Photo: Craig Hudson/Variety/Getty Images
The primary question in all matters concerning Melania Trump is “What is she thinking?” The First Lady is an endless font of utterly puzzling behavior. So it’s fitting that at the premiere of her film Melania on Thursday night she stood before the audience and declared, basically, “Ceci n’est pas une documentary.”
“Some have called this a documentary. It is not,” she said. “My film is a very deliberate act of authorship, inviting you to witness events and emotions through a window of rich imagery. It is a creative experience that offers perspectives, insights, and moments that only few have seen.”
How could the Amazon-produced, Brett Ratner–directed film project, which was described from day one as a documentary possibly be anything else?
Surprisingly, after viewing the film, I find Melania’s statement makes sense. Not literally, but in that this collection of random words feels like something ChatGPT might produce if it were asked to describe a behind-the-scenes documentary about the First Lady and the attempt to summarize human emotions and artistic endeavor broke its little AI brain.
The first scene of Melania is jaw-dropping. As the stilettoed, impeccably styled once-and-future First Lady makes her way into a motorcade, we hear the Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shelter.” It’s three weeks before Trump’s return to power, and Mick Jagger is warning of the impending apocalypse. The line “Rape, murder, it’s just a shot away!” blares as we zoom in on Melania. Could it be that Brett Ratner — Brett Ratner, of all people! — duped Melania into making art that actually has something to say about the return of the Trump regime, like Christopher Anderson’s brilliant and grotesque photo shoot for Vanity Fair?
Alas, no. As the film continues, it quickly becomes clear that this needle drop isn’t meant to be subversive. It’s more of a reflection of Donald Trump’s habit of willfully ignoring the meaning of the show tunes and classic rock bangers. Next we’re hit with Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” (way later in the film we learn it’s one of Melania’s favorite songs, but it’s a bizarre soundtrack for her entering Trump Tower). Then the music transitions to “Melania’s Waltz,” a dreamy, looping orchestral theme that was composed for the movie.
We never really leave this hazy, hallucinatory state. Footage of the Secret Service whisking Melania from Mar-a-Lago transitions into scenes of her giving inane directions on the tailoring of her inauguration suit, then blandly expressing her approval for the invitation, schedule, and tableware. It seems all of these design decisions were actually made off-camera, weeks before filming began. We move from a conference room overlooking Central Park to a gilded Mar-a-Lago dining room to the marble hallways of Trump Tower and back again. We’re totally sealed off from fresh air and outside reality. “Melania’s Waltz” plays again and again. It feels like we’re inside a gaudy gold jewelry box, watching a perfect MAGA-tized ballerina spin around and around. We’re trapped — but if Melania ever feels that way there’s no sign of it in this film. There’s not a second where it seems that Melania wants out of this life or has even given her strange circumstances a second of deep thought.
The dialogue has a slightly off quality, too, like Eyes Wide Shut if Kubrick directed hours of Melania B-roll. All of the First Lady’s interactions with other people feel rehearsed or reenacted. She also provides weirdly detached, substance-free narration throughout the film. In one scene, her father is being interviewed, but we don’t hear what he has to say about his late wife; Melania’s bland voice-over drowns him out. Knowing that the First Lady is a huge AI-enthusiast (the audiobook of her memoir is entirely AI-generated), I started wondering if she’d also had some nonhuman help in drafting her narration. She describes Mar-a-Lago as “more than a home. It is warm. Sunshine. Family. Friends.” At one point, we overhear Donald Trump praising their son, Barron. Melania responds robotically, “Yeah, I love him. Incredible mind.”
For one hour and 44 minutes, it feels like we might be on the verge of seeing some actual interesting content. In the back of a limo, someone off-camera (maybe Ratner) coaxes the First Lady into sort-of singing along to “Billie Jean.” Kamala Harris rolls her eyes while waiting to enter Trump’s swearing-in. Melania and Donald start to discuss whether it’s smart to walk down the street during the inauguration, considering he just survived a near assassination. Melania remarks, “Barron will not get out of the car. I respect that,” but then they agree to have the rest of the conversation off-camera. It’s like Melania, who executive-produced the project and had final cut, purposely stripped the film of any real emotions, so it’s all perfectly styled shots, no humanity allowed.
The only reprieve is when Donald Tump appears. Trust me, I never thought I’d be yearning to see more DJT. But the fact that he’s the only Trump onscreen with natural star quality is glaringly obvious, even though he’s unusually low-key throughout the film. All Donald really does is praise Melania as an amazing First Lady, make some quips to staffers, and rant about his stunning electoral victory on the other end of the phone. Yet whenever Trump’s not onscreen, all you’re thinking is Where’s Trump?
Admittedly, I am not really the intended audience here. While many journalists booked tickets in blue-leaning cities and had the theater practically to themselves, I experienced Melania in the belly of the beast (okay, slightly Trump-leaning Suffolk County, Long Island). Literally every seat in the 100-person theater was filled at 1 p.m. on a Friday. Unsurprisingly, the audience was very old, almost exclusively white, and heavily female. They clapped when Trump Force One appeared onscreen, chuckled anytime Donald said anything even mildly amusing, and whooped during the inauguration scene. Though they were silent when the president wasn’t onscreen, I only heard positive reviews as I exited the theater (one person even remarked, “Wow, that was great!”).
But, of course, people paying $17 to see Melania on premiere day are just a small sliver of the eventual audience. As I fought to keep my thoughts from drifting off as Melania fussed over the trim on her Carmen Sandiego hat, I couldn’t help but think of the millions of people who will sit down to watch this film in their own homes whenever it streams on Amazon Prime. Perhaps they’ll be hoping for some insight into the Trump administration, a peek into what it’s like to be Melania, or even just a chuckle. But this movie contains none of those things. It won’t be long before they drift off, lulled to sleep by Melania’s soulless narration.
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