The kitchen looks ordinary—a modest townhome, a coffee maker, a dishtowel tossed in frustration. Ryan Busse, a Democratic candidate for Congress in Montana, stands there with his wife, listening to news headlines that seem to fuel his anger. "How much more of this are we supposed to take?" he asks, slinging the towel onto the counter. The scene is meant to feel relatable, a crusader against the system brewing his morning joe. But here’s the twist: it’s not his kitchen.
Public records, real estate photos, and past interviews tell a different story. Busse’s actual home sits on four acres in Kalispell, Montana—a sprawling rural estate valued at $1.6 million. The townhome in the ad? That belongs to one of his staffers, Alice Collins. When asked directly, Collins wouldn't confirm or deny it was her place. Instead, she deflected: "At no point in the ad do we claim it to be Ryan’s house."
Busse, a former firearms executive who lost a gubernatorial bid in 2024, now runs on a message of fighting for working people against the wealthy. Montana ranks among the least affordable states for homeownership, and he pledges to fix that. Yet his campaign ad was filmed far from his own sprawling property—a fact that critics say reeks of inauthenticity.
"If a candidate seeking to crusade on an affordability message feels the need to film campaign commercials away from their own home, that says a lot," said strategist Colin Reed. "Financial success should be celebrated, not hidden. Home ownership was once the American dream—voters want policies that make buying a home easier, not more red tape from Washington."
Another critic, Ashley Hayek, called it a pattern: "America's last elites trying to hide their true identity because their policies don't resonate with everyday Americans. When they lie about their mansions to seem relatable, it highlights how disconnected they are from hardworking families."
In a 2024 interview for his failed governor run, Busse sat in his actual home—the Kalispell estate where his family raises 11 chickens and his hunting dogs roam free. The contrast is jarring. That home boasts over four acres, while the ad’s setting shows a cramped townhome with barely any yard. Real estate listings peg his property at $1.5 to $1.6 million. His financial disclosures don't require him to list its value, since it's his primary residence.
The staffer's address, by contrast, lines up with the townhome seen in the ad—down to the silver car parked outside. Repeated questions to Busse's campaign went unanswered, except for Collins' suggestion that journalists should focus on "actual issues Montanans are facing," like the affordability crisis. Montana ranks 8th in the nation for highest home prices; the median single-family home in Bozeman hit $715,000 earlier this year.
This isn't an isolated incident. During Virginia's 2024 House race, Republican candidate Derrick Anderson posted photos of himself with a woman and three kids, smiling at a dining table. Some assumed it was his family—but he was newly engaged with no kids, living alone with his dog. His staff insisted the images were just him with supporters and their children. Anderson lost that race.
The question hanging over Busse is simple: if you’re running to help everyday people afford a home, why not film your ad in the home you actually own? Authenticity, it seems, is the one thing you can’t stage.
