Democrats had a great Saturday night. First, the Selzer poll dropped a dream scenario in which Vice President Kamala Harris was up three points ahead of former president Donald Trump in Iowa, of all places. Then news broke that Harris would make a surprise appearance on Saturday Night Live, which was probably annoying news to Joe Rogan.
During the episode’s cold open, Maya Rudolph’s Harris yearned privately for guidance during her campaign’s final stretch. “I wish I could talk to someone who’s been in my shoes,” she said, before sitting in front of a “mirror” that held the beaming vice president. The crowd’s laughter stepped over Harris’ first attempt at line delivery, and then both women sat there marveling at each other, waiting out the audience’s nearly minute long ovation.
If the pretend Harris needed a pep talk, she got a helluva one. “I’m just here to remind you that you got this,” said the real Harris. “Because you can do something your opponent cannot do. You can open doors.” (For women, for history, for garbage trucks.) Oh, these two had a good old cackling laugh. “Now Kamala, take my palm-ala…” said Rudolph. There was something honestly tender and warm flowing between these two during their marvelous exchange, like Rudolph was pouring all her reserves of energy and goodness into the 60-year-old candidate to take on this last leg. “Keep Kamala and Carry On-ala,” they promised each other. Then Harris joined Rudolph on stage, and the two women stood arm in arm, in matching black blazers and loose curl and very demure, very mindful two-strand necklaces. Rudolph couldn’t have had a better role to play, and Harris couldn’t have had anyone better play her.
SNL had forests of low-hanging fruit from which to contrast the athletic joy of Harris’ campaign with Trump’s increasingly cirrhotic final days. James Austin Johnson played Trump in his orange vest, weaving at a MAGA rally about his right to protect women from themselves. “That’s right, when you’re famous, they let you protect them,” he said. Johnson captured Trump’s disgust with having to work, with his crowds, with his schedule, with the Midwest, with the microphone he couldn’t decide if he wanted to take to bed or knock out. “The last time I hated a mic this much I tried to have him killed. Pence!” he bellowed. “Who cares, you don’t care, nobody cares.”
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