I Snuck into the MELANIA Movie (So You Don’t Have To)
The First Lady’s Movie Sucks So Bad It’s Corrupt
On Wednesday, January 28, 2026, Jeff Bezos announced layoffs of 16,000 Amazon employees, in addition to the 14,000 made unemployed in recent months. Two days later, he released the MELANIA movie to flop in theaters. Amazon MGM paid $40 million for the rights (more than double Disney’s $14 million bid), and another $35 million in advertising, but will not make $10 million on its opening weekend. Short of a “miracle,” it will never break even. That money ought to have been spent paying a thousand employees a $75,000 salary for a year.
The only way that shit was anything but a bribe for Mr. Bezos to earn President Donald Trump’s favor would be if the movie were good, good enough that Amazon believed it could be successful. That seems implausible. If it were watchable, interesting, or salient, I could accept that someone tried to make a film that deserved to “break even” with $150 million in sales globally. Otherwise, if it sucked, well, the suction is the corruption. Mr. Bezos was capable of watching MELANIA before releasing it. He could have evaluated whether it was good. It was not. If he thought it was a worthy film, he is the worst judge of quality in Hollywood since HBO bungled A Game of Thrones’ final season. If Mr. Bezos knew it was a bad movie, one he would loathe watching, then the $35 million marketing spend was not intended to sell tickets for a documentary his company’s data likely predicted would fail. I doubt the target audience was the movie-going public, even AMC Stubs A-List members who feel obligated to watch four movies a week. The marketing was a $35 million declaration of fealty, meant to “show support” or “pay tribute.”
I decided to be fair-minded and watch MELANIA myself before accusing Mr. Bezos of bribing the First Family. My instinct was that he did, but it was not impossible that a veteran director like Brett Ratner, who worked on Rush Hour, X-Men, and Red Dragon, could make the story of an immigrant supermodel turned billionaire turned First Lady interesting. Most Intro to Creative Writing students could. He did not.
I thought Mr. Ratner would have tried harder. He was plucked out of cancellation for this project. He had been a pariah to Hollywood since it was exposed that he:
· Masturbated in front of Olivia Munn while holding a shrimp cocktail in one hand,
· Physically forced then-19-year-old actress Natasha Henstridge to perform oral sex,
· Followed women into bathrooms,
· And was known as a creep, sex pest, and serial offender in his industry.
Not good!
But because the president wants a Rush Hour 4, Mr. Ratner was given a second chance with the Trumps, the Ellisons, and Mr. Bezos as his patrons. He ought to be embarrassed that this was the best he could produce for them with unlimited resources. Excellent cinematography, beautiful sound, absolute dogshit movie. As his reward, on the same Friday as the theatrical release, the Trump Administration’s trickle of Epstein files revelations showed photos of Mr. Ratner posing with Jeffrey Epstein and two young women on a couch. What timing!
I am sympathetic that AMC and Regal Cinemas must have felt compelled to show MELANIA, regardless of whether they expected butts in seats, so they did not get singled out for hurting the First Lady’s feelings. Then I remember what they charge for tickets and bottled water, and my compassion recedes.
Looking at showtimes in the greater DC, Maryland, and Virginia area, no theater gave the film an insufficient number of time slots, but most showings were empty. Zero viewers. I found a few screenings with a single other reserved seat, and one with two. (I debated booking a seat behind them for this story, but thought that might be inappropriate if it were a hot “date night.”) Tempting as it would be to watch it alone—one six-foot-tall donkey alone in the theater, free to crunch popcorn and guffaw as loud as I would like, swig “Writer’s Tears” whiskey from a discreet flask—I wanted to see what sort of audiences it attracted. Finally, I found one with twenty-one other people (approximately ten actually showed) at 10 PM on a Saturday. Real biopic hours.
