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Melania Is the Nightmare End Point of Celebrity Docs

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Melania Is the Nightmare End Point of Celebrity Docs

This is what we get for putting up with all those subject-approved portraits of famous people.
Photo: Amazon

We did this to ourselves. Not the second Trump presidency, though our representative democracy, however flawed, would hold that that’s on us as well. It’s Melania I’m talking about, the film about Slovenian-American fashion model turned First Lady Melania Trump, which arrived in theaters yesterday on a wave of infamy. Melania — made by Brett Ratner, a Hollywood hack who hasn’t directed since 2014 due to multiple allegations of sexual assault that emerged at the height of the MeToo movement — attracted a lot of attention for the $40 million that distributor Amazon paid for it, an unprecedented amount for a documentary even before you take into account that the company spent almost as much again on marketing. That eye-popping price looked less like an investment and more like a hefty tribute offered up to a corrupt strongman. Melania doesn’t stand a chance of making that amount back at the box office, but it doesn’t need to. It could play to thousands of empty houses all weekend and still be a success by the perverse metrics that led to its production.

The theater at my Union Square multiplex last night was maybe 40 percent full, and judging from the bursts of applause and occasional jeers, the crowd was made up with as many Donald Trump fans as hate watchers. This shouldn’t have come as any sort of surprise. Melania, which tracks its subject over the 20 days leading up to the 2025 inauguration, isn’t a MAGA screed arriving with raised middle fingers aimed at everyone who isn’t ready to get on board with its gilt-rimmed regime — though it can’t resist a few digs at the outgoing Biden administration by way of shots of a dazed-looking Joe and an exasperated Kamala Harris. Its aims are quieter and more insidious. Instead of leaning into the political, it insistently takes the form of a glossy celebrity documentary, a genre that’s become omnipresent and that we’ve been increasingly primed to accept even though it often consists of brand building exercises masquerading as movies. (The Beckham family docs, Lady Gaga or Selena Gomez’s projects, Arnold.) It attempts to enshrine Melania as the kind of figure everyone is so desperate to get more of that they’d endure this extravagantly boring experience made up of endless treks from black car to private plane to meeting to black car.

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“Everyone wants to know, so here it is,” Melania says at the start of Melania, kicking off a wooden narration full of awkward platitudes. This is a fascinatingly bold claim from a woman who showed no discernible signs of public personality throughout her husband’s first term in office, and whose legacy from that period consists mainly of goth Christmas decor and a confoundingly named public interest campaign with aims no one she meets with on screen appears to understand. And what, precisely, does everyone want to know? That Melania has very exacting taste in blouse necklines? That she loves white and gold as a color combination? That she’s a fan of Michael Jackson? This is the sort of previously forbidden knowledge that Melania deigns to let us in on. There’s a formula here, one that’s been ingrained into us by countless hours of accepting hagiographic movies and series offering subject-approved glimpses into the private selves of various famous people. These properties make promises about unprecedented access, but of course, everything we see is highly controlled and mediated, and in exchange for overlooking that fact, we’re treated to a few carefully doled out instances of real vulnerability.

That’s the bargain Melania nominally tries to strike as well, though it’s unable to offer convincing proof that there is anything going on beneath Melania’s impeccably manicured surface. Her voiceover is a numbing litany of meaningless observations and claims like “For me, it’s important that timeless elegance shines through every element of the inauguration’s decor, style, and design.” She is never seen in anything less than full hair and makeup, and she appears to only be capable of two facial expressions — a professional smile and a neutral face. At one point, Ratner shoots her watching news of the Los Angeles fires, and zooms in on her eyes as though he could create visible emotion there through sheer force of will.

Ratner, who never appears on screen, does sometimes speak up behind the camera, and during one especially surreal moment, goads Melania into singing along to “Billie Jean” with him during a car ride with desperation that speaks to how little workable material he realizes that he’s getting. An attempt to humanize the First Lady by showcasing her grief over the loss of her mother the year before instead ends up feeling mystifyingly unconvincing, maybe because the scene in which Melania visits St. Patrick’s Cathedral to light a candle is so slickly filmed that it looks like a commercial. When one of the priests offers Melania a blessing, she accepts with the exact tone someone would use when offered a warm towel on an airplane.

