‘Melania’ proves First Lady is the last person who should have made a movie about her life

The film “Melania” includes “desperate attempts to show the First Lady’s human side, or at least locate it.”

Movie fans desperate for a romantic comedy need look no further than “Melania.”

No other love story could ever compete with Melania Trump’s tender devotion to Melania Trump — or be quite so wickedly, if unintentionally, hilarious.

The film is billed as a documentary, of course, but that’s unfair. I’m not even sure you could call it a film. It’s mostly a pretend home movie, a carefully staged behind-the-scenes look at Melania Trump’s preparation for her husband’s second inauguration — which, when the film begins, is less than three weeks away.

But truly, the best way to describe “Melania” is … well, if not an out-and-out bribe, then a colossal favor from Jeff Bezos’ Amazon Prime to the Trump family. The streamer spent $40 million buying the project from its subject, who produced and narrates; another $35 million was earmarked for publicity and marketing.

Which is fitting, because the entire 104-minute production is nothing but publicity and marketing for the Melania brand, whatever that is.

Lots of shots of her striding around in impossibly high heels. Endless scenes of her huddling with designers as she approves gowns, dishes, glassware, invitations. Startling closeups of her narrowing her eyes and giving a supermodel squint that could freeze even Zoolander in his tracks.

Of course, Melania Knauss never was a true supermodel; just another leggy, often unclothed émigré, playing to an aging American male’s fantasy of “exotic” European beauty. Her iconic status is merely one of the myths pushed here, along with her mother being a fashion designer (she was reportedly a pattern maker who worked on children’s clothes) or Melania having seriously studied architecture (she dropped out after a few months).

So the movie, like a lot of Trump World, is factually challenged. Ethically dubious, too. What director would take on the job of making a film about a subject who writes (or, at least, approves) the narration? Who clearly has final cut?

Ah, well, let me re-introduce you to Brett Ratner, the filmmaker who made millions directing a string of bad-boy action pictures, including the “Rush Hour” series. Then he got cancelled when a string of actresses accused him, on the record, of all sorts of sexually inappropriate behavior. So he was perfect for the material, considering he already had a familiarity with the moral universe of Donald Trump.

(Ratner recently announced the development of “Rush Hour 4,” so clearly “Melania” is a kind of comeback for him. In the way the acid reflux I fought watching it was a comeback for my lunch.)

Melania Trump in “Melania.”

Admitted, the film looks good — among the three credited cinematographers is Dante Spinotti, who has done wonderful work for director Michael Mann. It is also sharply edited (Ratner began his career by directing music videos) and scored (although the music is often wildly inappropriate).

But what is the point, really, of any of this? There is no conflict, no drama, no energy. Although we are told that Melania Trump only has 20 days to finish planning several elaborate inaugural balls, it is clear that the menus have already been worked out, the gowns already stitched. Mostly it’s just scene after scene of her being presented with the finished work and then nodding, or making a small correction.

Do you know how tedious it can be to pick out wedding invitations and place settings? Now imagine a movie about watching a stranger approve ones she’s already chosen.

Occasionally we slip away from displays of ugly Slovenian crystal, or the fitting of Melania Trump’s infamous “Hamburglar hat,” in desperate attempts to show the First Lady’s human side, or at least locate it. But this soon backfires.

She breaks into a smile at a memorial service at Arlington National Cemetery. She attends Jimmy Carter’s funeral, but instead of saying anything about the deceased, she goes on and on about how much she still mourns her mother’s death, 12 months later. She then turns her grief into a photo op, having St. Patrick’s Cathedral open up just for her so she (accompanied by her camera crew) can light a candle.

Note, by the way, that our Catholic First Lady doesn’t bother to cross herself when she enters the church, or kneel or even genuflect after she is walked up to the altar. As an old parochial school survivor, I was surprised, and wondered if she was thinking of church-averse Jan Sterling’s line in “Ace in the Hole”: “Kneeling bags my nylons.”

But then I doubt Melania Trump looks at a lot of classic noir. I doubt she looks at a lot of anything, apart from her own reflection, or — occasionally — the portraits of First Ladies on the White House walls. I’m sure she is already measuring herself against them, favorably. After all, as the film asserts, part of her mission is “elevating the role of the First Lady” (take that Eleanor Roosevelt, you simpering piece of arm candy).

I tried to go into this film with an open mind (although once it began with shots of Melania Trump leaving Mar-a-Lago and boarding a private jet to the strains of “Gimme Shelter,” I could feel my generosity waning). And to be fair, the audience I saw it with seemed to enjoy it. The small theater was about half full, and although there were vague grumbles — interestingly, whenever Trump himself appeared onscreen, usually to brag or complain — they applauded politely at the end.

But this film wasn’t really made for them, or even the most rabid MAGA cultists. It was made for Melania.

Will it finally get her the affection of regular Americans? Will it finally elevate her to Jackie Kennedy status, still the ne plus ultra of elegant, graceful, sophisticated first ladies? Will it finally win her that most coveted prize of all — getting back on the cover of Vogue?

I really don’t care, do you?

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