Our drama begins in Denmark, a mythical place with confusing customs, like Iowa, somewhere outside the Beltway. On the parapets of a building from which a “Trump” logo appears to have been recently taped over, Kamala Harris and a vice presidential candidate identified only as “Horatio” have a vision of a vanishing former king whom Kamala reveres. “Something is rotten in the state of Denmark and every other state except the great state of Illinois–and a few blue ones on the Coasts,” announces the king as he fades from view, suggesting that what is to come will be filled with menace and suspense.
The scene shifts to a public function orchestrated by a usurping king-pretender always recognizable in a crown with the logo “Make Denmark Great Again.” Kamala tries to position herself as rightful heir to the throne, questioning the legitimacy of this other would be ruler and speaking sarcastically about his commitment to family values and ability to govern. She complains that he is all about belligerent spectacles which involve loud, meaningless noise, accomplish nothing and waste Denmark’s supply of cannon balls.
En route to the convention, Kamala encounters the tedious Polonius, a combination medieval David Brooks and Bernie Sanders, who launches into commentary and punditry about his advice even as he delivers it. Later Kamala is also interviewed by the ace reporters Rosencranz and Guildenstern (played by Nina Tottenberg and Judy Woodruff in drag, in a wry commentary on the male-only mores of the Elizabethan theater). Kamala seeks to use the interviews to float shrewd, ecologically correct soundbites like comparing clouds to whales, announcing the ability to tell a hawk from a handsaw and–most daring of all–playing the ichthyology card and denouncing political opponents as fish mongers. These comments generate few likes in her twitter account. In contrast the king-
pretender launches a steady barrage of electronic missives which alternately mock and threaten Kamala and Horatio (“a radical who plans to destroy our country and won’t reveal his golf score, no matter who he may turn out to be”). Although these comments do not use sophisticated literary devices, or for that matter conventional grammar or spelling, even by Danish standards, they are liked and retweeted with positive emoji millions of times.
Now enter the fair Ophelia. Could she be the key to the identity of the vice-presidential candidate’s identity? No, she is just a former Nancy Pelosi aide seeking career advice. Mistaking her for Stormy Daniels, Kamala minces no words and suggests a nunnery or public service as an alternative to her present lifestyle. Kamala’s prosecutorial harangue distresses Ophelia. In one of the play’s many cruel ironies, she becomes an environmentalist and drowns while collecting DNA samples from an envious sliver, one of Denmark’s rarest and most hallucinogenic plants.
“Remember me,” intones a faded visage of the old king on increasingly obscure social media. Kamala consults her notes to remind herself who that might be. She also frets about the law’s delay and the proud man’s contumely–in other words, the current Supreme Court.
These thoughts lead to the famous soliloquy “To tweet lies and be the Pres or not tweet lies and only be a has been VP.”
A troupe of itinerant players from Cirque de Soleil enters stage left with juggling and horseplay to liven things up. Kamala inserts some material into the first scene of their play. The entire action sequence which Kamala inserts consists, not of a martial arts extravaganza, car chase or shoot out, but pouring oil in someone’s ear. This is dull and far-fetched even for a play within a play. The pretender-king and everyone else walk out almost immediately. Kamala is snubbed at the Oscars, the Tonys, even the Golden Globes. Her efforts have almost single-handedly succeeded in killing off funding for the arts.
Now working the political circuit assiduously, Kamala talks shop about the earth’s decay with Al Gore in the well-known gravedigger scene and even manages to monopolize a conversation with Tucker Carlson, symbolized as an empty jester’s skull. She appears unexpectedly at Ophelia’s funeral and furiously confronts her nemesis, Laertes — the polite, Danish way of saying Speaker of the House Michael Johnson.
Every drama needs a good fight scene. In this case it is a so-called “debate” on TV, conducted with swords to enhance audience interest. Though no Vladimir Putin, Kamala acquits herself well, scoring many points. Not only Laertes but the king-pretender, Mitch McConnell, Elise Stefanik, Mary Taylor Greene and even Steven Bannon are all dispatched; they swoon, gag and roll about on the floor. This clearly isn’t politics as usual. Kamala has succeeded in not only vanquishing her rivals but has also quite literally reduced the size of government.
Inevitably, however, Kamala succumbs to the very forces she has unleashed. “The rest is silence,” she says when interviewed by the FBI about all the dead bodies on the White House lawn as well as Hunter Biden’s laptop. And only now is the identity of the future vice-president at last revealed It is not the loyal Horatio at all but someone named Fortinbras who tramps dramatically into the scene, muddy boots and all, after campaigning in distant hinterlands. An entourage of pollsters and fund raisers help Fortinbras bear Kamala like a solider to the front of the stage. But even while they are doing so, they are on their iPhones making media buys and plotting strategy for future Fortinbras rallies to be held in New Hampshire, another of those mythical places somewhere outside the Beltway.
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If someone said “You speak an infinite deal of nothing” to the convicted felon, he would take it as a positive.
Let’s hope “There’s a divinity that shapes our ends.”