The gap between Melania’s insistently anodyne tone and what’s happened in the year since it was filmed can become downright vertiginous, especially when Melania intones observations about her immigrant journey and how “everyone should do what they can to protect our individual rights.” But the people who’ll seek out Melania aren’t going to care about how distant it is from or contradictory it is to our brutal realities, or care about how little it delivers in terms of manufactured intimacy. Because the sort of celebrity documentary that Melania has been made in the image of aren’t made for general audiences — they’re made for fans who treat the experience of viewing them as another act of devotion to their idols.

Melania can’t, despite its efforts, make its subject look like the movie star it tries to pretend she is, but she’s not the reason people will buy tickets. They’ve come to see her husband, who saunters in occasionally and, I hate to admit it, considerably livens up the proceedings because he knows how to play to a camera. There’s small consolation to the fact that Trump, who’s posted about having seen the movie twice, surely finds it as tedious an experience as I did. Melania has been described as having an audience of one, but that intended viewer’s taste runs more toward Ratner’s earlier work, and Rush Hour 4 is going to be a lot harder to manifest than this vanity project.

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‘I Love Boosters’ Film Review – Capitalism is the Real Surrealist State

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‘I Love Boosters’ Film Review – Capitalism is the Real Surrealist State

Surrealism is not my favorite film genre, but I will make a massive exception if it’s in the hands of Boots Riley. Not unlike his debut, Riley’s latest feature, I Love Boosters, is a weird, vibrant, funny, thoughtful, hopeful thesis on collective action and workers’ rights. At a time when satire is almost impossible (an episode of The Boys where the key villain announced that he was God aired just days after the president of the United States posted an AI meme of himself as Jesus), Riley manages to create something just bonkers enough actually feels like it has something to say, and is bright and colorful enough to demand your attention.

Corvette (Keke Palmer) is struggling to get where she wants to be in life, so poor that she’s squatting in a closed chicken restaurant. She and her friends, Sade (Naomi Ackie) and Mariah (Taylour Paige), steal clothes from the high-end boutique Metro and resell them at a lower price to people in their community. As part of their desire to get better at boosting, the three take jobs at Metro, hoping to figure out how to clear out an entire store.

But one day, while they are being reprimanded by Grayson for wearing last year’s Metro line from designer Christie Smith (Demi Moore), they leave the meeting to discover that someone has beaten them to emptying the store. They track down Jianhu (Poppy Liu), a Chinese woman who has a teleporting device that allows her to send the clothes back to China, where they are manufactured, hoping to force Christie to give them better wages and safer working conditions. They realize that they need to work together if they are going to see the changes they are striving for.

Also, LaKeith Stanfield plays a character who is so sexy, I can never watch this movie with my family.

At a time when so many trailers give away the entire movie, I Love Boosters is so wholly unique that if someone explained every plot point to you, you would still need to see it in order to fully grasp everything happening on screen. Like Corvette’s full-to-bursting pink tracksuit, this movie is stuffed with ideas and colors and characters, but it somehow all manages to stay together, creating an absolute feast for your eyes and ears.

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The performances in this are absolutely spectacular from top to bottom. Keke Palmer sparkles, even as we see her running away from a literal ball of her problems. Demi Moore gets to play the opposite side of her role in The Substance, this time as the person trying to amass more wealth at the expense of those beneath her, primarily other women, and she tears it up. Don Cheadle is almost unrecognizable as Dr. Jack, a man Sade idolizes for his Friends Being Friendly pyramid scheme. Will Poulter is absolutely hilarious as Grayson, a Metro manager who has fully embraced everything Christie Smith is selling.

One thing you can glean from the trailer is the film’s overall look. Christie works in monochrome, so each location is filled with a single color. But even so, the colors are bright, not like the relentless desaturation that we are cursed with right now. Even when we are taken to the sweatshops in China, everything is bright and colorful. We are drenched in color and unique styles in I Love Boosters, but it is always singular, which is a fascinating way to show the uniformity that is often the hallmark of a hyper-capitalist society that is torn between conformity and individuality.

What makes this movie special is that in the midst of all of the hilarity, bright-but-monochromatic costuming, and a sex demon, there lies a deep philosophical examination of capitalism through the lens of dialectical materialism. This complex ideology isn’t dumbed down in any way, but is instead told to us through a magical device that is able to show us the world beneath the glitz and glamor of the fashion world. And sometimes what is underneath the literal skin of some of the people seeking to prop up the system as it is.

