What Brigitte Macron learned: only trophy wives count in Trumpland
In every public interaction of the Trumps there is drama. We see his hand wander to hers and when his little finger tickles her clenched fist, she relents and holds his in hers. She is glacial, resistant, but finally she surrenders. The suffering of Melania Trump and her small acts of dissent, of swatting away her husband’s piggy hands are scrutinised eagerly by those who still refuse to believe that this man is still president. It has been one of the oddest features of the largely surreal state visit of Emmanuel Macron, and in its way, a consolation. If an accuser like Stormy Daniels cannot publicly humiliate Trump with lurid allegations, all we have by way of morale is witnessing the discomfort he so obviously feels about his wife’s very obvious refusals of public intimacy; those moments when she parades the fashion scowl of a woman who would rather be at a funeral.
And all of this has gained a sharper focus against the backdrop of Macron’s state visit. In contrast to Melania’s reticence, the male presidents seemed unable to keep their hands off each other. It has been mortifying to watch primate grooming rituals up close. They involve Trump brushing away Macron’s dandruff. There have been the hugs, the pats, the back-rubbing, the handholding, the kissing. The awkward embraces of these alpha males has been quite a thing. Trump seems to have a public intimacy with the French president that he just can’t achieve with his wife.
We may think Macron is just playing it all extremely well, buying into Trump’s need for “class”. Macron is no poodle, as evidenced by his speech to Congress questioning Trump’s philosophy. But here is a sophisticated European offering Trump some credibility. And this may, ultimately, be for the greater good of a deal with Iran and consequently for the greater good of us all. I hope it is; but even then, at what cost?
And must Brigitte Macron be part of the deal? For she very much has been. While these men have been fumbling with each other, they have needed, it seems, to be accompanied by women in white who act as decoration. The big males bond. The women simply illuminate.
Here is Brigitte Macron in Louis Vuitton and Louboutins, seemingly coordinating her outfits with Melania. Here she is stalking across the lawn in high heels while her husband plants a tree. Here she is in “formal wear”, inspecting said tree planting like she really cares. Macron gets the last bit of dirt in, while briefly his wife grabs Trump’s shovel. Does this stuff matter? Of course it matters. Everything here is for the imagery; the show of Trump’s quasi-imperial fantasy, his own reinterpretation of history.
Brigitte is a grandmother of seven with an interesting life but in this tableau she must be doll-like and mute. Macron has always wanted her to be recognised as first lady. Tellingly, the French did not want to give her this official title. There was a petition against it.
But on this visit she has been absolutely turned into such a figure. We know what kind of women Trump likes to surround himself with, how they must look and what colour they must be. It’s an essential part of his display of power, the hyper-groomed trophy wife, the passive witnesses to the great man’s actions. That wasn’t Brigitte Macron. Is this Brigitte Macron?
This reflects an era where the reducibility of a woman to image and perfect image only signals the triumph of conservatism. These images reinforce ideas about good and bad femininity and they transcend politics. Why, for example, asked many this week who have given birth, did Kate Middleton have to be photographed in heels and earrings, coiffed and made up a few hours after delivering a baby? Trophy wifedom is one thing. What is trophy motherdom if not another denial of reality?
Such imagery is always explained away by the fact that women are complicit in it. Often this is so. The Macrons see themselves as a modern power couple. They know the landscape. The president may be in the US to talk about Syria, but what journalists speculate about is whether Brigitte has had dermal fillers and how many times a day she eats fruit.
Perhaps the Macrons understand that to exist in Trumpworld, they must acquiesce to this trophy wife pageant. It’s a minimum requirement. They see that Trump had difficulty with Merkel; that Theresa May – knowing nothing of Trump–world – has been left behind.
By being part of this narrative, the Macrons may have made the world a safer place, but still it’s a troubling development. For in this story, the only power a woman can have is to publicly turn her back on her husband in front of a camera.
• Suzanne Moore is a Guardian columnist