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When The Apprentice was announced, whispers spread quickly across Hollywood and beyond. It wasn’t just another biographical drama; it was a film about the most divisive figure in recent American history. In one corner, there was Donald Trump, a former president, real estate mogul, and cultural firestorm whose rise to power had gripped — and polarized — the entire nation. In the other was Roy Cohn, an infamous lawyer and a Machiavellian force whose dark tactics left a trail of ruined reputations and severed moral codes in his wake. But this movie wasn’t just their story; it was a mirror held up to America, reflecting uncomfortable truths and the tangled roots of a capitalist power structure few were prepared to face.
The announcement in 2018 stirred immediate controversy, and one thing was clear: The Apprentice was not going to have an easy path to the screen.
The Apprentice wasn’t born out of a simple pitch or studio demand. Gabriel Sherman, a journalist with a reputation for exposing corruption, was intrigued by the complex dynamic between Trump and Cohn. As someone who had reported on Trump’s 2016 campaign and had first-hand access to the power players within Trump’s circle, Sherman saw an opportunity to dig deeper. Not just into Trump’s personal story but into the ways Roy Cohn had shaped him into the figure he’d become. Sherman described his goal in writing the screenplay as an “origin story,” illuminating how the real estate kingpin learned to manipulate and maneuver from one of the most ruthless minds of the 20th century.
When the project was announced, it instantly polarized people. Some viewed it as necessary storytelling, a glimpse into a darker chapter of American ambition. But others, particularly those within Trump’s inner circle, saw it as an attack—a piece of propaganda designed to drag Trump’s past through the mud. The timing was no accident; with Trump’s brand still potent in politics and media, the potential impact of The Apprentice went beyond cinema and into the realm of cultural influence. Studios felt the heat immediately. Would audiences come for a biopic like this, or would they turn away in protest?
It didn’t take long for Trump’s legal team to push back, making it clear that this wasn’t just a “movie” but a potential “character assassination.” Threats of legal action soon emerged, and the mere announcement sparked discussions on whether Briarcliff Entertainment, the eventual distributor, would ever release it on American soil. Trump’s lawyers argued that the film was libelous, a “mischaracterization” of the former president’s formative years in New York City’s real estate world.
The film’s portrayal of Trump, as critics would later explain, was no sanitized rendition of a public figure. Instead, it presented a calculated, raw, and occasionally brutal version of Trump’s climb—his run-ins with legal battles, his reliance on Cohn’s cutthroat tactics, and his unapologetic embrace of corruption to secure his place in the empire his father built. This was a Trump who demanded unfiltered power, guided by Cohn’s “three rules” of never admitting defeat, always attacking, and claiming victory, even in failure.
The dialogue between Trump’s legal team and the filmmakers became a fascinating story in itself. A source close to the production team leaked that Trump’s lawyers had approached Sherman with what was described as a “warning.” They suggested that if the film pursued a narrative portraying Trump as morally corrupt, they would be “willing to take it all the way.” Legal experts noted that although such threats could stall the film’s distribution, they might not legally stop it, especially if the film presented the story as dramatized rather than documentary. Yet, for a film this volatile, that was cold comfort.
After years of uncertainty, Briarcliff Entertainment stepped in to bring The Apprentice to the screen. Known for their willingness to release films with a hard-hitting political edge, Briarcliff was one of the few companies with the fortitude to take on a project that had caused such a furor. Briarcliff CEO Tom Ortenberg spoke on the decision to acquire The Apprentice at a press conference, stating, “This isn’t about attacking a public figure. It’s about showing the layers of human ambition and what people are willing to sacrifice for power. If we shy away from that, then we aren’t telling the story honestly.”
The impact was immediate. After Briarcliff announced they would be distributing the film, protestors and supporters lined up on both sides. Many feared that the film would incite tensions or appear to push a particular agenda, while others felt the film was necessary to understand the dynamics of unchecked power. With a release date confirmed and Briarcliff’s commitment to handling the legal implications, The Apprentice was finally scheduled for an October 2024 premiere. After its initial debut at Cannes, where the crowd had been a mix of shocked, impressed, and angry viewers, the American public would now get its turn to witness what critics were calling “a Shakespearean tale of greed, betrayal, and the decay of integrity.”
