At American political conventions, there used to be what were called outsiders: men elected to the presidency who were unknown, even to some members of the party that had elected them to the presidency. [Men like James Polk, Franklin Pierce, and Warren Harding.)
At the 2024 Republican National Convention, Donald Trump was so central to the four days, he was the metaphysical opposite of a dark horse … a klieg-light candidate, who arrived each day to the arena (where all dissension had been banished) like a pro wrestler, taking his position in the vast white chairs of the Trump family box, where he was adored.
He watched vanquished campaign rivals (Florida Governor Ron DeSantis, former South Carolina Governor Nikki Haley) paying homage.
From those he’d lowered down, there were those he raised up, like Ohio Senator JD Vance.
A tidy bandage on his right ear served as the only notice of the chaos he had endured and the doom he had escaped just days before. That he had survived was even more proof to his followers that he was their champion – that he was committing the ultimate sacrifice on their behalf, and that he had been touched by God. [Kimberly Guilfoyle declared, “God has put an armor of protection over Donald Trump!”]
When he finally spoke (and spoke…and spoke…), the crowd applauded the 92-minute, exaggerations and lieswhile their tribune presented himself as the incarnation of their movement and of America.
It was a stark contrast to the outgoing president’s lonely struggle on the opposite path: President Joe Biden being told by members of her party that he must withdraw so that their the movement could continue.
Political conventions are no longer about choosing presidents; they often don’t even influence the race for office. But they do tell us what a party expects from its candidate for office.
For Donald Trump’s party, it’s a one-man show.
Directed by Jay Kernis and Aria Shavelson. Edited by Chad Cardin.
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John Dickerson
