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      Vote your cast: who is the greatest fictional US president?

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      Remember that lurch in your stomach when you realised that Donald Trump had been elected as US president? Not to bum anyone out, but there’s a chance that it might happen again in a few days. Elections are fun and exciting, but also have the potential to end democracy as we know it. That’s why we’ve put together the next best thing: a US election comprised solely of fictional presidents from film and TV. These figures are bold, pure and tough as nails. Most importantly, they don’t exist, so they won’t plunge the world into a nightmare of war and corruption if they get elected.Listed below are the names of a bunch of fictional presidents. Eight are Democrats, eight are Republican and three are unaffiliated. We will hold primaries for each category before handing the decisions over to our voters, Hari Kondabolu and Billy Ray. Kondabolu was responsible for the 2017 doc The Problem With Apu, and co-hosts the unmissable Politically Re-Active podcast. Ray wrote and directed brilliant miniseries The Comey Rule, which dramatised FBI director James Comey’s tortuous dealings with Donald Trump. They know their stuff. They want to speak for the people. In the event of a stalemate – to mimic the electoral college system – we will step in and decide with a coin toss. Ah, democracy in action …Republican primary More

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      Can late-night comedy recover from the Trump presidency?

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      As the results trickled in on election night 2016, Stephen Colbert, host of The Late Show on CBS, processed Donald Trump’s victory live, before a shocked audience. He lamented America’s partisan divide (“how did our politics get so poisonous?”), professed belief in the utility of comedy (“in the face of something that might strike you as horrible, I think laughter is the best medicine. You cannot laugh and be afraid at the same time”) and offhandedly prefigured the identity crisis to come for late-night television: “I’m not sure it’s a comedy show any more.”
      Colbert performed the role of late-night host nimbly, even if the genre of an election night comedy hour was poorly suited for the victory of a candidacy that had been viewed by many as a joke. Trump, as the TV critic Emily Nussbaum argued in January 2017, had long performed, and audience-tested in rallies, the role of a boozy, heckling, aggrieved standup comic, one who shrugged off countless taboos as “sarcastic” jokes, one with an endless appetite for attention.
      Nussbaum’s essay, published in the first week of Trump’s presidency, evinced the trap facing liberal political comedians: “How do you fight an enemy who’s just kidding?” How do you skewer a performer who never made any attempt at sincerity? How could network and cable comedy, overwhelmingly delivered by straight white men, effectively lampoon a self-evidently ridiculous social media troll whose only currency was attention? Trump may have seemed at the outset like a boon to jokesters, but his presidency – the flat denials, the destabilizing cascade of crises and a fractured, contemptuous media landscape – has killed political comedy.
      Where does late-night go from here? Regardless of whether or not Trump is re-elected, his presidency has altered the genre in form and function. For four years, political comedy, and in particular late-night television, has lurched through a cyclical Trump attention loop: hosts mock the president, Trump continues with the next galling lie or lashes out on Twitter (or both), hosts mock Trump again, attention paid and courted and repaid. In the 2010s, as the lines in American cultural commentary blurred – political propaganda, social life and memes blended in a gorging timeline of content – Trump jokes became the default late-night currency. Even Jimmy Fallon, the affable Saturday Night Live (SNL) alum who infamously tousled Trump’s hair in 2015, was forced by a ratings war into more political monologues.
      In the Trump era, the genre has morphed to shoulder two burdens: to metabolize liberal outrage through short-circuited Trump jabs (Seth Meyers’ Closer Look segments, SNL’s too-numerous cold opens, whose main insight seems to be the sight of various celebrities game for impersonation); and to process the torrent of headlines in our confounding, infuriating, oversaturated reality.