Sadly, it was not really a biopic or documentary. It was, according to reviews, “designer taxidermy, horribly overpriced and ice-cold to the touch and proffered like a medieval tribute to placate the greedy king on his throne.” “gilded trash remake of The Zone of Interest,” “Cheeseball Infomercial of Staggering Inertia,” “a multimillion‑dollar vanity project to inflate the egos of Donald Trump and his spouse,” The Bulwark’s Sonny Bunch called it hagiography, but I think even that oversells it. “The writings of the lives of saints,” after all, include interesting details.
To be clear, I gave no money to this movie. I consider the Trumps as demons sucking America dry. I would never willingly pay them anything. First, I had a strong margarita from a chain Mexican restaurant, then bought a ticket to a one-night showing of The Two Towers Remastered, and then snuck into MELANIA instead. I was surprised that none of the juvenile delinquents smoking outside the mall had the same idea. When I was such a wild-eyed chaos bringer—live fast, die young, fight The Man, et cetera—me and my boys would have gone in jeering until the mall cops trespassed us. But I suppose we were “built different” from the youth of today.
For some reason, the auditoriums were not labeled with the movies that were playing. Was that a new thing, or a special accommodation made to stymie my plan? I was able to find the showing anyway by following the most miserable-looking man in a ratty jacket and ballcap, but the only other evidence I had that I found the right theater was how barren it was.
“Your escape begins now,” an AMC announcer said, before sending us to the world I wanted to escape from.
The movie opened to First Lady Melania Trump’s high heels—a frequent motif. There were an unusual number of shots of her shoes. I wonder why? Did Mr. Ratner recruit the Nickelodeon foot guy, Dan Schneider, for this project? I felt chilled realizing yet more Hollywood predators may get a second life by converting to MAGA Republicanism.
I cannot think of a more uninspired start to this film than the extended shots of Mrs. Trump walking down a hallway, looking stoic, riding in a car, looking stoic, getting into a TRUMP-branded jet, looking stoic, all while “Fly Away” by Lenny Kravitz played. “Fly Away” is a silly pop hit about fleeing to be free with someone you love, leaving everything behind, going to the stars. Here, it indicated she was boarding a plane.
“Everyone wants to know, so here it is. Twenty days in my life.” Mrs. Trump promised the audience. The big question anyone asks about her is: “Where the hell is she?” She is absent, not intriguing. Some assume she and Mr. Trump are separated and only appear together at scripted times. This headcanon was not dispelled by the next song choice: Michael Jackson’s (another sexual predator!) “Billie Jean Is Not My Lover.”
In another scene, Mrs. Trump warmly greets her household staff and tailors in Trump Tower. Quite relatable. I am glad they all get along! She directs them to hem and alter clothes to her specifications—”here it needs to be much tighter,” “straight right here on the side,” “can we do a lapel a little bit bigger or not”—while lecturing the viewer about her “serious design approach,” that “it is important that timeless elegance shines through every element of the Inauguration’s decor, style, and design.” Riveting stuff.
The First Lady is not wrong—history will preserve her image as enabling and presiding over countless horrors, including the recent murders of Renee Good by masked ICE thug Jonathon Ross and Alex Pretti by Border Patrol agent Jesus Ochoa and Customs and Border Protection officer Raymundo Gutierrez, the inhumane treatment of immigrants and children, as well as the 383,050 deaths caused by the dismantling of USAID. She is providing a service to future textbook publishers by ensuring that the graphics are just so.
Mrs. Trump then inspected the stationery for the Inaugural invites and approved the color red for the envelope before moving on to discussing the dinner menu, which included golden eggs and caviar—staples in the diet of the Forgotten Man of America. Has nobody warned her of Marie Antoinette’s poor reputation?
Despite my low expectations, I was disappointed. Instead of showing us her tastes in carpets, tablecloths, brocades, flowers, or dishware, I thought Mrs. Trump could have shown America her depths. Instead, she proved yet again that she could polish her façade. For once, I worried for her—is it worse than that? Is the façade all there is of her, or all she wants to be?
