[Update: This is a heavily revised and expanded version of what was originally a paragraph-long insult. I felt that, since I took the time to subject Sargsyan's image to my own, personal, conceptual Abu-Ghraib, I should take the time to explain why I did it. In the course of working out my thoughts about Sargsyan, I came to feel the same pity for him that he professes feeling for people who don't like him. If I were to describe concisely what the following is about, I would say it is a chronicle of that journey from contempt, toward contempt and pity, or maybe like an empathetic revulsion evinced from witnessing the death throes of a foot-long, three-eyed, yellow maggot-centipede.]
Sargsyan must be on some kind of medication. It's not so much that he would attempt to deceive people with interviews conducted by visibly terrorized reporters asking other people's questions; that's bad enough in itself, but predictable when it comes to would-be dictators; what is truly noteworthy about Sargsyan, on account of its being a sign of some kind of mild retardation, is that he evidently believes his lies are convincing. He's like a tone-deaf singer who thinks he's Frank Sinatra. His contemptible giggle at the question, "Are you Kocharian's plaything?" is as revealing as his final answer: "I don't really understand the point of that question"; in other words, he is so not Kocharian's plaything, that that logical step that any observer would take doesn't even occur to him. The elephant in the room is practically sitting on him, and Svengali Serzh thinks asking "Elephant? What elephant?" will magnetically pull the right thought into the people's focus and give free reign to his virtuoso fingers to play with them as he wishes.
But sitting in that chair whose back-side rises above his head makes him look like a little kid, an impression that is reinforced by his chubby cheeks. And this is no coincidence; it's one of those utterly strange, but not uncommon, cases where despite a host of bald-faced lies told in an interview, the liars body language and the attending circumstances clearly tell the truth. Just like the "Leader of the Free World" was caught cleaning his water glass on the jacket-tip of an interview attendent, Sargsyan literally looks like a child faithfully carrying out the instructions of Father Putin.
Corporate Stalinism produces incompetents in Russia just like it does in the West. This is a topic for another time, but it is worth noting that these "Presidents" are horrifying, not because they project power, but because, upon their election, one realizes with utter alarm that, in order for them to have gotten elected, so many important things must have gone wrong that it must mean that the system, as bad as it was, is now broken, really broken, and that even that noblesse oblige is gone--because the nobles are gone--and in their place are bureaucrats, middle managers, and accountants that have finally stumbled upon the loophole they've always dreamt about, which they will now proceed to exploit with regard to absolutely nothing.
They look like sophisticated versions of department store managers because they are sophisticated versions of department store managers.
Another salient characteristic of the interview, for example, is Sargsyan's slow (and rather dull) speech. Stately speeches are made with pauses, so he can ascribe some of his perpetual halting way of speaking to that, but, unfortunately for him, it is obvious that far beyond a stylistic choice, his having to concentrate on what he is saying is the result of two things: one, remembering the answers that he has memorized and, two, translating them from Russian to Armenian before opening his mouth. That motionless lower jaw that is characteristic of people who are primarily Russian speakers is ubiquitous throughout the interview for that reason--he's thinking in Russian.
And he keeps repeating the idea that he is "pained" by this or that, by people who hate his guts, by the events of March 1st, and so on and so forth. We're supposed to believe that this Gollum with his precious ring suffers bouts of morally infused regret about the imperfection of man, that the pathos erupts from the depths of his being when he witnesses hundreds of thousands of people calling him what he is--midget murderer--that the emotion washes over him, and at the end of it all you can find him nightly dropping to his knees, begging Our Heavenly Father to forgive his critics because they know not what they do. As the pictures show, however, his complete lack of real affect, absent to the degree that he could join a colony of androids without any of them noticing, belies the fact that the KGB has pulled the soul straight out of his body like a dentist extracts a tooth, leaving only a gaping hole.
Woe is you, Sargsyan, you pathetic little man. You're too honest to lie well, and too corrupt to tell the truth. Consequently, every day you wake up to the same terrible realization: Today, once again, someone will call you "President," and you will feel sorry for them, first, and then immediately feel far sorrier for you. Sad, sad little man.