cult – Memphis Flyer

“Good morning, folks, and welcome. We’ll begin today’s service with a passage from the scriptures.”

The pastor opens a thick red book and begins to read:

“A very important deadline is approaching at the end of the month,” he intones. “Republicans in Congress can and must defund all aspects of Crooked Joe Biden’s weaponized Government that refuses to close the Border, and treats half the Country as Enemies of the State. This is also the last chance to defund these political prosecutions against me and other Patriots. They failed on the debt limit, but they must not fail now. Use the power of the purse and defend the Country!”

“Amen,” says the pastor. “Thus endeth the reading from the Book of Truth Social according to President Trump. And thus sayeth our Lord.”

“AMEN!!” shouts the assembled multitude, resplendent in their go-to-meeting best: T-shirts with slogans like “Let’s Go Brandon,” “Never Surrender,” and “F—k Joe Biden,” and red MAGA hats and American flag halter tops.

“Now, please turn to page 13 in your hymnals,” says the pastor. As the organist begins the familiar opening strains, the congregation joyously breaks into song:

“Young man, there’s no need to feel down

I said, young man, pick yourself off the ground

I said, young man, ’cause you’re in a new town

There’s no need to be unhappy …”

You’ve probably seen the slogan that’s making the rounds in Democratic circles: “He Lost! And You’re in a Cult.” I saw it on a T-Shirt at Kroger the other day and hoped the wearer was ready for a possible confrontation from a true believer.

Because that’s legitimately where we are: Anyone who is still carrying water for Donald Trump is either in a cult and blindly devoted to an authoritarian wannabe, or is a cynical hypocrite who knows Trump is a lying dirtbag but thinks backing the former president will somehow accrue to their benefit. This would include most GOP members of Congress and the Senate.

In a group email chain that I’m on, a Trumper wrote the following: “Liberals fear Donald Trump because he is a real man, not a ‘woke’ liberal wuss.”

Yes, we fear a “real man” who wears more makeup and hair spray than a Miami drag queen and lives in a fading golf club that looks like it was designed by Carmen Miranda on ’shrooms. Nobody fears Donald Trump, except Republicans. He’s a clown-show, a grammatically impaired, narcissistic man-child who recently said in a speech that President Obama was going to start World War II. This is not a man to fear.

What is to be feared is what would happen if this lunatic got back in the White House. That’s a truly terrifying prospect. Imagine having this deeply flawed individual and his unbridled ego in charge of our military, our judiciary, the CDC, and/or anything else that catches his goldfish-level attention span. We’d have, in the highest office in the land, a man with virtually unlimited power, a man who wants to be president for life, a man who would surround himself with the kind of pandering con-men and yes-men who are currently facing indictments of several varieties — along with their former boss. They would no doubt be pardoned. Attorney General Rudy Giuliani, anyone? Secretary of Defense Michael Flynn? Secretary of State Paul Manafort? A Secret Service made up of Proud Boys? Sure.

Yes, that’s where the true fear lies — in the nagging possibility that there are somehow enough idiots in this country to allow this guy to pull off another Electoral College miracle, à la 2016.

Trump never goes to church, but he has disciples, a floating congregation of dead-head sycophants who see him — almost literally — as the second coming. Even the evangelicals, of all people, see this adulterous, lying, cheating layabout as reflective of their faith — faith, in this case, apparently being the ability to totally ignore reality.

In the Truth Social post cited above, for example, The Donald implores Republicans in Congress to “defund these political prosecutions,” ignoring the fact that the Democratically controlled Senate and presidency would render moot any such bill passed by Congress. But such real-world details don’t matter in the Church of Trump. All that matters is that you click your heels together and believe he won — and that you’re not in a cult.

When I first watched the 2001 film Wet Hot American Summer, I only responded to the unexpected pang in Michael Showalter’s romantic plot and the non-sequitur trip-to-town sequence. But my 25 subsequent viewings had a Lebowski-ian effect. Everything bloomed with dry confidence. Mundane teen movie staples turned first from deadpan parody into casual emotional violence, then into reassuring absurdity. The charm was in how the movie knew when and when not to try. There were “rake gags,” where a bit went on so long it became hilariously absurd. There were moments where a key prop, stunt, or exit was left out or drastically undercut, which called attention to the ridiculousness of the actors’ histrionics. (In the update, for example, a toxic waste spill is represented by a Day-Glo green puddle.) There was also the comedic freedom of unrestrained expression without consequence. Horniness, despair, and aggression were deployed for comedic effect and then forgotten a minute later. In addition to playing with tropes, writer Showalter and director David Wain were arguing that human emotions are mechanical, that they come along regardless of whether or not there is a prop or plot to excuse their expression. Teens (and the adults playing them) flail and scream because their conditioning tells them to, then rationalize a grandiose reason later.

Postmodern prequel with an all-star cast

Fourteen years later, as a Netflix series, Wet Hot is very successful at mimicking the beats and rhythms of the original, from the bright grass greens to the absurdist, Brechtian schtick. It is a prequel, set on the first day of the camp, whereas the first one took place on the last day. Showalter, now conspicuously overweight, bewigged, and 45, is playing an even younger teenager, whose lovelorn crushes are even more about entitlement and possession. He is specifically labeled “a nice guy” who can’t deal with the fact his quasi-girlfriend (Lake Bell) wants to sleep with a visiting Israeli (Wain), who has wonderful patter: “The tongue in the mouth, it can mean so many things … This is the true meaning of community, of kibbutz.”

The scope widens to include spies and undercover reporters, but it’s basically the same as other work by Showalter and Wain, like Wainy Days and Stella. The huge cast (Amy Poehler, Bradley Cooper, H. Jon Benjamin) is supported by ringers (Michael Cera, Jon Hamm). The core players from comedy troupe The State are true to form, if less fresh-faced. They still make familiar Hollywood devices feel dumb and unnatural, while grounding them in feelings of longing, rejection, and the sense of otherness.

On first viewing, it’s a little too dry. Comedy that comes from character more than unbridled absurdity is better. I enjoyed another recent online show involving idiots yelling, Other Space, more for this reason. Wet Hot American Summer: First Day Of Camp is a fine example of a postmodern prequel, but it’s still a prequel, with all the expectations and emotional baggage that entails.