Mrs. Trump described her work during the first Trump presidency, when she “restored the Rose Garden, built the tennis pavilion, redesigned the bowling alley, the Queen’s Bedroom, and ‘upgraded everything.’” Since then, the Rose Garden and the East Wing have been destroyed. I wished the film showed that instead. Both the restoration process and its subsequent demolition would have been a rich, interesting narrative.
Tham Kannalikham, a Laotian‑American interior designer, told Mrs. Trump:
“We came here when I was two, immigrated from Laos. We came here to America because my family wanted opportunities, equality, and everything good about what America represented. And so, this moment signified everything that my parents believed in America.”
The very things Mrs. Trump’s husband seeks to destroy. Mrs. Trump heard Ms. Kannalikham with a stone face, ignored her story, and responded instead by explaining that she wanted the presidential seal engraved on a Slovenian chalice. That was the most striking thing about MELANIA for me, the First Lady’s total disinterest in anything or anybody other than her immediate family and interior decorating. I think if you wanted to convince the American People that there was nothing under Mrs. Trump’s surface, that she was a vacuous solipsist, this is what you would craft.
One scene showed Mrs. Trump taking her husband’s “victory” phone call regarding the electoral certification. Mrs. Trump indicated to her husband that she had not watched it live but would “see it on the news,” and otherwise rushed him off the phone while he appeared to blather. The scene was as embarrassing in the full context of the movie as it was in the trailer. Did Mr. Ratner think this positively portrayed the president? Mr. Trump was rarely on screen, but when he was, he was depicted as a rambling old man whom Mrs. Trump indulged and brushed off. The audience snickered at that. I wonder if Mr. Trump’s Grandpa Simpson-style rambling is even seen as pathetic by his paying fans now.
During footage of former President Carter’s funeral, Mrs. Trump instead monologued about her mother’s death a year prior. Nothing profound or specific, just that she loved and missed her parent. Was it too much to expect she would have something to say about Mr. Carter? It felt tasteless that she seemed impatient to leave one funeral so she could mourn someone who mattered more to her.
Then again, Mrs. Trump did not immigrate to the United States until 1996, fifteen years after Mr. Carter left office. She likely had no real memory of or emotional connection to the 39th president. So why include the footage? I am sensitive about this disrespect because the night before, I had frozen in a four-hour nighttime queue outside the United States Capitol to pay my respects at the late President Jimmy Carter’s viewing. If she had no interest in attending, she could have stayed home.
That same night, Mrs. Trump went back to St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City (with her film crew) to light a candle for her mother, the death she did care about. I cannot tell if Mr. Ratner set the scene to audio of a live choir singing, or if there was a choir physically present but off-screen and singing for only her. While the sound quality was, again, quite excellent, this was an uncomfortable ambiguity. She took a blessing from the priest, then exited to a crowd of fans and her security detail.
This scene astounded me in its total narcissism. I respect that Mrs. Trump grieved for and honored her family. But does a cathedral need to close down so that she can have a personalized and tailored moment for that grief? Is that a paid service, or one only offered as a tribute to the wealthy and powerful? I expect the average New Yorker cannot request such a private ceremony.
You would expect such a sequence to be used to share touching anecdotes. There must have been plenty—Mrs. Trump’s mother, Amalija Knavs, lived in the White House during the first Trump term. A Slovenian First Grandma, one year older than Mr. Trump himself, and staying with the family—now she would have made an excellent movie subject! But all we got were platitudes from the First Lady.
Instead of specific memories or meaningful stories, Mrs. Trump’s voiceover returned with more generic language:
“From a young age, I watched my mother’s hands at work. Her patience and skill taught me that beauty comes from dedication and that even the smallest detail matters…”
Mrs. Trump’s father came on the screen. Finally, a monologue from someone else. He said: “I married my darling Amalija for 57 years.” I pulled up the reclining red leather seat. I was ready to learn his story, but Mrs. Trump’s voiceover rolled overtop of him, and I never got to see what he had to say about his late wife. Her own father’s grief was subordinated to… whatever the hell this is:
“The love my parents shared for over 60 years was the foundation of our home. It shaped me and taught me what lasting love looks like. Everything I am began with them. I cherish all the incredible memories I have of my mother. There are moments that happen every day that remind me of her… My beloved mother was the richest thread in my life, weaving warmth, wisdom, and grace into every moment we share. Mourning the loss of my mother will always remain. The mourning never leaves. It simply lives alongside me.”