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      The latter is not an insignificant function, given the time and sanity-erasing blankness of constant disruption and, say, a global pandemic. During the nationwide protests against anti-black police brutality this summer, late-night shows helped keep people tethered to, rather than escape from, the feverish timeline of deeply unfunny police crackdowns and ongoing pandemic surges. Many people got the gist of impeachment, the Mueller report, the Russia investigation, Trump corruption and justice department manipulations through late-night comedy shows. (The leading program, Colbert’s Late Show, averaged 3.45m viewers in 2019-2020; Saturday Night Live drew 8.24m viewers for its 46th season premiere last month, its highest audience since 2016.)
      There’s certainly a democratic function to that processing; when everything is politicized and the news landscape is calcified either in bad faith propaganda (Fox News) or norms of impartial politeness (the Sunday talkshows), late-night “comedy” – a pastiche of recaps, clips and jokes delivered by a host allowed to call bullshit – becomes a manageable way to keep up with things. But that doesn’t mean it was necessarily funny or sustainable or, to quote Colbert on election night, really a comedy show any more. Kimmel and Fallon seem to view jokes as a formality before the more entertaining work of interviewing celebrities; Late Night’s Seth Meyers has almost dispensed with jokes entirely in his outrage-laden, indignant Closer Look warnings on America’s descent into authoritarianism.

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      Late-night political comedy, following the model of The Daily Show, built a common language through the George W Bush and Barack Obama years: point out bad faith and dishonesty through videos stitched with hard news reports, then voice collective outrage at the con. But the past four years have undermined the belief that comedy could serve as an effective weapon against an administration whose reality show is outdone by its horrifying, very real “accomplishments”. The late-night shows once seemed to get under Trump’s skin, but to what effect? He might call the hosts “very weak and untalented” on Twitter, or continue his longstanding feud with SNL (and especially his impersonator, Alec Baldwin, although his attention for late-night shows appears to have waned this year). But in a polarized, post-hypocrisy world, jokes don’t so much thwart the hypocrite as draw viewers back into the reactive loop.
      The host perhaps most successful at navigating the Trump years, and the most critically acclaimed, is John Oliver, whose unsparing, morally clear, melodically ranting explainers on HBO’s Last Week Tonight focus on the rot around or tangential to Trump, rather than the man himself. Full Frontal’s Samantha Bee similarly works in allusive jokes around issues-driven monologues, as one of the few female hosts and a rare success in the 2010s boom and bust of liberal news comedy shows which evince the struggle to break fresh ground in the Trump era. The Nightly Show With Larry Wilmore, Patriot Act With Hasan Minhaj, The Opposition With Jordan Klepper, Wyatt Cenac’s Problem Areas, The Jim Jefferies Show and The Break With Michelle Wolf all premiered after January 2015, and have all since been cancelled.
      Sharp-toothed political comedy, meanwhile, has shifted to the masses on social media, and in particular TikTok. Political accounts run by Zoomers, which overlay pop music on bespoke factchecking, dances, healthcare advocacy and nihilistic memes, have become “cable news for young people”. Sarah Cooper’s lip-syncing Trump impressions blew up on TikTok and Twitter, leading to a guest-host gig on Jimmy Kimmel Live!. But her Netflix comedy special, Everything’s Fine, slams into the wall of Trump-centric satire and exemplifies the dilemma of traditional comedic forms; absent the fundamental insight of her impressions – that nothing satirizes Trump more than his own words – comedy rooted in the destabilizing chaos of the current moment sprouts starchy, disposable bits, jokes that strain when they should zing.
      What, then, can late-night comedy do? The shows do, after all, retain huge audiences, with institutional legitimacy and social media platforms that reach millions. Their guest slots can and have elevated diverse and “radical” perspectives, such as prison abolition advocates and Black Lives Matter activists. In 2020, late-night TV has gained the most cultural cachet when it embraces not redundant Trump jokes but the flexibility of the format – performing the duties television journalists refuse to do, for example, such as Colbert’s grilling the motives of the former Trump adviser John Bolton.

