The president and I both got our heart’s desire. But something felt wrong.

December 8, 2025, 5:37 PM ET

“In life there are two tragedies,” Oscar Wilde once said. “One is not getting what one wants. The other is getting it.” The second tragedy was what I saw last night at the Kennedy Center Honors.

For as long as I can remember, I have been obsessed with the Kennedy Center Honors, a strange, D.C.-based entertainment-awards show where four celebrities you’ve heard of (and one you should have) wear medals, sit in a special box at the Kennedy Center with the president, and receive some form of artistic tribute. Unlike other awards shows, which honor celebrities of the present, these celebrate a lifetime of achievements. When they’re good, they’re very, very good (think of Adam Lambert’s transcendent “Believe” cover for Cher, or Aretha Franklin playing for Carole King). When they’re strange, they’re very, very strange (the Francis Ford Coppola tribute in which everyone sat at a dinner table springs to mind).

Are the Kennedy Center Honors important? At this time? Even a little bit? Absolutely not. Have I been longing my whole life to attend one? Absolutely. You can have the Grammys! You can have the Oscars! These are my everything. There is at least one other person who feels exactly the same way: the president of the United States. And last night, we were both in attendance.

Imagine that you have wished to host the Honors all your life. Now you get to. The honorees are several of your favorites. Gloria Gaynor, the singer of the 1978 hit “I Will Survive.” Michael Crawford, who originated the role of the Phantom of the Opera on Broadway and won the Tony for it in 1988. Sylvester Stallone. George Strait. Kiss.

But something’s off.* *The whole evening has the characteristics of a wish made on a monkey’s paw. You wanted the Four Seasons, but you got Four Seasons Total Landscaping. Why is a “content creator” introducing one of the tributes to Gloria Gaynor? Where is Meryl Streep? Why does a night that should be Donald Trump’s greatest triumph feel so much like he revived the Honors from the Pet Sematary?

Start with the red carpet. Someone who looks like Kellyanne Conway but isn’t walks down it. (This may just be how every woman voluntarily attending Trump events looks now.) Gene Simmons is rude to a reporter who asks him about his past criticism of Trump. He says the American dream is alive and well; his mother fled Germany and he is lucky to have a good life here. Thank goodness America remains a welcoming place for refugees to make a better life, so we can continue to enjoy music. (Hang on for a moment while I Google the administration’s stance on refugees!)

Doug Burgum, secretary of the interior, is offering the dubious, slightly backhanded compliment that Trump is “the only president we’ve had that would be able to step in and host a show like this” and “the most qualified TV host we’ve ever had sitting in the Oval Office.”

Howard Lutnick, the commerce secretary, is remarking that he “loves The Phantom of the Opera.”

If the fact that Doug Burgum and Howard Lutnick are walking the red carpet makes you wonder whether anyone famous is in attendance, that’s a correct impulse. Sylvester Stallone is there, but he bypasses the carpet, walking rapidly somewhere else. The NewsNation reporter next to me tells her audience that the carpet is a little bit “lighter” on “the Hollywood side” than is typical.

The president arrives last, with Melania, who is wearing a black gown that, structurally, reminds me of the roof of the building formerly known as the Institute of Peace (now the Trump Institute of Peace). Trump says that he is going to be himself. That, he says, is what Johnny Carson did. He takes the opera-house stage and announces, “I’m going to try to act like Johnny Carson.”

“Many of you are miserable, horrible people. I wish you’d give up, but you don’t,” Trump tells the audience. The “big, beautiful bill” gets a shout-out: “It was supposed to be 17 bills. We wrapped them into one.” We are informed that the honorees know that “it’s all about winning. You win forward. And that’s how winning is done.” Wherever you go, there you are, I guess.

He compares Sylvester Stallone favorably to Orson Welles (who peaked at 25). In addition to the tribute to Sylvester Stallone, filmmaker, we are treated to a separate video extolling him exclusively as a painter, including voice-overs where he explains his paintings—always an encouraging sign for an artist!