Perhaps it would have felt more poignant had those moments made it into the movie. I imagine a freshman Creative Writing professor at the chalkboard, sneering: “Show, do not tell! What warmth? What wisdom? What grace? Show examples. Yes, yes, your protagonist misses her mother, but what does she miss about her specifically? You say moment, moment, moment, but they mean nothing to the audience without an example!”
Another sequence showed Mrs. Trump talking to France’s First Lady Brigitte Macron. They talked about Mrs. Trump’s “Be Best Initiative,” an anti-cyberbullying campaign that never fails to piss me off since her husband is the world’s most notorious practitioner of cyberbullying and a role model to every noxious piece of shit troll online, but I digress. Mrs. Trump said to Mrs. Macron:
“Do you know that in the United States, an average child spends eight hours on the screen? Mental health, anxiety is just growing all around the world because of cyberbullying. I know that you established a cyberbullying initiative. How is that? Is it successful in France? Did it have much success?”
If we were wanted to believe Mrs. Trump’s engagement with world leaders on the topic is meant to yield genuine fruit, Mr. Ratner instead proved her ambivalence. Why would she not ask for a briefing, or even Google, what France had or had not accomplished before starting the call? For that matter, even a low-budget PBS documentary would have included some footage of Mrs. Trump participating in Be Best efforts, at least so the audience knew what the hell they were, instead of rattling factoids.
One quick scene showed Mrs. Trump watching footage of the LA wildfire on FOX. She said, “It is impossible to see these images and not be horrified at the utter devastation and catastrophic loss. I think about the families, the children who have lost everything, the homes, the schools. All the structures no longer exist. It is unimaginable.” She “thinks of the children,” but does not tell their stories. Evil Vizier Stephen Miller, one of her husband’s closest advisors, saw his childhood home destroyed in the blaze. Even that wretch might have earned some pathos. Still, when Mrs. Trump called the wildfire “unimaginable,” her husband mocked, blamed, and stoked conspiracies about the victims and complained about DEI, delta smelts, and Gavin Newsom. While Mrs. Trump talked about sympathy for the victims, her husband caused them more pain.
One strong sequence was Mrs. Trump’s meeting with Aviva Siegel, an Israeli woman who was taken hostage on October 7 and held for 51 days in Gaza. She described being held “underneath the ground… with no food, no water, no oxygen” and her fear for her husband, who was still captive.
Mrs. Trump described that conversation: “Meeting Aviva was very emotional, you don’t forget those people, those people come home with you, and you remember them.”
Glad she remembers people who are experiencing profound suffering?
“My creative vision has reached its final version, exactly as I imagined,” Mrs. Trump said while wearing the infamous Inaugural hat. What all of America asked after the Inauguration was why she intended to dress like Carmen Sandiego, or less charitably, the Benadryl Hat Man, not if that was her intention.
“This is my last flight as a private citizen before stepping back into a very public life. After the inauguration, everything becomes more structured… fewer quiet moments.” The camera followed Mrs. Trump through the palace-like resort and club Mar-a-Lago, the so-called “Winter White House,” which used to send Jeffrey Epstein masseuses “gratis” and where Ghislaine Maxwell recruited Virginia Giuffre and other girls into sex trafficking. Mrs. Trump called it “more than a home,” describing “warm sunshine, family, and friends.” Mrs. Trump explained that between all of her houses, “New York to Palm Beach to Washington, DC, essentially [she] find[s] peace in each location.” No matter which place with paid help she sleeps, she enjoys herself. Most people would be satisfied with that. It reminded me that after Mr. Trump passes, the U.S. government should seize Mar-a-Lago and sell it for architectural salvage as restitution for all that family’s looting of the Treasury.