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      Ironically, it’s perhaps most relevant when it’s serious, self-aware, stripped down. In June, Trevor Noah released a quarantine-filmed video in reaction to the killing of George Floyd by Minneapolis police, in which he spoke plainly to white audiences as a person of color, a child of apartheid South Africa who understood state violence. “That unease that you felt watching that Target being looted, try to imagine how it must feel for black Americans when they watch themselves being looted every single day,” he said. “Because that’s fundamentally what’s happening in America: police in America are looting black bodies.”
      Noah’s video was shared widely on social media and cited by activist Kimberly Jones in Minneapolis, whose words were then incorporated in an episode of Last Week Tonight. More recently, Colbert has straight-up implored people to vote out the president; “We have two weeks to decide what kind of country this is gonna be,” he said last week, in reaction to news that the administration still had not reunited 545 children, separated from their families at the border, with their parents.
      There’s no laughter in such statements, no finding humor as an antidote. Earnestness – anathema to internet humor – is an awkward spot for late-night comedy to find itself in. But it’s cutting through bullshit, the leg work of sorting context and promoting inquiry, where late-night comedy can still find wiggle room, fresh territory with or without Trump. It’s not so much telling jokes as telling it straight – humor as a prerequisite but not the punch. More

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      Drag Race stars get political: 'People were like, you queens should stick to wigs and makeup'

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      Drag and activism have always gone hand in hand. In June 1969, Marsha P Johnson, a Black drag performer reputedly threw the first brick in the Stonewall uprising in New York City; the violence that followed inspired LGBTQ+ people the world over to stand up to oppression and discrimination. Now, 51 years later, drag is more visible than ever, due in no small part to the multiple Emmy award-winning reality series RuPaul’s Drag Race. The show has given a powerful platform to a new generation of drag, trans and non-binary performers. And, whereas early activists often had to contend with police batons, water cannon and prison cells, these queens have more freedom to speak their minds.
      “Drag has always been a stronghold against shitty politicians,” says Alaska, in her trademark vocal fry. The ferociously witty winner of RuPaul’s Drag Race All Stars season 2 says her political role models include Act Up (Aids Coalition to Unleash Power), the movement that advocates to end Aids, and Elizabeth Taylor, one of the first Hollywood icons to speak up during the Aids crisis in the 1980s, who “wasn’t technically a drag queen, but she kind of was, right?”“Act Up had this badass element and ‘enough is enough’ attitude. It was during the Reagan presidency and they were, like: ‘This man doesn’t see us, we have a crisis, people are dying – we’re burying all our friends and the president won’t even acknowledge it.’ They had to take really drastic measures because it was the only way to get through,” she says.Alaska has also found an effective medium to get her point across. The bi-weekly podcast Race Chaser, which she co-hosts with fellow Drag Race contestant Willam, features Let’s Get Political, a segment in which the queens share crucial information about registering to vote and engaging with good causes, while making no secret of their personal sentiments. Alaska recently said, “An empty suit on a hanger in a closet would do less damage than the current person in the White House.” With 1.2 to 1.5m downloads a month, their platform is not to be sniffed at.
      “People didn’t like it at first. They were like: ‘I don’t think you drag queens know anything about politics and you should just stick to talking about Drag Race and wigs and makeup.” But we persisted. Even though we’re talking about something we may not know about, there’s a lot of people who don’t know shit about politics but, right now, there’s so much injustice and so much lying, we have no choice but to be active and fight against it,” Alaska says. Her message to her US followers is, simply: vote.
      With her teased blond beehive, love of leopard print and notorious potty mouth, Alaska is not the most obvious political role model – a paradox not lost on the leggy diva: “It’s sort of a topsy-turvy world where a drag queen named Alaska Thunderfuck is someone who’s a role model for young people, but sure, why not? I’m always trying to be a better person, a better citizen, a better drag queen. I guess it’s just a case of trying to do good and not do harm.”For Peppermint – actor, singer, Broadway performer and fan favourite from Drag Race season 9 – there were no public figures that represented her experience growing up. As a young Black trans woman, she was inspired by those who dared to stand for change and challenge social and gender norms.
      “People who were being ostracised or fired from their jobs, or being made fun of on television – those are the trailblazers who paved the way for people like me,” says Peppermint, whose role models include the Minneapolis councilwoman Andrea Jenkins, the first Black openly transgender woman elected to public office in the US, and earlier on, gender non-conforming pioneers such as Sylvia Rivera, Marsha P Johnson and Stormé DeLarverie, who are credited with starting the modern queer rights movement.
      Since the start of the 2020 Black Lives Matter protests, “sassy, but never shady” Peppermint has emerged as one of the most eloquent voices in the Black Trans Lives Matter movement, which aims to raise awareness of the violence directed at the Black trans community, and Black transgender women in particular. “It’s absolutely necessary for people to become outraged and mobilised when we see images of injustice. I’m so thankful that the Black Lives Matter movement began after the murder of Trayvon Martin and continued with George Floyd, but what we’re not seeing is the same sort of energy when it comes to the women who have been killed: Breonna Taylor, Sandra Bland and many others,” Peppermint says.
      In 2019, at least 27 transgender people were murdered in the US, of whom the vast majority were Black women, according to Human Rights Campaign, an LGBTQ advocacy group. Peppermint believes the lack of public indignation surrounding the murders of Black trans women is rooted in misogyny and transphobia – issues that have become glaringly apparent under the current Republican administration. More

