Rex Murphy: All the shine is gone. All of it. No one, except the deepest partisans, buys the male-feminist gig anymore. That special, moral relationship Trudeau so fulsomely embraced with our First Nations people has evaporated — forgive a cruel pun — with the boil-water advisories he pledged to end. All show, all talk; no action.
Most of all, the whole persona is dead. The progressive, woke prime minister has lost all glitter and glow. Vogue is no longer calling. He is a politician, and only a politician, just like all the other politicians he once so angrily denounced and looked down upon. He who once was sunny is now, according to the best sources, calling up his “ferocity.” (That’s a really good one.)
The style that wore so well at first grows cloying. The drama-speak hesitations. That urgent, breathless “sincerity-tone” — called upon for all those sensitivity-displaying apologies — grinds on the nerves. What once attracted, repels. And with the loss of the “style” is the loss of Trudeau’s chief gift. It was never the looks, which are special. Nor even the name, though that gave him an elevator ride to the top. It was always the style.
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