There are some issues with this film that don’t quite come together. The whole LaKeith Stanfield arc is very funny, but doesn’t quite fit with the rest of the movie. Taylour Paige is fantastic in her role, but there is more depth between Sade and Corvette, leaving less for Paige’s Mariah to do. But the messiness is so minor compared to the rest of I Love Boosters that it tends to get swept away in the maximalist filmscape that Riley has created.

Throughout the movie, Christie Smith has a lot to say about creating art and how her clothes allow people to become art themselves. At one point, someone tells her that people don’t want to be art, they want to make art. And that feels very much at the heart of this film. Most people want to create something beautiful that helps their community, but are constantly chased by the pressure to simply survive. To put a roof over your head, food on the table, clothes on your back. I Love Boosters says this dream is possible, but we might have to significantly change how we look at things and recognize that we’re stronger together than apart.

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I Love Boosters is now in theaters.

Learn more about the film at the IMDB site for the title.

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Movie Review: Beware the “Backrooms” of Your Worst Nightmares

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Movie Review: Beware the “Backrooms” of Your Worst Nightmares

Here’s a thriller that Maurice Escher could have production designed, with Salvador Dalí decorating the sets and Stanley Kubrick behind the camera directing.

Not that Youtube phenom turned horror filmmaker Kane Parsons is the new Kubrick. But in turning his “Backrooms” found footage horror video series into a feature film, he and his production designer Danny Vermette (“Longlegs”) and art director Alan Derksen summon up not just cinematic horror imagery of the past, but of the most disturbing painters in the canon.

A visual essay in the sinister possibilities of a minimalist unknown becomes something deeper with nightmarish echoes of Heironymous Bosch and Dalí pasted on a yellow on yellow settings that could have been inspired by Mondrian.

This summer’s “Blair Witch Project” horror phenomenon is about a stressed, divorced furniture store owner who stumbles into an alternate reality by stepping through the walls of the basement of his bland ’90s surburban warehouse store.

Clark (Chiwetel Ejiofor, bringing the “real”) never seems to have any customers, which only adds to the bitter edge his drinking has taken on.

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“Cap’n Clark’s Ottoman Empire” is a badly-named “cheap particle board” furniture warehouse store which Clark tries to advertise with DIY commercials of himself dressed as a furniture pirate. The whole “pirate” or “sultan” branding doesn’t work and even his young dead-end employees (Lukita Maxwell and Finn Bennett) get that they don’t “get it.”

It’s only with his therapist (Renate Reinsve of “Sentimental Value” and “The Worst Person in the World”) that Clark gets into the reasons for his anger. He lost his house in a divorce to his perpetual law-student wife.

“I hurt people,” he confesses. “It’s just the way I”m wired.”

Role-playing the “big fight” that ended his marriage doesn’t help, and we wonder if published author Dr. Mary has a clue about how to get Clark “forging a new path” to better mental health.

The dude’s sleeping in his furniture store, after all. He’s got almost nowhere to go but up. But will he?

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Something about this yellow wallppaper and yellowish carpet milieu of vast rooms, empty sections, cubicles with no one in them, wonky wiring and PA and CCTV systems gives him and us as viewers the creeps.

Poking around in the basement has him poking a wall because he hears something, and then freaking out when his arm and indeed his entire body go right through it.

Horror films that cast really good actors are the ones that manage the proper level of “This can’t be happening” shock and awe at what transpires. Clark absorbs the shock. Then he “explores” this beyond-the-basement-wall realm — mysterious piles of what looks like furniture, but “make no sense” as chairs or desks or what have you.

Half-buried manikin parts protrude, Dalí style, out of the floor. An advertising standee with a pirate on it chirps away greetings in a parade of languages. Walls recede into some pointed forced perspective and shafts and tunnels present themselves to Clark, who knows there’s someone or something in there with him. It’s just that he can’t help but come back.

Trying to explain to his therapist this “New York Subway System…massive” maze of rooms and corridors gets him nowhere. And rounding up his two employees to join him for this “expedition” to video what they find seems a mistake. It always is.

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“Backrooms” is primarily a triumph of horrific tone, with a handful of grim and gruesome shocks to sate viewers who like their horror violent and bloody.

