Standing in the bustling press room of the Palais des Festivals, a man approached me asking for a cigarette. We were surrounded by critics, fresh from the premiere screening of Ali Abbasi’s The Apprentice. “Bad movie,” he muttered, lighting up. “We expected more. I’m from Iran by the way,” he continued, "and the work could have been much stronger. It's just another Hollywood film, nothing special."

I paused to consider his words. Indeed, we're conditioned to decode the mysteries of festival films, uncover hidden meanings, and constantly ask ourselves profound questions. In a way, I understood his frustration. Yet, there was something crucial he overlooked: a film about Donald Trump shouldn’t be "festival" cinema in the traditional sense—at least, not if the aim is to reach the widest possible audience. Its potential to captivate a mass audience was confirmed precisely by its ban in the United States. Here was a film deliberately crafted for broad appeal, a Hollywood-style political thriller strategically timed for an election year.

The film is astonishingly psychological — it genuinely feels like the raw truth, almost a hidden-camera glimpse into the life of a future two-term U.S. president. At certain points, Kasper Tuxen's brilliant cinematography practically compels the audience to closely follow Sebastian Stan’s character. Here he is, awkwardly attempting to collect rent from negligent tenants; there, he faces his father's harsh reprimand, as the camera swiftly moves across the faces of participants at a private dinner — a secret gathering imbued with Trumpian shame. All these scenes of Trump’s formative years clash sharply with his contemporary political image — that of a man who, if not actually controlling the world, at least convincingly pretends to.

Abbasi masterfully explores the origins of Donald Trump's contemporary political behavior and, remarkably, implants these roots deep into the consciousness of a broad audience. Trump’s portrayal never becomes loud or cliché-ridden. Indeed, Trump himself isn't portrayed simply as "the bad guy." After all, can someone who faced mental struggles and humiliation during their childhood and youth genuinely be bad? One thing is clear — he certainly can become one. And this process of transformation has been superbly captured by the director.

But who became the pledge and guarantor of this transformation? Lawyer Roy Cohn, brilliantly portrayed by Jeremy Strong, whose performance earned him an Oscar nomination. His Cohn is predatory, cynical, yet irresistibly charismatic — a master manipulator. Strong, renowned for his role in "Succession," skilfully reveals power through vulnerability: beneath every sarcastic remark or threat lies the fear of losing control.

The script thrives on contrasts: the rise and fall — or more precisely, the loss of control. The first half of the film is almost as dynamic as a crime drama, filled with deals, courtroom battles, and political intrigues. By the film’s midpoint, the viewer is left alone with darker dialogues, prompting reflection on how immorality becomes a tool for success. Cohn’s chilling advice, "Don’t defend the truth, defend victory," resonates as the voice of an era — one where ethics retreats before the insatiable thirst for profit.
Through the same dichotomy of "truth versus victory," the audience ultimately witnesses the crystallization of Trump's own character. Abbasi masterfully constructs an ingenious causal relationship that explains the emergence of the "bad guy," the foundation of which rests — surprise — within the very essence of the illusory American Dream itself. What's truly chilling is that Abbasi's Trump isn't portrayed as a monstrous dictator; rather, he's a product of America's era of illusory prosperity — a captive to idealized visions of its past, notions that, mere decades later, would be imposed upon an entire nation.