The pinnacle moment that catapulted Donald Trump into the spotlight as a presidential aspirant, a moment that spawned countless others, unfolded on an escalator descent within a tower he himself had crafted. This orchestrated TV appearance served as the cornerstone of a fantasy empire he had meticulously built, where every step echoed with calculated grandeur.
Conversely, Kamala Harris' defining moment as a presidential contender emerged from an unexpected quarter: a distant British pop icon, whom she had never crossed paths with, casually mentioned an album she was unaware of, in a post she didn't author, employing terminology foreign to her. This serendipitous event, unforeseen yet profound, set her journey in motion.
The presidential race that now captivates the nation encompasses myriad themes—globalism clashing with nativism, feminism facing off against machismo, wokeness versus Muskism, positivity combating anxiety, and, of course, dueling visions on climate change, abortion rights, and immigration policies. Yet, it also embodies a profound divergence: two radically different communication philosophies at play.
Trump embodies the timeless art of Republican showmanship, where narratives are meticulously crafted for maximum theatrical effect, orchestrated by a singular auteur, and unleashed upon the masses with laser-focused objectives. In contrast, Harris showcases a Democratic style that is inherently of-the-moment, where a diverse army of non-political minds mold messages, which the campaign then channels, often more as a reactive protagonist than a guiding shepherd. It's a battle between the masters of reality TV spectacle and the agile, viral force of the TikTok era.
"What we're witnessing is essentially a live experiment in contrasting media strategies," remarked Bob Thompson, the esteemed Syracuse University professor and astute observer of our communication landscape, when approached on the subject last week.
This phenomenon extends even to the lower tiers of the political ladder. J.D. Vance's meteoric rise can be attributed, in part, to a literary masterpiece that served as the ultimate top-down communication tool, propelling him to prominence. Similarly, Tim Walz's ascendancy was fueled by the collective efforts of online communities who, after viewing his videos, rallied around him. (Granted, he strategically contributed to his own success, but the politician's touch is undeniable.)
The intersection of meme culture and campaigning embodies a captivating feedback loop. Witness Swifties for Kamala, a grassroots movement ignited by Gen Z enthusiasts with no direct ties to either the pop star or the candidate. In a mere matter of weeks, this group amassed a formidable 34,000 Instagram followers, spawned countless TikTok remixes (imagine political rhetoric seamlessly woven into "Who's Afraid of Little Old Me" – your wish is granted), and even secured face-to-face consultations with the campaign, which in turn harnessed their energy to amplify the message further.
The viral Charli XCX "kamala IS brat" post, a modern-day rendition of "I Like Ike," stands as a testament to this dynamic. While Kamala Harris didn't orchestrate the post, her campaign swiftly embraced it, revamping their social media aesthetics to mirror this viral surge. Why rely on traditional campaign buses when you can harness the power of trending memes to speed through the political landscape?
In this paradigm, character lines are less scripted and more crowd-sourced. Harris' iconic quip, "I don't know what's wrong with you young people. You think you just fell out of a coconut tree?" originated as a casual quote from a 2023 speech, yet it's become one of the most memorable soundbites in recent presidential race history. This transformation was orchestrated by a legion of individuals who deemed it worthy, subsequently unleashing a flurry of dance remixes, lime-green tees, and coconut emojis, each act an act of digital activism.
This vision of an online army of pop-culture-infused activists stands in stark juxtaposition to Harris' opponent. Trump, undoubtedly, revolutionized the use of social media in his campaigns and presidency, his tweets punctuating the night like impulsive directives from a network executive. Yet, even those tweets carried a hint of the old guard, carefully choreographed scenes in a drama he alone directed, leaving even his closest advisors in the dark about what was next.
The pivotal role of Trump's strategic approach in his electoral triumph was starkly illuminated on Friday, as a fresh study from esteemed researchers at the University of Pennsylvania's Annenberg Public Policy Center and Columbia University affirmed that his stint on The Apprentice significantly contributed to his 2016 victory. The American Political Science Review underscored how Trump's portrayal as "'America's Boss'—a thriving entrepreneur, a shrewd negotiator, a stern yet nurturing mentor, adept at striking lucrative deals amidst intense pressure," bolstered his electoral standing during the 2016 Republican primaries.
Trump masterfully crafted a persona that he meticulously maintained. As former Apprentice producer Bill Pruitt vividly recounted in a candid exposé on Slate last May, the series essentially crafted and introduced a franchise character. "On screen, he exuded impeccable business acumen and seemingly limitless wealth, despite his ventures barely surviving multiple bankruptcies," Pruitt penned. With this once-in-a-lifetime role, Trump polished and performed it on the global stage with utmost finesse.