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      Film-maker Alexandra Pelosi: ‘I think phones are more dangerous than guns’

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      The documentarian and daughter of the House speaker discusses her new film that looks at an angry and divided AmericaAmerica is, as the refrain goes, divided. This has been demonstrated empirically, with evidence on America’s increasing political polarization, and anecdotally, if you’ve lived in America for the past decade, and especially the last four years. Easily legible examples of a country fraying at the seams abound; American Selfie: One Nation Shoots Itself, a new documentary from Showtime, serializes some of the most prominent ones of the last year, with a retrospective of such indelible yet quickly faded images as crematory trucks in the height of pandemic New York, the Trump motorcycle rally in pandemic summer South Dakota, and a fraught border checkpoint in El Paso, Texas. Related: ‘There’s a whole war going on’: the film tracing a decade of cyber-attacks Continue reading… More

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      Vote Bartlet: The 10 best episodes of The West Wing

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      If ever there was a good time to get into The West Wing, this is it. The election cycle has been so monstrous – and potentially ruinous – that it has left us all craving the stately certainty of an Aaron Sorkin screenplay, as the rapturous reception to the cast’s reunion demonstrated. And if that is the case, help is at hand. Today, The West Wing will appear as a box set on All 4 in the UK, allowing you to access the entire series. The imperial first few seasons. The wobbly middle. The unexpectedly rousing climax. All of it.But the US election is just a few days away, and there are 156 episodes. Watching the whole thing in time is an almost impossible task, which is why I have selected the 10 best episodes (in chronological order) for you to pick out and savour.In Excelsis Deo (season one, episode 10) More

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      The week in audio: The Fault Line: Bush, Blair and Iraq; The Heist – review

