The problem with performative politics

By Herman M. Lagon

You know politics is in trouble when it starts performing instead of working. Gestures get louder, statements sharper, and moments carefully staged. There are villains and heroes, urgency everywhere—and still, nothing really moves. We have lived through this pattern for decades, now repackaged with slicker visuals, fiercer click baits, and younger faces.

UP political scientist Jean Encinas-Franco recently captured this shared feeling. In her remarks on Leandro Leviste’s public behavior, she pointed away from labels and age, and toward something more basic—the absence of consistent work that signals real conviction. What comes through instead is staging. Statements designed to circulate. Gestures meant to provoke reaction. A politics that looks busy, but leaves little behind once the cameras move on.

Strip away the novelty and the pattern feels familiar. Say the most headline-friendly line. Hint at a revelation without following through. Frame yourself as the lone brave voice against a vague but powerful enemy. Keep the audience watching. This is not disruption. It is an old political script with updated packaging. Voters have seen it before from seasoned trapos (traditional politicians) and self-styled outsiders alike. The difference now is speed. What once took weeks of press coverage now happens in a single viral cycle.

The danger of performative politics is not that it is noisy. The danger is that it feeds on emotion while starving institutions. Governance, at its core, is slow, technical, and often unglamorous. It lives in committee hearings that nobody streams, budget lines that never trend, and implementation details that rarely inspire applause. Serious public servants are boring in public because their real work happens elsewhere. They speak in specifics: bills filed, budgets defended, programs revised, metrics tracked. Performance politics replaces that discipline with spectacle.

This is why Encinas-Franco’s critique resonates. It is not personal, and it is not moralistic. It is diagnostic. When statements outpace evidence, when exposure replaces accountability, and when moral certainty arrives ahead of due process, skepticism is not cynicism. It is civic literacy. We are right to ask not only what is being said, but what follows after the post is shared and the rally disperses.

Social media has sharpened this problem. Attention is now the most valuable currency in politics, and platforms reward immediacy over depth. A carefully edited confrontation travels farther than a drafted bill. A viral sound bite outperforms a budget hearing. As media scholar Jonathan Ong has noted elsewhere, modern political visibility often relies on repetition, emotional hooks, and simplified narratives. Performativity becomes the proof of relevance. If it looks like leadership, it must be leadership.

This is why performative politics works, especially among younger voters raised on screens and feeds. For a generation tired of recycled promises, a fresh tone can feel like progress. The politician who shows up, responds quickly, and appears constantly engaged can feel more authentic than one buried in process. The problem is that authenticity without outcomes is still empty. Presence does not equal progress. Visibility does not repair systems.

The country offers no shortage of cautionary tales. Dynastic feuds that dominate headlines for months leave little room for policy discussion. Personal clashes crowd out conversations about education, food security, health care, or disaster preparedness. Political families trade accusations while flood control fails, classrooms decay, and public hospitals remain understaffed. The audience stays entertained. The problems stay unresolved.

At its worst, performative politics trains citizens to lower their expectations. We begin to reward politicians for being seen and loud rather than for being effective and efficient. We applaud exposure instead of execution. Over time, governance becomes a branding exercise. The question shifts from “Did this policy work?” to “Did this moment land?” That shift erodes accountability quietly, without fanfare.

This does not mean that public communication is unimportant. Politics must speak. It must persuade. It must mobilize. But communication should point toward action, not substitute for it. There is a difference between explaining hard work and replacing it with theater. Leaders who understand this do not chase virality. They accept that the most meaningful decisions will never trend, and they do the work anyway.

The call, then, is not to reject voices that criticize power. It is to examine how those critiques are carried forward. Do they lead to legislative proposals? Do they engage institutions instead of bypassing them? Do they accept the slow discipline of reform, or do they hover permanently at the level of exposure? Branding masquerading as governance may look bold, but it rarely delivers.

Filipinos are not apathetic. They are exhausted. Decades of performative concern without structural change have taught people to guard their hope carefully. That exhaustion makes spectacle tempting. At least someone is speaking up. At least someone looks brave. But democracy cannot survive on symbolism alone. It needs follow-through, restraint, and a willingness to stay long after the applause fades.

The quiet truth is this: real leadership often disappoints the crowd. It refuses easy villains. It respects process even when process is frustrating. It chooses patience over posturing. It listens more than it performs. These qualities do not photograph well, but they build institutions that last.

Performative politics feels active, but it is often empty. It keeps the spotlight busy while governance stands still. The responsibility does not fall on politicians alone. Voters shape incentives. When we reward noise, we get noise. When we demand work, we make space for it. Elections are not talent shows. They are audits of trust.

The next time a political moment goes viral, the better question may not be who spoke loudest, but what changed afterward. If the answer is nothing, then the performance succeeded, and the country did not.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a ”student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.