One of the stranger moments among many in yesterday’s White House presser-turned-grudge-match with Volodymyr Zelensky was a query about the Ukrainian president’s outfit. He was in town to sign a deal that would give the United States a big stake in his country’s rare earth minerals and, hopefully, some newfound motivation to help fend off Russia’s aggression. He opted for all black, a sleek, collarless shirt and pants that was more elegant than his usual fatigues (President Donald Trump remarked that he was “all dressed up today” when he first greeted him), but he still stood out for not being a suit and tie. This prompted a cheeky question from Brian Glenn, a correspondent for the pro-Trump outlet Real America’s Voice.“Why don’t you wear a suit?” Glenn asked Zelensky. “You’re in the highest level in this country’s office, and you refuse to wear a suit. Do you own a suit!?”
Inane though the question might have been, it pointed to a stylistic gulf that separates Trump and Zelensky, and that may have contributed to the eventual blowup over whether Ukraine can still count the United States an ally in fighting off Vladimir Putin’s invasion. Both presidents are showmen (and former television entertainers) who have carefully crafted their public images, but they are as different in style as Winston Churchill and Benito Mussolini: steely versus bombastic, slyly cutting versus openly mocking, understated and dry versus blunt and derisive.
To Glenn’s leading question, Zelensky responded with what to my ears was a humor as dark as Ukrainian black bread. “I will wear a costume after this war will finish,” Zelensky said. “Maybe something like yours. Maybe something better, I don’t know. We will see. Maybe something cheaper.”
Over the past three years, Zelensky has fashioned for himself a leader-in-wartime look, with his scruffy facial hair and a gravely voice. He speaks in matter-of-fact ways, referring to Putin early in the meeting as a “killer and terrorist.” An actor before he became president, Zelensky has so much embodied this role that it seemed nearly impossible for him to abandon his practiced fortitude as Trump and his vice president, J. D. Vance, presented an alternate reality in which Zelensky and his Russian counterpart, Vladimir Putin, were just two men who refused to get along.
Unlike French president Emanuel Macron and U.K. prime minister Kier Starmer, who appeared next to Trump last week and kept quiet and patient while the American president bloviated, Zelensky, equally invested in his own persona, found this impossible. He took his turn to answer questions Trump had already fielded. He raised his eyebrows or swiveled his head at particularly outlandish assertions, playing subtly to the cameras. When Trump gave a both-sides account of battlefield losses, he interjected, quietly but clearly, “They came to OUR country.” Admirable as his truth-telling may have been, it also set off Trump and his vice president in ways that may not have been wise.
The more they berated him for not being grateful enough, for not appreciating that he was supposed to play the supplicant, the more Zelensky snapped into the mode he has perfected. “You don’t have the cards right now,” Trump told him. “I’m not playing cards,” Zelensky shot back, eyes narrowed in skepticism.
Americans are very familiar with Trump’s exaggerated self-presentation: the carnival barker who leaps to superlatives. It wasn’t enough for him to describe Ukrainian cities as damaged by Russia. He had to say that many of them were “not recognizable, there’s not a building standing.” This is a rhetorical style as native to Trump as the long red tie dangling past his belt. He has no patience for shades of gray. Putin is a man he knows. Putin is a man who was treated badly like him. Therefore, the president concludes, he can be trusted. If Trump says Putin will abide by a ceasefire, he will abide by a ceasefire. End of story.
Zelensky’s persona is, in its way, more carefully constructed—honed over time. In the early days of the invasion, in the videos he made of himself in which he insisted he would never leave Ukraine, he appeared giddy, the comedian he once was still visible in a slight smirk. But he was already learning how to transform his stocky 5’ 7” frame into an embodiment of resolve, an important metonym for a relatively small but surprisingly tenacious country that nevertheless needs a great deal of outside help. When offered the chance to evacuate in the early days, he was reported to have said, “I need ammunition, not a ride,” like a Ukrainian Dirty Harry. As the war has dragged on, he has mastered that aura of cool and perseverance—jaw thrust forward, chest pushed out, terse and wry in his delivery. Asked once what he would do if Putin ever called him, he deadpanned, “How could he call me? He doesn’t have a mobile. I don’t use the telegraph.”
What happened in the White House on Friday was a realignment of American foreign policy—a misfired negotiation or a perverse setup, depending on your perspective. But it was also an explosive chemical reaction catalyzed by the clash of two incompatible elements. To Trump, Zelensky’s stoicism came across as rude. And to Zelensky, Trump’s exaggerations came across as offensive. When Vance jumped in and suggested that maybe Ukraine could try diplomacy, a wire seemed to trip in Zelensky’s brain, and the role he has perfected—of a leader on the side of freedom against a murderous dictator—kicked in. After plainly enumerating the ceasefire agreements Putin has violated, he leaned forward and asked, “What kind of diplomacy, J. D., you are speaking about? What do you mean?” Vance accused him of being “disrespectful,” and the yelling soon started.
When Zelensky began speaking of the way America might one day “feel” the consequences of Putin’s victories, despite the buffer of its “nice ocean,” it was Trump’s turn to feel triggered. He sensed that Zelensky was stealing his show, setting himself up as the truly tough one, on the frontline of a war from which Trump is shrinking away. This was not acceptable to the president. “You’re in no position to dictate what we’re going to feel,” Trump scolded him. Only Trump himself can dictate what we feel. And only Trump can dictate how visitors to the Oval Office make their case. So he re-asserted control by taking credit for enabling Zelensky’s straight talk: “The problem is I’ve empowered you to be a tough guy,” he said.
It’s possible that Zelensky came into the meeting knowing that it was already too late for him and Ukraine, that Trump was too much on the side of Russia and that he had little to gain from the obsequiousness that Trump and Vance had scripted for him. Regardless of what was in his best interest, Zelensky just couldn’t let things slide. If he had, he wouldn’t be himself. Trump, too, had to be himself; he couldn’t stay quiet.
The immediate result of this clash was that Zelensky’s trip to Washington appears to have been for naught. The deal on the table, which would give the United States a fifty percent stake in the revenues of Ukraine’s oil, gas and minerals, was dead. It was designed to keep America invested in Ukraine’s future—at quite a high price—but Trump never seemed all that excited about it. What motivated him instead was what now seems to have been inevitable given these two men’s personalities: the opportunity for a smackdown. In his last words at the press conference, Trump made clear that he, at least, had gotten what he wanted: “This is going to be great television, I’ll tell you that.”
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