sardonic chuckle. Mea culpa on that one, too.

Humour acts as a masking agent for Trump’s authoritarianism.Credit: AP

For sheer comic value, there has never been a presidency like it. Not even a natural funnyman such as Ronald Reagan, that master of the self-deprecatory one-liner, can compete. The problem is that humour acts as a masking agent for Trump’s authoritarianism. Laughter detracts from the seriousness of his assault on democracy.

The storming of the US Capitol on January 6, 2021, is a case in point. This was one of the darkest days in American history. A sitting president incited an insurrection. Despite Americans being locked in fatal combat with fellow Americans, this horrific chapter was reduced to a memeable moment. The poster boy became Jacob Chansley, a bare-chested vegan and former actor better known as “the QAnon Shaman”. His outfit, which included animal pelts draped from his shoulders and a bison-horned headdress, could scarcely have been more comedic. But the attention he attracted spoke of a modern-day trait which has become particularly pronounced during the age of Trump: the tendency to turn even the gravest of events into comedy, whether in the form of a late-night monologue, a gag on social media or, months later, a hilarious Halloween costume. Blood had been shed, democracy had experienced a near-death experience, but, boy, did the QAnon Shaman make us laugh.

Our guffaws were even louder during Trump’s presidential debate with Kamala Harris, when he claimed Haitian immigrants in Ohio were eating cats and dogs. Instantly, it became a TikTok trend. Saturday Night Live had a ready-made sketch. The Republican high command was delighted, according to the new book from a team of Washington Post reporters, 2024: How Trump Retook the White House and the Democrats Lost America. The dogs and cats accusation made Trump’s mass deportation policy the talking point, a hardline stance of particular appeal to the young men who helped him win the election. Trump, you will forgive the near-obligatory pun, ended up having the last laugh.

The “QAnon Shaman” Jacob Chansley after storming the US Capitol in 2021.Credit: Getty Images

Humour acts as something of a Trumpian sliding scale. The more his critics mock him, the more his supporters rally round. Nowhere is the cultural power of liberal America quite so visible as the late-night shows which pillory his presidency. Yet MAGA world views this derision as elite condescension. It strengthens Trump’s visceral bond with his base, which has always been rooted in a shared sense of victimhood. Besides, for satire to be skewering, the target needs to feel a sense of embarrassment. This felonious president appears shameless.

Humour can also have a dampening effect on protest. Why take to the streets when you can sate your anti-Trumpism by getting a rise out of him on social media? Jokes become a feeble form of resistance, a substitute for rage.

For Trump, the laugh track accompanying his second-term is also usefully diverting. His new line in fragrances, which come in a bottle with a gleaming statuette of the president, is literally comedy gold. It veils the pungency of his presidential profiteering.

The infamous Trump/Zelensky Oval Office brawl was instantly turned into AI-generated wrestling and boxing matches, which had the effect of trivialising what looked like a momentous geopolitical shift. In the Ukraine war, the United States had seemingly switched sides.

Likewise, Trump’s plan to turn Gaza into the “Riviera of the Middle East” became a huge joke. And inexorably, it came with an AI pastiche, showing Trump luxuriating on a sun lounger with the Israeli prime minister. All this detracted from his failure to exert pressure on Benjamin Netanyahu to end the killing of so many Palestinian women and children.

Well may he laugh: Reform leader Nigel Farage stands to attract the biggest block of votes at the next UK election.Credit: Matthew Horwood/Getty Images

It is not just Trump’s America. In Britain, Boris Johnson would not have made it to Downing Street had he not been so funny. His slapstick stunts, such as hanging from a zip wire waving two Union flags, became a hallmark. The joviality of Reform UK leader Nigel Farage, who stands a reasonable chance of becoming Britain’s next prime minister, is central to his appeal. His village-pub-bonhomie also camouflages hardline policies on immigration.

For decades, humour has become a coping mechanism for Britons dealing with post-imperial decline. Johnson and Farage, the two main architects of Brexit, have been beneficiaries of the UK’s more frivolous politics.

What of Australia? How does humour shape politics here? Among the reasons Peter Dutton led his party to its worst result in history was his humourlessness. His political persona was unleavened by lightheartedness. Though he was criticised for impersonating Donald Trump, he bore closer resemblance to Ron DeSantis. “Trump with a brain”, the Florida governor was often labelled, but he was also Trump without a sense of humour.

If jokiness, and a sense of irony, has helped Britons come to terms with the loss of empire, here I would suggest it acts a coping mechanism for the country’s success. The self-mocking strain, downplaying Australia’s heightened 21st century relevance, prolongs the illusion that the world’s problems will not come lapping at these shores.

These are dark times, so the urge to seek light relief is understandable. Laughter can be medicinal. I use it as a therapeutic prop myself. But at the risk of sounding like a killjoy and curmudgeon, this is the moment for politics to get serious.

Nick Bryant is an author, journalist and broadcaster.

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