Before 60 Minutes went to air on Sunday night, a mate of mine called to express her frustration.
She’d seen the clips of the prime minister strumming his Hawaiian instrument while the Morrison family looked on semi-awkwardly and Karl Stefanovic presided at the head of the table, a couple of margaritas in, looking like he’d just bagged a Logie.
She’d seen April Sun in Cuba (Oh-Oh-Oh-My-God-Make-It-Stop); the breathless promos trumpeting Jenny Morrison as her husband’s “secret weapon”.
Enough already, was her point. Enough of whatever this infomercial was.
Enough of Morrison’s ephemera, the featherweight impressionism, the rehearsed verisimilitude. Daggy dad. Sharkies fan. Curry chef. Identities curated and stacked inside one another like hollow babushka dolls.
Why, my mate wondered, can’t we just have a prime minister?
Just that.
A prime minister.
Plain and simple.
Weighted and steadied by the office.
The times felt too serious for this vaudevillian engineering his reboot on prime-time television. Morrison’s first-world problem – would he win the coming federal election? – didn’t really feel that pressing, with people still dying, with businesses struggling to come back from their government-induced hibernation.
She felt of all the characters Morrison had constructed, his character of prime minister remained the least fleshed out, and consequently, the least convincing.
Given the character of prime minister would be the only one that ultimately mattered, this seemed an oversight. Prime minister Morrison – if he was ever really there forcefully enough to make a lasting imprint – was now in danger, she felt, of disappearing entirely. The constant packaging and repackaging was overwhelming the present.
I had these observations front of mind on Sunday night as Morrison sat beside wife Jenny and spectated while she said a bunch of things the prime minister evidently felt he couldn’t say.
Like sorry about that ill-timed overseas holiday (but I remember a time when prime ministers were allowed to be humans). Like Grace Tame’s cause is noble but that young woman should learn to mind her manners. Like that Magda Szubanski isn’t very nice. Like my husband absolutely isn’t a psycho, he’s just very task-oriented. Like Peter van Onselen shouldn’t ask questions at the National Press Club that upset my daughters and make me “feel sick to my stomach”.
It was prime ministership by proxy.
By character reference.
This is not intended to be a criticism of Jenny Morrison. She’s an intelligent woman. A warm and relatable person. A loyal spouse is as entitled to express her views as anyone else. She doesn’t need anyone’s permission to speak.
But there’s a simple point to make.
If there’s a mess, Jenny Morrison isn’t responsible for the cleanup.
It shouldn’t be incumbent on her to have to explain or translate her husband to Australian voters; to be Scott’s secret weapon.
This idea is actually so patronising it’s hard to know where to begin with it quite honestly. Before Sunday night’s program went to air I just assumed such a hackneyed conceit was a bit of troglodyte magazine television puffery – a cliche rolling off the same production line as happy wife, happy life, and boy, he’s punching above his weight there.
But Jenny to the rescue was the trope of choice, and everyone did seem to lean in.
Here’s the thing.
In case it isn’t obvious, Scott Morrison is the prime minister.
It is Morrison’s record voters will be evaluating in a few months time.
If the prime minister is having trouble connecting with people, if people are angry with him, that’s on him.
If people are tired of poor judgments, the antidote is simple. The prime minister needs to make better judgments.
If people think Morrison lacks empathy, he could try a little humility. I suspect that’s more effective than special pleading.
And most of all: if Morrison has a substance problem, if voters are wondering what is real, the answer to that is not more puffery.
