A man who looks like Musk, only 20 years younger and better rested, eats hummus before another cut to belly dancers with large breasts, shapely hips and full beards. This jarring sequence brings us to the chorus: “Trump Gaza, shining bright/golden future, a brand-new light/feast and dance, the deed is done/Trump Gaza, No. 1.”
As the chorus repeats, we enter the “after” portion of the spot. A child walks down a shining boulevard, holding a Mylar balloon shaped like the president’s head. The president himself chats up a younger woman in a casino. Money falls from the sky. The aforementioned golden statue stands at the center of a busy roundabout, and Trump and Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu drink cocktails with their shirts off by a pool. The whole thing is prime generative A.I. It’s competently hacky, more technically proficient than what most people could produce, but also deranged in the Patrick Bateman style, as though an automaton had decided what humans like by watching thousands of commercials — which is, of course, exactly what happened.
Given how recently generative A.I. developed, it’s remarkable how fast its aesthetic hallmarks have become recognizable: high-contrast textures, perceptibly diffuse lighting, forced-perspective shots in which people walk down city streets or through arched openings. It’s not what dreams look like so much as a visual rendering of a dream’s description, complete with mild failures of object permanence and the sense that we have seen it all before, although it didn’t look like that.
As soon as this visual style became familiar, it seemed to become the dominant aesthetic of the pro-Trump internet. With the possible exception of venture capitalists, the demographic that appears to have embraced A.I. most enthusiastically is MAGA meme accounts, possibly because the people who have most loudly rejected it — graphic designers, journalists, photographers, filmmakers, musicians, teachers — are archetypal liberals. In the reactive logic of the MAGA rank and file, A.I. is good because the right people hate it.
This dynamic has produced a culture of computer-generated irony with peculiar characteristics. It is not the stable irony of a Jonathan Swift or a Stephen Colbert, in which the audience can rely on the ironist to say the opposite of what he means. Instead it is an unstable irony that leaves its real meaning ambiguous or at least plausibly deniable. President Trump himself popularized this approach by “telling it like it is” in a way that consistently disregards precision if not accuracy, speaking in a hyperbolic style that his followers understand to be not literal but also gospel truth. The Trump Gaza video is ironic in this slippery sense of the word. It’s the irony of saying more than you mean (literal golden idol of Trump), or saying what you mean in a way no one could call serious (the twice-stereotyped belly dancers), or calling attention to your leader’s weak points as a gesture of unconditional loyalty (gold-leaf everything).
