If you’ve lost your mind, have no taste or scruples, and plan to waste your hard-earned money to see the new Melania Trump documentary, you should be ashamed of yourself.
But should morbid curiosity win out, may I suggest stopping at an off-the-rack store to purchase a knockoff of the UFO hat Melania wore to her husband’s inauguration, then pulling it low to preserve anonymity as you slip into your seat. No one should know you willingly participated in this gilded F-U to America and its working class.
You will see only what Melania wants you to see — and that is the same glossy illusion she’s been selling for years. Chilly, aloof, stuck-up, untouchable. Above it all. Put plainly, a bitchy snob.
This film is no interrogation of its subject, which is the point of documentaries. It doesn’t reveal her authentic self, another core objective of the form. It does not document public service, because there is none. It merely worships its subject. All it really documents is the business of being rich while married to an infantile, uncouth, deeply disturbed, narcissistic, obese, simple-minded wannabe dictator.
Set in the 20 days leading up to Donald Trump’s macabre 2025 inauguration, the film obsesses over designers, styling sessions, and monetizing the First Lady brand. Viewers are treated to endless couture fittings of Adam Lippes looks that cost thousands upon thousands of dollars.
Meanwhile, while Melania wraps herself in finery, millions of Americans struggle to afford groceries, rent, health care, and basic clothing that isn’t custom-made.
This is a celebration of wealth. Think about Trump’s inauguration, its attendant billionaires: Tim Cook, Elon Musk, Mark Zuckerberg, Jeff Bezos. A who’s who of obscene male wealth, all nuzzled beneath Melania’s alien hat.
Where were the MAGA faithful? Banished. Relegated to the basement. Because Melania can’t bear to be in the same room. If they show up for this film, they are farther gone than we could ever imagine.
Melania Trump has never given a rat’s ass about the MAGA masses. She doesn’t campaign in red states. She doesn’t shake hands in diners. She doesn’t glad-hand ropelines. She doesn’t slog through town halls or even feign interest in her husband’s rambling, racist rallies.
She has no idea what a grocery store receipt looks like, what a paycheck feels like, or how much health care costs. She avoids the lowly with thinly veiled contempt. This documentary only reinforces that disdain.
This film is not for them. Nor is it for us, struggling to make ends meet. It is for the elite, by the elite, a cinematic middle finger to anyone not living the lifestyle of the undeservedly rich and famous.
The closest thing to “substance” in Melania’s White House life is her farcical “Be Best” initiative, meant to encourage kids to excel. This, from someone to whom kindness and generosity is as foreign as her accent? Do we see her touring schools? Sitting with families? Doing the grinding, unglamorous work of advocacy? Of course not. What we see is a woman enriching herself.
Remember the jacket she wore in 2018 that read, “I really don’t care, do you?”? It still fits. The only thing Melania Trump cares about is money. More money. Even more money, on top of that.
Which brings us to the grotesque excess of the film itself. The documentary isn’t just a prestige project. It’s a cash cow. A reported $75 million exercise in kissing the rotund ass of her husband, courtesy of Bezos and Amazon.
It’s a reminder that for the Trumps, public office is never public service. It’s grift. Always has been. Always will be.
Melania reportedly pocketed nearly $250,000 just to appear at a Log Cabin Republicans fundraiser. A fundraiser. She sought another quarter-million for an interview tied to her poorly reviewed book.
That grift was on full display at last week’s black-tie White House film screening, a spectacle so tone deaf it bordered on insanity. As the country reeled from the killing by federal agents of 37-year-old ICU nurse Alex Pretti, in Minneapolis, the Trumps rolled out the red carpet for tech CEOs in tuxedos.
The callous Melania was pissed off Pretti overshadowed her big night. The nerve of a lowly nurse, stealing her lamentable limelight.
Same story at the Kennedy Center premiere on Thursday night. A parade of sycophants and lackeys, some likely attending under duress. No one is buying tickets for this cinematic s–t-show. Though of course, Donald will find a way to call his wife’s flagrant flop a hit.
Adding to the rot is the director, Brett Ratner, exiled from directing for 12 years after multiple respected figures — Olivia Munn, Natasha Henstridge and Elliot Page among them — accused him of sexual harassment, assault, and misconduct.
He denied it, of course. Perhaps the point of his comeback film is to launder reputations, hers and his. Melania does seem to enjoy surrounding herself with men battered by sexual misconduct allegations.
First lady? Ha! She avoids the White House when possible, preferring the vulgar luxury of Mar-a-Lago or her Trump Tower mansion in the sky. She sells access. She demands obscene appearance fees. She controls the narrative. And she wants you to pay to be lied to.
The truth is beneath that infamous inauguration hat, an ice-cold, supercilious highbrow who does not care about you, your life, your bills, or your struggles.
And frankly, she doesn’t care if you do her the favor of seeing her film. She already got what she wanted: nearly $30 million. The only people doing her favors are billionaires like Bezos, eager for tax breaks from her husband.
So don’t see it. Don’t reward it. Don’t talk about it, unless you’re dragging it online. For God’s sake, stay away.
- John Casey was most recently Senior Editor, The Advocate, and is a freelance opinion and feature story writer. Previously, he was a Capitol Hill press secretary, and spent 25 years in media and public relations in NYC. He is the co-author of LOVE: The Heroic Stories of Marriage Equality (Rizzoli, 2025), named by Oprah in her "Best 25 of 2025.”