However, Trump's foray into newer media platforms has proven rocky. At Mar-a-Lago last week, his live-streamed interview with right-wing gamer Adin Ross on the video game platform Kick was fraught with awkward moments, such as Ross demonstrating the chat function to the President. Rather than portraying him as youthful, the juxtaposition with a 23-year-old influencer accentuated Trump's age, eliciting amused commentary from the gaming community.
"Trump is, in a sense, attempting to bridge the generational gap with these appearances. It's a daunting task, and I'm skeptical if it's the right move," Liz Stahl, founder of the Los Angeles-based social media consultancy In Haus, opined during an interview when asked about the efficacy of such endeavors.
Ironically, the most viral moment associated with the Trump-Vance campaign was unintended, arising from a flurry of satirical memes circulating weeks ago, mocking Ohio Senator Vance's alleged confession in his book about achieving a unique form of "congress" with his couch. The truth behind the statement mattered little; the meme's tenacity echoed the pre-internet era's viral hits that tarnished earlier candidates' images—from Lyndon B. Johnson's notorious 1964 "daisy" ad insinuating Barry Goldwater would usher in nuclear war to George H.W. Bush's infamous "Willie Horton" spot in 1988, falsely claiming Michael Dukakis was releasing criminals. In these instances, the stickiness of the message transcended the factuality of the claim.
This weekend saw a reminiscent scenario unfold as Trump incorporated Celine Dion's iconic Titanic theme song into his Montana campaign rally, inadvertently igniting a flurry of online humor comparing his campaign trajectory to that of the tragic film's protagonist. The Harris campaign, ever agile, promptly seized the opportunity. In the mudslinging arena of 2024, candidates no longer need to personally sling the dirt; they merely need to arrive sans towel when others do the dirty work.
However, experts caution against the simplistic assumption of a purely grassroots-driven strategy by the Democratic contender. "There's undeniably a surge of genuine interest in Kamala Harris," observed Samuel Woolley, a seasoned researcher at the University of Pittsburgh and long-standing project director for propaganda research at the esteemed Center for Media Engagement, University of Texas. "Yet, there's also an undeniable presence of manufactured content being pushed," he added, using the term to describe content dictated by entities other than the original poster.
This orchestrated narrative is facilitated by an array of sophisticated, discreet consultancies engaged by campaigns, such as the liberal-leaning People First, which fund or orchestrate influencer content while keeping their fingerprints hidden. "Harnessing influencers has become a staple in political campaigns, and Harris is executing this strategy with finesse," noted Woolley. Discerning, let alone halting, paid content is an uphill battle; social media giants remain largely uninterested in disclosing or curbing such arrangements, while the Federal Election Commission remains unperturbed about regulating them akin to traditional political advertisements.
Even authentic, organic content can be a labyrinthine trail, each moment of origin leading to a predecessor, akin to a never-ending chain of events (one might jest that it didn't spontaneously sprout from a coconut tree). In truth, Charli XCX's post was not the genesis but a reverberation to a tide of preexisting organic memes on TikTok, where Harris' speeches were already being remixed with Charli's tunes. Amidst the legislative tug-of-war over a potential TikTok ban, this phenomenon adds a layer of viral intrigue all its own.
The proliferation of meme content, while echoing the ancient momentum-generating tactics of 20th-century media, embodies a distinct divergence. Where "I Like Ike" catapulted Eisenhower to the presidency's throne, fueled by Roy O. Disney's catchy jingle and a ubiquitous sentiment, "kamala IS brat" remains untested in its longevity, let alone its ability to sway votes amidst the electoral fray. "Social media virality, to truly ignite a political campaign, must forge a bridge to tangible issues," muses social media consultant Stahl. "Else, it's akin to a relentless surge towards an intangible horizon." (Initial polls, emerging amidst this viral tempest, indicate notable upticks for Harris, though causality remains elusive.)
Envisioning a Harris victory in November as a dawn of a new era, where the baton is passed from a monolithic spectacle to the chaotic symphony of thousands of dance remixes, with memes' vibrant lime green usurping the compelling orange glow of a showman's stage, is alluring indeed. Conversely, a Trump triumph would underscore the resilience of the reality-TV mold.
Yet, voting transcends such simplistic narratives; drawing definitive conclusions would be an oversimplification. Rarely does American media culture usher in such a profound shift into a new epoch, let alone present a national election where two candidates embody such diametrically opposed facets of the media landscape. Regardless of November's outcome—or even next week's whispers—a fresh palette of media hues has emerged, irrevocably altering the landscape of politics, forever coloring our perception of the arena.
