Let me just adjust my diamond-encrusted fainting couch before I begin. Ah, there. So, I recently endured—sorry, experienced—the groundbreaking cinematic journey known as the Melania Trump documentary. Or, as I like to call it, “92 Minutes of Watching a Painted Wall Dry, But with More Emotional Range.”
From the opening shot of Melania gliding down a hallway in slow motion, staring into the middle distance like she’s trying to remember if she left the oven on in a Slovenian apartment she hasn’t seen since 1998, you know you’re in for a treat. The film’s central thesis seems to be: What if Greta Garbo, but with a press office?
The documentary is a masterpiece of saying absolutely nothing with devastating precision. It bills itself as a “revealing portrait,” but the only thing it reveals is that Melania understands the power of a good side-eye better than anyone alive. We are treated to profound insights such as:
· Archival Clip of Her Smiling (Rare): “This shows her warmth.”
· Clip of Her Not Smiling (Common): “This shows her dignified resolve.”
· Clip of Her Breathing: “A study in contemplative existence.”
It’s less a film and more a high-budget, art-directed screensaver for a gold-plated USB drive.
The narrative arc is a thrilling saga of a woman going from “Model Who Likes Money” to “First Lady Who Likes Leaving Rooms.” The climactic scene is a ten-minute segment on the “Be Best” campaign, which the film treats with the gravitas of a UN peace treaty signing, rather than what it felt like: a school poster project assigned to someone who would really, really rather be somewhere else.
The talking heads are a parade of “biographers” and “style analysts” who say things like, “The choice of a white pantsuit here is a clear nod to the suffragette movement, or perhaps it was just really clean.” The film desperately wants you to believe every hat is a metaphor. Honey, sometimes a hat is just a hat you bought to avoid making eye contact with the entire country.
Calling this “fake news” feels too energetic. It’s “Faux-News.” It’s not propaganda; it’s a vanity project so profound it makes Instagram influencers look like humble monks. It’s the cinematic equivalent of that “I REALLY DON’T CARE, DO U?” jacket—a meticulously calculated display of not-caring that required 14 assistants, a stylist, and a PR team to stage.
Final Verdict: 1/10 Florals.
It’s a stunningly beautiful, exquisitely boring, and emotionally barren shrine to the art of self-mythology. I learned nothing, felt nothing, and questioned all my life choices that led me to watch it. It’s the first documentary that made me envy the chair she wasn’t sitting in. A perfect film to have on in the background while you do literally anything else, like alphabetize your spice rack or contemplate the void.
