The usher barely glanced at my ticket, a flicker of disinterest in his eyes as I entered the West London cinema on a grey Friday morning. I cautiously inquired about the turnout for the film, and his small shake of the head spoke volumes. “The media said Melania was going to be big,” he offered, a hint of skepticism coloring his words, “so far, not really.”
A strange quiet hung over the foyer, a stark contrast to the usual pre-movie buzz. It wasn’t the bustling crowd I’d anticipated for a film generating such controversy, a behind-the-scenes look at the life of the former First Lady. Yet, the emptiness felt… unsettling, as if a silent judgment had already been cast.
The film’s origins were already raising eyebrows. It felt less like entertainment and more like a calculated move – a $40 million acquisition by Amazon, followed by a $35 million marketing push, seemingly designed to appeal to a very specific, and powerful, audience.
The sheer financial investment was staggering. Melania herself was reportedly set to earn $28 million. Adding to the complexity, the director, a figure returning to Hollywood after facing serious allegations, had joined a private White House screening, fueling speculation about the film’s true purpose.
Reports surfaced of crew members attempting to remove their names from the credits, and ticket sales across the Atlantic were described, diplomatically, as “soft.” I was about to experience that firsthand. Screen 18, a small room seating barely twenty, was almost entirely empty when I arrived.
A lone man entered, radiating an unwillingness to engage. He was soon followed by two middle-aged women, who confessed they’d been drawn in by a trailer after seeing another film. “And you never really hear from her, do you?” one mused, “I almost wonder if she believes any of what Trump says?” A journalist, notepad in hand, completed the small gathering.
This was the audience for the grand premiere. The film itself, however, proved to be a peculiar experience. It felt like wading through “50 Shades of Beige,” a strange blend of the mundane and the bizarre. The opening scenes showcased a lavish private plane, complete with a Trump bobblehead dressed as The Terminator, set to the soundtrack of Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean.”
The film meticulously presented Melania as a woman of precision, obsessed with detail. One scene showed her and the director painstakingly rehearsing karaoke, a bizarre interlude in an otherwise sterile portrayal. Her focus was on aesthetics, on crafting the perfect image, a world away from genuine emotion.
Trump himself was largely absent, an unsurprising omission given Melania’s apparent preference for visual perfection. Their interactions were limited to phone calls, one-sided monologues from Trump boasting about his own greatness. Their relationship felt distant, marked by occasional, perfunctory hand-holding.
Melania spoke of her desire to redefine the role of First Lady, to champion causes like cyberbullying through her “Be Best” campaign. The irony wasn’t lost on me – a campaign focused on protecting children, led by the wife of a man implicated in the Epstein files. It was a jarring dissonance that permeated the entire film.
The 108 minutes left me with more questions than answers. Was Melania willfully ignorant of her husband’s excesses, or simply… oblivious? The film offered no insight, no genuine understanding of the woman behind the carefully constructed facade.
This wasn’t an exercise in truth or morality; it was propaganda, pure and simple. Jeff Bezos’ prominent presence throughout the film – his face appearing in numerous shots – served as a stark reminder of the underlying motivations. It was a business deal, a calculated attempt to curry favor with a powerful figure, and a troubling display of corporate influence.
The film was, quite simply, bad. Vacuous, empty, and devoid of any emotional resonance. As the credits rolled, one of the women beside me summed it up perfectly: “That’s two hours I won’t get back.” And she was right. It would take far longer than mere hours to erase the lingering impression of this beige, hollow vanity project.
