The Man Who Would Be Bling

Donald John Trump, a man so imbecilic and profane in his every aspect that if he did not actually exist in real life could never be remotely believable as a fictional character, would – you would think – make a mouthwatering prospect for a biopic were it not for his current horrifyingly inescapable malignancy at the heart of public consciousness. It’s against this febrile backdrop that Ali Abbasi’s The Apprentice delivers a glossy, larger-than-life portrait of “The Donald”, a young man whose hunger for power and fame is matched only by his ability to bend the truth to fit his ambitions. Directed with a slick hand, the film showcases the highs and lows of Trump’s rise, all while maintaining a superficial glamour that feels very like the man himself – a morbidly watchable gold-plated car crash of entitlement and tastelessness.

Visually, the film is dominated by a grandiose sense of opulence, with towering skyscrapers, gilded interiors, and sharp business suits painting a picture of unrelenting success. The cinematography leans heavily into wide, symmetrical shots, emphasising Trump’s dominance in every scene, almost as if the world itself revolves around him. There’s a cute gimmick in the frequent use of grainy 1970s and 1980s resolution footage, which adds a sense of nostalgia and places the character’s origins within the context of those eras but while this is charming at first, the overuse of this technique becomes a distraction as the film attempts to shift focus closer to the personalities driving the story rather than just their settings.

The screenplay offers plenty of moments for its subject to wallow in his own crapulence, but it often feels like it’s checking boxes rather than exposing new history or offering new insights. The dialogue is peppered with memorable lines and boasts a certain theatricality, but it does little to reveal the inner workings (or lack thereof) of Trump’s mind. The narrative structure is fairly linear, tracing his rise from obscurity to the heights of wealth and power, but the film’s hesitance to really challenge and interrogate its protagonist leaves it feeling too passive at times, as though it’s playing it too safe – or maybe hedging its bets?

Who is The Apprentice really for? Whatever side of the vast gulf he’s carved through the public consciousness you find yourself on, you can’t deny Donald Trump is a deeply divisive figure, and while the film doesn’t veer into full-blown hagiography, it also steers well clear of delivering the kind of biting critique that would satisfy his detractors. It walks a precarious middle ground, one that will likely frustrate and dismay both camps. For those blindly loyal to Trump, the film’s unwillingness to glorify his every move will be tantamount to blasphemy, while those hoping for a more excoriating takedown will find it frustratingly toothless. The Apprentice is a film that offers a surface-level spectacle of ambition and power, but not much in the way of deeper reflection or critique. It feels as though it’s aiming for broad appeal, yet risks alienating both sides by equivocating just when it seems ready to say something more impactful.

As Donald Trump, Sebastian Stan delivers an astonishingly immersive performance, gradually revealing the idiosyncratic facial tics and physicality as Trump adds on the years and piles on the pounds, growing in sync with his business empire (and debts and bankruptcies, which are only tacitly acknowledged). His performance is filled with swagger and bravado, yet there’s hints here and there of the human being behind all the hubris. Of course, nothing in Independence Day: Resurgeance screenwriter Gabriel Sherman’s script even attempts to psychologically deconstruct Trump’s malignant narcissism, or that of his ersatz mentor Roy Cohn (a repellently magnetic Jeremy Strong), the binary star system which powers the film. The supporting cast is largely sidelined, with most characters orbiting around Trump but given little room to develop their own arcs, and while Maria Bakalova’s Ivana’s seduction and subsequent suffering are at least addressed, the film seems almost exculpatory in terms of the other members of the Trump family – especially father Fred – and their culpability for who and what Donald Trump would become. The Apprentice pins its two main characters, Trump and Cohn, like prize specimens in a lepidopterist’s display cabinet – beautifully captured but utterly inert.

The film is at its best when it captures the absurdity of Trump’s public persona and, inevitably, moments of satire creep in, offering a glimpse of the filmmaker’s intent to highlight the surreal nature of his rise to prominence. However, there’s an underlying tension between wanting to critique Trump’s excesses and needing to stay within the bounds of mainstream biopic conventions, leaving the film feeling somewhat conflicted and pointless.

Where The Apprentice succeeds most is in its pacing. It moves briskly, maintaining an almost reckless momentum from beginning to end, and while it may not dig deep into its subject matter, it certainly knows how to entertain, in many ways echoing its subject’s fundamental modus operandi. The choice use of retro zeitgeisty needle drops adds an undeniable veneer of contemporary cool to the corporate conniving and underscores key moments of triumph and drama.

Ultimately, The Apprentice offers an account of Donald Trump’s rise to power, that’s as polished as the gold-plated toilet seat on which he rests his rump in his gilded tower, and every bit as superficial and tacky. In walking its fine line, it sacrifices the complexity and depth that could have made it truly memorable. For viewers seeking a lavish portrayal of ambition and success, they’d be better served taking in reruns of Dallas and for anyone looking for the hidden truth behind the man who seems to have lived like a reversed version of The Portrait of Dorian Grey, you’d be as well looking elsewhere. And should it ever reach the screening room at Mar-a-Lago (and let’s face it how could a man as vain and fragile as Trump resist watching it) one suspects more ketchup will be spilled over the scenes of scalp reduction and liposuction than the rape.