Kelsey Grammer begins the Michael Crawford tribute by singing, “Hello, Michael! Well, hello, Michael!” to the tune of “Hello, Dolly!” *Is this what you wished for, Donald? *There is a certain irony in a cover of “It Only Takes a Moment” that takes what feels like 18 years because it has been slowed to an unearthly crawl by a Mamma Mia cast member. (“Isn’t that something,” Kelsey Grammer says afterward. “My goodness.”)

Michael Crawford seems pleased to be included, though I feel like it must sting to have the tribute listing all your accomplishments end abruptly in the year 1988. I have watched these Honors before! Usually they mention some kind of triumphant return! Lie, if necessary. Of all the times for this administration to decide to cling strictly to the facts.

Finally we arrive at the moment that the president has surely been waiting for: the Phantom of the Opera duet. This will be sung by Laura Osnes, a famously not-vaccinated-for-COVID former Broadway performer, and … David Phelps, whose Wikipedia bio calls him “an American Christian music vocalist, songwriter, vocal arranger, and producer” and notes that “on January 13, 2008, Phelps appeared on Extreme Makeover Home Edition.” Next, Phelps tackles “The Music of the Night” alone.

My notes from this point in the evening read “Donald Trump maybe is in hell.” Congratulations, Mr. President! It’s one of your favorite songs, performed at your Kennedy Center Honors! Oh, great! By a Broadway star? Well … the performer does have a TV credit! Then again, if he’s harbored the desire to hear “The Music of the Night” with more of a Christian pop vocal, maybe he’s over the moon.

“I love country,” the president says before the George Strait tribute. (This gets a small but distinct laugh from part of the audience.) This segment features actual country stars, including Brooks and Dunn and Miranda Lambert. If President Trump indeed loves country, it should be the highlight of the evening! If he’s someone for whom the pinnacle of entertainment is Cats, maybe not.

Gloria Gaynor is next. A disco ball the size of a small boulder descends to hang over Elle King, and 10 exuberant dancers dressed in what I think is gold lamé come out to drag my eyes away from the singer at every opportunity as she sings “I Will Survive.” Strange to see the originator of this queer anthem at the Kennedy Center Honors for an administration that has shown such disdain for LGBTQ people. What has brought her here? The tribute video reveals that she has pivoted to gospel music.

After a brief disco medley, the lighting changes. The projected nightclub imagery becomes stained-glass windows and gospel musicians enter. The disco ball is still stuck there, awkwardly, casting red and yellow and blue light around the room. Trump bops along dutifully to “Precious Lord.” Is this what you wished for, Mr. President?

Garth Brooks is now here for Kiss. He praises their “conversational lyrics” and “commonsense chord progressions,” which, again, does not sound as complimentary as it could.

Who’s up next to present? Why, it’s the magician Criss Angel! The Mindfreak appears for a tribute to Kiss in a heavily bedazzled suit with what appears to be the mangled carcass of a chandelier dangling from the shoulders. He is there to offer a special magical tribute to Ace Frehley in which smoke pours out of a guitar while a bright light shines on it.

We end with “Rock and Roll All Nite.” Then Donald Trump comes out to thank us and tell us to get home safely. I wish we could trap the president in some kind of terrarium and make him do this sort of thing exclusively. If only this were all just entertainment, and the only men with their faces hidden by masks were doing tributes to Michael Crawford.

On the way out, passing the after-party (you can pose with a Phantom of the Opera–themed photo backdrop featuring red roses and a giant mask!), I walk past the real Kellyanne Conway in a green mermaid dress boogieing along to “Take On Me.” The cover band, perhaps sensing that I am on deadline and could use the content, plays a melancholy Harry Styles hit: You know it’s not the same as it was.

This could be Donald Trump’s heaven, if only the world would cooperate. But instead everything he touches turns to brass. His pop turns to country; his Broadway turns to Christian rock; his disco turns to gospel. He is so close that he can almost taste it, but he will never get to taste it. Donald Trump is in hell. If only we weren’t trapped there with him.

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