The look and the psychological mystery at the heart of it feed into the chill that sets in early and rarely leaves your mind. Horror conventions such as a character being snatched out of the frame and “Slenderman” like figures — and a dwarf — are tucked into this “Everything Everywhere All at Once” universe of an underworld.

The finale is entirely too conventional and pat to fit the general weirdness of all that’s preceded it. And as we ponder the puzzle what connects these people to that place — literal or mental — we have to consider what indie cinema icon Mark Duplass might be playing and what Reinsve is getting at as we see and hear her struggle to emote or even hit the right word emphasis in sentences in English.

But Ejiofor is the casting coup here, an actor who buys in and makes us join him as he utters even the most exhausted lines in horror — “Look, I know this sounds crazy.” Because it is. Until it starts to make sense, almost in spite of all the over-explaining that dominates the closing scenes.

Rating: R, violence, profanity

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Cast: Chiwetel Ejiofor, Renate Reinsve and Mark Duplass.

Credits: Directed by Kane Parsons, scripted by Will Soodik, based on the Kane Parsons video series. An A24 release.

Running time: 1:50

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About Roger Moore

Movie Critic, formerly with McClatchy-Tribune News Service, Orlando Sentinel, published in Spin Magazine, The World and now published here, Orlando Magazine, Autoweek Magazine

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Film Review: “Pressure” – MediaMikes

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Film Review: “Pressure” – MediaMikes

 

  • PRESSURE
  • Starring:  Brendan Fraser, Andrew Scott and Kerry Condon
  • Directed by:  Anthony Maras
  • Rated:  R
  • Running time:  1 hr 40 mins
  • Focus Features

 

Our score:  3.5 out of 5

 

On the most recent episode of our “Back in the Day” podcast the crew and I took a look at some of the greatest war movies ever made.  In doing my research I learned that there have been more then 5,000 feature films dealing with World War II alone.  5,000!!  Some of them are regarded as some of the best films ever made (The Best Years of Our Lives, Patton, Schindler’s List, Saving Private Ryan) while others I’d never seen.  As Memorial Day rolls along this year we are treated to another one:  Pressure.

 

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The film opens on the aftermath of what can only be called a horrible tragedy.  Overlooking the carnage, General Dwight D. Eisenhower (Fraser) can only curse.

Jump ahead six months where we meet British meteorologist James Stagg (Scott).  Awaiting the birth of his child, he is summoned to meet with Eisenhower and his staff to forecast the weather conditions that will be taking place during an operation they are calling “D-Day.”  Stagg continually butts heads with Colonel Krick (Chris Messina), whose method of predicting future weather from past events is not a practice Stagg embraces.  The two continually clash, much to the chagrin of an increasingly agitated Eisenhower.  Doing her best to keep the peace is Lieutenant Kay Summersby (Condon), Eisenhower’s aide and buffer.  It’s not an easy job.

 

Well presented with an outstanding attention to detail, Pressure could be looked at as the prequel to Saving Private Ryan, which opens with the invasion of Normandy, while this film looks at the events leading up to that day.  The cast is strong, with Fraser at his best when going head to head with British General Bernard Montgomery (Damian Lewis), whose “gung – ho” attitude robs Ike the wrong way.  It doesn’t help that “Monty” keeps referencing that, unlike others, he has battlefield experience.  He also throws “Exercise Tiger,” easily Eisenhower’s worse military chapter, out when it suits him.  (NOTE:  For those unaware, Exercise Tiger was basically a practice run for D-Day, with young soldiers taking place in a military exercise.  However, due to poor communications, live ammunition was used and nearly 1,000 soldiers and seamen were killed.)

 

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The film has it’s dramatic moments but it’s also anti-climactic because, while they continually stress that the invasion will take place on June 5th, anyone with any knowledge of history knows D-Day was June 6th.  So when Ike asks if everything is good for June 5th, you want to shake your head and tell him “no, sir.”

 

That doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy the film.  I did.  When I was born, Eisenhower was president – JFK would be elected two months later.  And it was a genuine treat to be sitting in the theatre with some of Eisenhower’s great grandchildren.  It lent a nice historical aspect to the screening.

 

On a scale of zero fo five, Pressure receives ★  ½

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