Nora Grace-Flood Photos
Milwaukee — (Analysis) For the last night of the Republican National Convention, viewers turned on the television to see a series of scripted attempts to make a 78-year-old man wearing a diaper on his ear come across as the hulky champion of a prime time fight. Inside the Fiserv Forum convention hall, I saw a different show play out.
From the floor, the made-for‑T.V. testosterone trip Thursday night was anything but big, bad and brotherly. The feebleness on display was funny in its own way, as plenty of Republican delegates positioned themselves as props in exchange for week-long party tickets that concluded with a night of awkwardly long and embarrassing performances.
“He’s the baddest and biggest of them all,” professional wrestler Hulk Hogan weighed in on Trump early in the night.
“Ladies and gentlemen, get ready for the most patriotic, badass on earth, President Donald J. Trump!” Kid Rock yelled, before Ultimate Fighting Championship CEO Dana White was ushered onto the screen. “I’m going to choose real American leadership, and a real American government. And a real American badass,” he declared, before personally introducing the “soon-to-be 47th president of the United States.”
Everyone crammed in close to get photos, expecting an imminent appearance. Instead, a darkened pause erupted as the stage crew stumbled around the stage for several moments, prepping for an Elvis-themed, White House projection reveal on Trump’s big, bandaged ramble.
Meanwhile, speeches and songs from those aging superstars were dotted with difficult disrobings. Rock tried to shed a layer on stage after he began sweating profusely while lip syncing his song named, of course, “American Bad Ass.” But struggled to escape from his leather outerwear, flashing the audience with his white belly.
Images are proliferating in the media of Hogan mid-shirt split as he busted through one top to reveal another Trump/ Vance 2024 tank underneath. But on stage he fumbled while tearing the bottom of the fabric, which apparently had not been properly scored in preparation for a seamless graphic tee transition.
Trump spoke about 40 minutes past the scheduled, 10:30 p.m. conclusion of his 93-minute sermon.
I watched the teleprompter stagnate repeatedly as Trump went off script, riffing incoherently for minutes at a time. He paused while mentioning Rachel Morin, a mother who was murdered at age 37 while out on a jog, to bizarrely infer his two cents.
“She wanted to keep herself in good shape. It was very important to her,” he said, before blaming a handful of violent attacks on an invasion of “criminal aliens.”
After an intense lead-up of celebrity speakers and Pabst-sponsored parties, Trump’s rambling was ironically the most out-of-place part of the Republican’s apparent early victory lap.
The audience of delegates and supporters, who chanted eagerly and insistently throughout the majority of the convention sessions — including during Vance’s Hillbilly Elegy-inspired, best-selling nomination acceptance speech the night before — often fell silent as Trump chatted away, evidently unable to follow what he was trying to say.
Supporters were seen trickling out of the arena bleachers before the speech was complete.
White overhead lights turned on around 11 p.m., evidently sending Trump a message that time had run out and it was really time to wrap it up.
Massachusetts delegate Arete Pascucci said afterwards that the week was one of the most high-energy and entertaining experiences she’s had as a longtime Trumper with three conventions already under her belt.
Except, she admitted, “Trump’s speech was a little bit long …”
“It’s just his passion” at play, she reasoned.
Whatever passion Trump’s campaign was inspiring among RNC-goers seemed to go slow-mo mode when Trump finally took over as television host.
And zero passion was apparent during Melania Trump’s anticlimactic appearance. Those tuning into The New York Times could watch her walk to a reserved seat in the audience through carefully pre-positioned, close-up cameras. The rest of us on the floor waited around in confusion as a scarlet speck waded all the way from one end of the convention hall to the other side. And she said nothing before or after taking her seat. But with the help of the Times and other outlets, her presence could at least be interpreted as a televised catwalk.
I wished more viewers could share the perspectives of reporters on the ground, who were manhandled by security agents tasked with keeping front-row traffic “moving.” Photographers were basically barred from staying in one position for more than a few seconds at a time.
I couldn’t help but start laughing when a guard locked eyes with me and demanded, seemingly out of nowhere: “Take your pictures now and then go! Now! NOW!” He pushed me out of my spot before I could consider snapping the scene in front of me, while several other convention attendees holding iPhones were permitted to stay in place.
It wasn’t a big deal. We all got our photos one way or another. But it was bizarre to watch as several delegates started fighting with press photographers for obscuring their view of the show. Guards usually intervened, demanding any camera-holding obstacles relocate despite the fact that there were few places for press to go.
At the end of the night, thousands of balloons were dropped onto the crowd, popping like amplified corn or muffled bullets.
The TV show was over. After spending a week observing the rising power of Trump’s party, and the cult-like craze around a supposed messiah with a bloodied ear, I wondered whether Trump’s messy speech — which barely touched on policy beyond a slew of proposed border control measures — even mattered enough to derail an otherwise triumphant week for conservatives. I wondered how the event would come across to those combing through clips at home compared to those of us who were watching live alongside a Wisconsin delegation decked out in cheese hats.
As hordes of individuals left the arena for an after party headlined by Jason Aldean, hundreds of red-robed conservatives descended the escalators like particles in a bloody waterfall. One shirt stood out in the crowd, prompting me to consider whether the message of those who had traveled far and wide to turn up at the RNC wasn’t even simpler than I was making it.
The fabric front read like so: “It’s not a party until a Republican shows up.”
Nora Grace-Flood and Fred Noland covered the Republican National Convention for the Independent.
Press and attendees team together to take photos.
A Trumper takes a selfie amid a tight crew of stage front photographers.
Eric Trump on national TV: "My father has been censored."
Hulk points to Trump and dubs him "the baddest and biggest of them all."