In one scene where Mrs. Trump appeared with her husband, he interrupted the Inaugural planning to complain about TV coverage: “Why did they have to put the [College Football Playoff National Championship] at the same time [as the Inauguration]? They probably did it on purpose.” Again, snickering in the audience. For the whole movie, we saw Mrs. Trump nitpicking these arrangements, but in a few minutes with Mr. Trump in the room, he derailed everything to gripe about ratings. This gave me a mean-spirited laugh, but I was surprised to hear that same scorn from his supporters.
I wonder now if this were secretly like the scenario the Amazon Washington Post’s Monica Hesse describes, where “There were five of us total in the audience and afterward three of us tried to interview each other and that is when we realized we were all journalists on the job.” I am surprised Mr. Bezos still allows that kind of commentary.
“What a payroll I have. Well, we appreciate the job you do at Mar-a-Lago. It has been fantastic. So, I want to just thank all of you. And remember, the customer is always right.” Mr. Trump said to the Mar-a-Lago staff, while “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” by Tears for Fears played ominously. Such a strange choice. Mrs. Trump must be aware of the public debate over whether her husband aspires to be a fascist or a dictator. Why “lean in”?
I never imagined I would write these words, but whenever The Donald entered a scene, I was relieved. Unlike his stilted wife, even the stupid things he said felt substantial or interesting or, heaven help us, funny. The film made no attempt to give him the same inscrutable dignity as his wife, which made him comic relief in a film that needed it. If this movie had allowed Mrs. Trump a comic sidekick—a snappy assistant, or even her stumbling boor of a husband—scenes could have been saved.
Mrs. Trump and her film crew, along with her husband, Vice President Jim Dave Vance and his wife Usha, and the president’s entourage, visited Arlington Cemetery for a wreath-laying ceremony honoring soldiers who died during the U.S. withdrawal from Afghanistan. Mrs. Trump described the place as “not just a sacred burial ground, it’s the soul of our American soldiers from every generation and every walk of life, forever, together.” A shame that Mr. Trump desecrated it at another wreath-laying ceremony for the same soldiers during the campaign. His advance team member, Michel Picard, and deputy campaign director, Justin Caporale, shouted “get out of the way, you fucking bitch” and assaulted a cemetery employee. The campaign later smeared the employee as “unstable,” “deranged,” and “mentally ill.”
“Each headstone tells a story of courage, of love, of country, and of a life given in service to something greater than oneself: America. It is a powerful reminder that freedom is not free. As First Lady, I carry each of their memories in my heart with humility and gratitude.” Mrs. Trump said about the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Could she recount one? Seems a cheap trick to honor the dead by saying “We honor them!” “Insert honor here!”
On Inauguration Day, Mr. Trump told the staff of Blair House that he “left a [big] tip up there, so whoever goes first.” Great line. Perhaps he could have given it to his wife, so that she could say just one cool thing for her movie. Then again, was there a tip? How big was it? Was it $20? $100? $1,000? A piece of paper that says, “Don’t trust any wooden nickels?”
Another voiceover from Mrs. Trump reminded us she loved her son Barron, felt proud of him, and wished he had a great life. Most parents want that for their kids. Barron had no real speaking roles, except to come out in the Inaugural Parade at the Capital One Arena, smirking while James Brown’s “A Man’s World” played. That felt ominous. For all his mother’s love, the Andrew Tate MRA world that boy is exploring will surely turn him into a new monster if he cannot find his way free. I pray he does. Jonathan V. Last at The Bulwark mentioned that we are approximately ten years out from Barron becoming a “significant public figure,” and it is not too late for him to make himself a good one.
As footage of the Inauguration played, Mrs. Trump’s voiceover continued: “Walking into the Capitol’s Rotunda, I felt the weight of history intertwined with my own journey as an immigrant.” Mrs. Trump’s “journey as an immigrant,” which is interesting, had no part in this movie. However “the weight of history” “intertwin[ing]” with that made her feel, the audience had no way of seeing or understanding. And if it is never possible for the audience to do more than guess at that interplay, why mention it at all? I suspect Mrs. Trump thought these were cool, profound words, but she does not share what they mean to her.
