The Immigrant We Are Asked to Applaud
Donald Trump hates immigrants. This is not a controversial statement; it is a brand pillar. It has been chanted, legislated, and televised. It has been used to make signs reading “Mass Deportations Now” and embroider it onto red hats. And yet—having spent years warning the nation that immigrants are a menace to our nation and even to our civilization—Donald Trump now wishes us to gather politely in darkened theaters to watch a loving cinematic portrait of one.
Not just any immigrant, of course, she is His immigrant.
This is where satire politely steps aside and lets reality sprint naked through the streets. We are told to admire a movie about Melania Trump, a woman who entered the United States not on an Einstein visa (for extraordinary ability), but on what might more accurately be called an Epstein visa—a distinction that history, paperwork, and certain very inconvenient flight logs insist upon making.
MAGA, which has built an entire political theology around interrogating people with accents, demanding your papers, and being tough with people who are not white, is suddenly very relaxed about immigration credentials when the accent belongs to the First Lady.
Naturally, when the film underperforms, Donald Trump will claim the ticket sales were rigged. The cinemas are corrupt. The ushers are probably part of the Deep State. Hollywood, which he despises, is also incompetent for failing to recognize genius. This is the same man who once declared his own rallies to be the largest in history while standing in front of visible emptiness. Why should box office numbers be spared this treatment?
We are assured that the documentary is the greatest documentary ever made. Better than all previous documentaries. Better than documentaries that contain facts. A triumph of vision, courage, and tasteful lighting. Trump has never seen a documentary he didn’t like—as long as it starred him, endorsed him, or could be repurposed as a grievance.
Melania, we are told, believed she possessed the cultural gravity of Michelle Obama. This is not ambition; this is cosplay. Michelle Obama entered history through intellect, discipline, and moral authority. Melania entered through modeling contracts, oligarchs, and an entourage of men whose résumés appear frequently in sealed court filings. And yet the comparison is made with a straight face, because nothing is more American than mistaking proximity to power for substance.
All these years in the United States, and Melania still speaks broken English. That alone is not a crime, nor should it ever be a crime. What is remarkable is the gall of a movement that screams “Speak English!” at brown people while applauding broken English when it comes wrapped in European whiteness and luxury handbags. Accents are apparently only suspicious when they come from the wrong continents.
And then there is the plot twist no one can ignore: a movie about a woman named in the Epstein files, married to a man named in the Epstein files, directed by another man named in the Epstein files. One begins to wonder whether this is a documentary or a genre piece. Call it Six Degrees of Jeffrey Epstein. Anyone detecting a theme here, or is that sound just the floorboards creaking under the weight of coincidence?
If Abraham Lincoln attended this film, he might remark that it was the worst night he ever spent in a theater. .
The real question, however, is this: where was Donald Trump’s MAGA base? The same crowds that pack arenas to chant about immigrants did not appear to celebrate this immigrant. Perhaps the cognitive dissonance was too great. Perhaps even MAGA has limits. Or perhaps they sensed the truth: this was never their story.
And so, having failed to sell this narrative, perhaps the Trumps will pivot to their next project: January 6th: The Musical. A rousing spectacle where the chorus sings “Stop the Steal,” the signature song is “Hang Mike Pence”, and accountability never takes the stage.
Tickets will be mandatory.
Applause will be encouraged.
And if it flops, rest assured—it was rigged.
