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Hardly anything is more discomforting than observing an anxious actor on stage—particularly when the unfortunate fellow isn’t merely uneasy but appears plainly unprepared for the role he’s embodying. Ineptitude has a tendency to disconcert observers. An unsure performer deprives an audience of its confidence in both the character and the whole endeavor.
Consider, as an illustration, Friday morning’s peculiar and perplexing performance by Kash Patel, the patently unqualified F.B.I. director placed by Donald Trump. He was in Utah, with that state’s governor, Spencer Cox, having been charged with the serious responsibility of announcing the capture of Tyler Robinson, the young individual who, on Wednesday, reportedly shot and killed the conservative activist Charlie Kirk. In a sense, this was a significant state occasion, an opportunity for the government to demonstrate its prompt, measured capability to respond, and to calm the disturbance that this awful and quite public killing had sparked.
It was also an opportunity for Patel to gloss over some significant errors and salvage his image. On Wednesday night, he’d prematurely declared on X that Kirk’s shooter was “in custody,” only to tweet again, just over an hour and a half afterward, that the “subject in custody” had been “released following an interrogation by law enforcement.” There was some conjecture that he’d dispatched the latter tweet while dining at Rao’s, an Italian eatery in East Harlem renowned for its tomato sauce and shady past. Regardless of his tweeting locale, Patel seemed to have disregarded that the aftermath of an assassination might not align with the swift rewards—dopamine, unceasing attention—of live updates.
On Thursday, in an unusual move for a law-enforcement officer in his position, Patel visited the location of the offense. Former F.B.I. staff observed that this would only create issues for the local bureau engaged in the actual investigative work. That morning, he had apparently convened an online assembly of F.B.I. agents and scolded them in vulgar language for the sluggish rate of the pursuit. Patel, whose suitability for the position faced intense, and often critical, examination when he was initially appointed, needed a platform upon which to validate his competence for the job.
Therefore, when Patel approached the dais on Friday, the stakes were obviously elevated. He sported his typical hairstyle, a collegiate blend of textures: smooth on the sides and upright up top. He donned a peculiar houndstooth necktie. He was the epitome of lacking seriousness. “This is the outcome when you allow good cops to be cops,” he declared, as an introduction—an insincere utterance that nonetheless resonated with the message of the Administration for which he is such a remarkably fitting representative. Cops, now unburdened by the limits of wokeness and morality, can resume their hunt where they belong.
What remained unspoken was that, in this instance, perhaps the most notable act of justice was executed by Robinson’s father, who—certainly experiencing mental anguish I can barely imagine—had assisted in turning in his son. One of the stranger elements of Patel’s brief speech was his attempt to appropriate credit for this father’s agonizing decision. A characteristic of Trumpworld’s official discourse is the itemized inventory of inflated achievements, making every triumph appear complete, every soul-searing event inevitably directed toward the magnificence of the Leader. No occurrence is too sacred, in this realm, for an abundant serving of overt self-promotion.
“In thirty-three hours, we have achieved groundbreaking progress for Charlie,” Patel stated. What could this signify? To what “history” could he possibly be alluding? Sometimes people perpetrate offenses and are apprehended immediately!
It’s amusing, however: Patel is just as callous an opportunist as his superior, but far less skilled at ensuring his behavior corresponds with the words emanating from his mouth. He spoke too rapidly. Listening to him, one sensed that his heart was pounding twice as quickly as normal. In his televised appearance, he was striving to convincingly portray the role of the G-man but struggling. His eyes shifted erratically, finding nowhere to settle. He blinked frequently—unintentional snippets of Morse code, beseeching for assistance. He took shallow breaths, disrupting his stream of stammered and garbled words. “I even had the opportunity to traverse that crime scene, and trace the actions the suspect took to gain deeper insight into what was required,” he remarked, in a peculiar boast.
Submerged in the role he was attempting to play, Patel reiterated the sole statistic that his staff had managed to devise: “In less than thirty-six hours—thirty-three to be exact—owing to the full force of the federal government, and taking the lead with the partners here in the state of Utah, and Governor Cox, the suspect was hap—apprehended in a record-breaking time frame.” I presume he faltered over the initial syllable of the word “apprehended” because he was eager to utter “historic” once more.
After delivering a few more platitudes, Patel concluded his speech with what he evidently believed would be its emotional pinnacle. “Lastly, to my friend Charlie Kirk,” he announced, after emitting a theatrical sigh, “rest now, brother. We have the watch. And I’ll see you in Valhalla.” What?
One of Trumpism’s most deplorable traits—on vivid display in the tragic radicalization of Robinson, and in its senseless expression in the slaying of Kirk—is its overt assault on the impressionable minds of young men. It instructs them to act boldly, speak even more boldly, unleash their aggression on anyone who appears more gentle or more contemplative than themselves. Trump and his associates, including Patel, too often corrupt fundamental moral principles, portraying kindness as frailty, truth as “false information,” violence in word and action as indicators of masculinity. I trust some of these youths, navigating those perilous years of maturation, were observing Patel’s speech and could discern it for what it was. Securing the position and embodying the role doesn’t guarantee you’re the man. ♦
Sourse: newyorker.com