Mrs. Trump also said, “Everyone should do what they can to protect our individual rights. Never take them for granted. Because in the end, no matter where we come from, we are bound by the same humanity.” Fuck her. These are not bad values—I share them—but it is because I share those values that I had to sit through this garbage in my hunt for whatever insights will end this authoritarian regime. She supports her husband in assaulting individual rights and disrespecting the “same humanity” of people in America precisely because of “where [they] come from.”
“Here we go again!” Mrs. Trump said to the camera before entering the Inauguration ceremony at the Capitol Rotunda. Cute line. Were it not in the trailer, I might have chuckled. By now, it was already a cliche.
“My proudest legacy will be that of peacemaker and unifier.” Mr. Trump said, and in my theater, the audience’s laughter was uncomfortable. Mr. Trump will not have that legacy. Not after invading Venezuela, bombing Iran, and threatening to take Greenland from Denmark by force. The camera cut away from the inaugural address to yet another scene of Mrs. Trump walking, as if her attention migrated elsewhere. She hates his ass, doesn’t she?
I expected a hagiography. This was less than that. A story that shows no conflict, no challenge, no gravity, no friction, just a woman looking her best and inspecting décor, making careful plans that come exactly into fruition because of the dedication and hard work of her employees. Every opportunity for something more interesting was denied.
January 20, 2025, the second Trump Inauguration, is among the worst dates in American history, alongside Pearl Harbor, 9/11, and the damnable January 6 insurrection. I expected that reliving it in the context of the last year would make me want out of my skin. Instead, I was bored. Mrs. Trump’s affect is so dull I cannot even muster hate and contempt for her. I could feel more anger for a mannequin.
“[Inauguration Day] was so rich with meaning and [] each moment was historic and filled with purpose.” Mrs. Trump gushed. They forgot to show that meaning. Instead, all the audience learned was her tastes in aesthetics, which were already visible. “I will move forward with purpose and of course with style.” We saw the style, not the purpose. As the movie rambled to its ending, there was one quick scene of Mrs. Trump smiling and doing a little YMCA dance while looking at the camera. It occurred to me that it might have been the one real flash of personality visible in the nearly two hours. After all that, there could be something below Mrs. Trump’s surface that we will never see. So, what did they (try) to charge me $20 for?
In the closing moments, a montage of First Lady portraits were presented before the film cut to a photo of Mrs. Trump modeling for her own, where she notoriously looked like a “boss bitch” on the cover of a business paperback nobody would buy at a hotel FedEx Office.
The credits rolled and the lights came up. Everybody seemed exhausted, not buzzing with patriotic fervor or happiness. I was the only one who stayed through the credits, perhaps expecting a Marvel-style “stinger.” The credits opened with text factoids about Mrs. Trump’s “accomplishments” and how she is “redefining the role of America’s First Lady”—details that would have been included in a more worthy movie—before showing the names of the poor souls who had to work on this.
If Mr. Ratner wanted me to leave this movie thinking that Mrs. Trump seriously wanted to improve the lives of children, he failed. If he wanted me to leave thinking that Mrs. Trump understood the weight of American leadership, he failed. If he wanted me to leave thinking she cared about this country’s political traditions, history, or freedoms, he failed. If all he wanted me to know was that Mrs. Trump dresses well and can plan event space on an unlimited budget, then this dull fucking waste of time did not need $75 million in funding.
Because it sucks, MELANIA was a corrupt bribe. Mr. Bezos ought to resign from Amazon in disgrace for this, and from his own pocket, surrender the $75 million so that the company can rehire every single person laid off whose salary could have been paid with the money thrown away on this nonsense. He will not, of course, but he should consider finding some way to mitigate the shame this brings on himself, Amazon, and America.