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      The Fault Line: Bush, Blair and Iraq | PodcastThe Heist | The Center for Public Integrity A couple of enlightening shows this week about how American and British politics work. The first, The Fault Line: Bush, Blair and Iraq, concerns itself with the politics of the fairly recent past: the 18 months between 9/11 and the 2003 Iraq war. Or: how Tony Blair and George W Bush fell in love.Hosted by David Dimbleby, whose podcast on the rise of Rupert Murdoch, The Sun King, was such a success last year, The Fault Line, produced by Somethin’ Else, is a clear and classy listen. Informative, too: Dimbers, as ex-host of Question Time, has an enviable contact list, and we hear from many important behind-the-scenesters. In last week’s episode, the first, we met Bill Murray (not that one), a US spy who repeatedly informed the White House that his intelligence indicated that Saddam Hussein did not have any weapons of mass destruction. This week, we’ll hear from Christopher Meyer, the British ambassador who says he was told to “get up the arse of the White House and stay there”. Dimbleby gives us little portraits of each. Murray: “quite a conspicuous person … he sticks out in a crowd”; Meyer: “slightly maverick, freewheeling”. He has an exemplary presenting style: honest without being trashy, measured without being boring.I’m not sure what I expected from this podcast. I think I thought I knew the story, so worried that I might be bored. I was very wrong: the show reminds you of those months before the invasion, but also gives context, unpicks relationships, underpins everything with insider info.Plus, The Fault Line has something else on its mind. Dimbleby asserts that this particular time, this particular US-UK love affair, laid the foundations for the current breakdown of trust between the electorate and our politicians. The podcast has not quite got there yet (an interview with Blair is promised, as well as Alastair Campbell.Until then, enjoy such little gems as the time that Dimbleby interviewed the then US secretary of defence, Donald Rumsfeld, and Rumsfeld’s PR, after the interview, said, faintly: “Well, I think that’s lost me my job.” Or, in the second episode, when Lorna Fitzsimons, voted in as Rochdale’s MP in the 1997 election, recalls campaigning for New Labour: “It was wave after wave after wave of possibility and excitement. And people got involved: fourth-generation single parents, Asian women who had never been in politics before.”Enough of the good ol’ days: let’s tackle the now. The Heist, from the US’s Center for Public Integrity, has just released its third episode. It’s been getting a lot of attention in the US, not least because of Trump’s recent tax “revelations”. The Heist also talks Trump and taxes and – amazingly – makes this interesting.In the first episode, we learn about tax cutting. The Orange One was elected in 2016, partly because he promised to reform US taxes. When that didn’t happen, many Republican donors were upset. And in an unexpected move, one of these donors, Doug Deason from Dallas, decided to withdraw any financial help to Republican senators until the promised tax reform was passed. What’s more, he got in touch with a lot of other donors and urged them to stop coughing up too. He got them to turn off the money tap; the “Dallas piggy bank”, he calls it.A sensible straight-shooter, Deason’s job is to invest his family’s wealth, and he chooses to do this by investing in politicians. (There are different schemes to do this: the most disturbing is called dark money, as the show explains.) When Sarah Kleiner, from the Center for Public Integrity, asks him why, Deason is clear: he does it because he expects the politicians in whom he invests to do what he wants. “Obviously, you sort of buy access,” he says. “It’s no secret.”And the next episode, about Steven Mnuchin, Trump’s treasury secretary, is just as jaw-droppingly clear. A sometime banker and film producer, Mnuchin “is who he needs to be at any given moment”, says Sally Herships, The Heist’s host. Mnuchin’s most personally exciting Treasury moment appears to have been getting his signature printed on dollar bills.The Heist is a revelatory show, easy to understand and very listenable. So listen, understand, throw something in frustration, and then have a cup of tea to calm down.Three interesting shows about family (sort of)AppearancesThis is a fiction podcast that’s so close to the truth that I thought it was real for the whole of the first episode. Sharon Mashihi is Melanie Barzadeh, an Iranian-American on the verge of having a baby with her on-off older boyfriend. Melanie is in a mid-30s funk: messed up by her personal history and cultural expectations, as well as her own whither-my-life Brooklynite navel-gazing, she genuinely doesn’t know what to do in order to create the family life she craves. Produced by The Heart’s Kaitlin Prest, simultaneously irritating, moving, insightful and captivating, Appearances is unlike anything else out there.One of the Family With Nicky CampbellMention family and Nicky Campbell, and you’ll probably think of ITV’s Long Lost Family, which he’s co-hosted for years. But this show is about the brilliance of dogs. Campbell pulls in high profile guests – Ricky Gervais, Rebecca Front, Chris Packham – who relax, completely, when talking about their pets, revealing a softer side that we rarely witness. There is a little bit in the show about how best to look after dogs, but really this is just a chat between dog people about how great each other’s dogs are. Start with Gary Lineker and Nihal Arthanayake talking (separately) about the grief they felt when their dogs died.Newsbeat: Coronavirus and StudentsWhen you leave home to go to university, you begin to create your own, new family. So what happens when you have to lock down for 14 days? On Monday, Radio 1’s Newsbeat had the bright idea of asking student radio stations to report in. “We’ve been four days without food,” said one student at Manchester. A Nottingham student described his first experience of university as “a different version of socialising… fear and loneliness is accentuated in our year”. “Everyone feels isolated,” said a guy from Aberystwyth. “I’m quite homesick at the minute,” said a girl at Glasgow. Poor kids. More