The narrative wasn’t just about Trump’s rise; it exposed the machinery of power in America, guided by a man like Cohn, who pushed his apprentice to pursue ambition at all costs. This was no ordinary film release—it was an entry into the cultural battleground, daring audiences to confront the darker side of American dreams.
Ali Abbasi is not a director known for “playing it safe.” With a knack for making audiences uncomfortable and inspired in equal measure, Abbasi dove headfirst into The Apprentice (2024), a film charged with dissecting the moral decay behind American power structures. His approach? A gritty, satirical, and profoundly humanistic interrogation of two notorious figures: Donald Trump and his ruthless mentor, Roy Cohn. The film does not simply follow Trump’s steps to success but pulls back the veil on the controversial tactics, warped morality, and hunger for validation that characterized Trump’s journey under Cohn’s mentorship. Abbasi aimed to blend dark humor with a raw realism that doesn’t pull any punches, and in doing so, he took a risk not only with his storytelling approach but with his own reputation as a filmmaker.
From the outset, Abbasi’s direction was destined to defy the norms of the typical biographical drama. Rather than letting the story drown in relentless seriousness, Abbasi found ways to inject humor into moments that would otherwise seem too heavy, portraying Trump’s and Cohn’s actions with a mix of awe and irony. This unique use of dark humor wasn’t meant to lighten the subject matter but to underline the absurdity of the moral contradictions in the lives of the wealthy and powerful. “The laughter,” Abbasi explained in an interview, “isn’t to make light of what they did. It’s to make people see how bizarre, almost surreal, their ambition and lack of conscience really were.”
Through carefully staged scenes, Abbasi transformed power dynamics into tragicomedy. In one such scene, a young Trump is shown learning the “three rules” from Cohn: always attack, never admit wrongdoing, and claim victory no matter what. It’s an almost laughably simple mantra, and yet Abbasi presents it with such deliberate staging and nuance that the audience feels the sinister power behind it. Watching Trump recite these principles, one can almost hear the gears turning in his head, imagining how these “rules” could clear a path to domination. There’s a nervous energy and a tension that lingers beneath the surface of every comedic moment in the film, a sense that things could go horribly wrong at any second—and often, they do.
Abbasi also emphasized the performative nature of power, particularly through Trump’s interactions with people like his father, Fred, or his business associates. Trump appears eager to absorb Cohn’s lessons and adopt them with his own flair, constantly trying on different versions of himself, like costumes, to see which one best fits his world of money, politics, and ruthless ambition. In moments where Trump mimics Cohn’s phrasing or even his posture, Abbasi provides viewers with a momentary laugh while hinting at Trump’s future—one where he would no longer need a mentor, as he’d become the ultimate performer in the power game.
Abbasi wanted something more complex than a villain-centric plot or a straightforward character assassination. His intention was to present Cohn and Trump not as archetypal villains but as flawed, deeply human figures, who, despite their questionable ethics, were driven by intense desires, insecurities, and a desperate need to prove themselves. Abbasi often refers to this approach as a “humanistic interrogation.” He doesn’t just show Trump as a power-hungry mogul or Cohn as a manipulative lawyer; he digs into what lies beneath these personas.
This approach led to some of the film’s most gripping scenes. For example, Abbasi depicts Trump confronting his own self-doubt when he is overshadowed by his father’s stern expectations. In a powerful moment, Fred Trump admonishes his son’s penchant for excess and risk-taking, calling him “reckless” and “entitled.” Trump’s response is defensive, bordering on desperate, as he claims that his ambitions will set him apart. Abbasi allows the viewer to witness Trump’s vulnerability in the presence of his father, a facet often hidden by his later bravado.
Similarly, Abbasi’s portrayal of Cohn goes beyond his reputation as a corrupt figure. He doesn’t shy away from showing the contradictions that made Cohn infamous—his pride in his Jewish identity while associating with anti-Semites, his gay identity cloaked in secrecy, and his unyielding hatred for weakness. But through Abbasi’s lens, Cohn also emerges as a man fighting against the parts of himself that he couldn’t accept, a relentless survivalist who taught Trump that in the world of power, empathy is a liability.
Abbasi’s decision to delve into these characters’ inner struggles, even while condemning their actions, takes the film beyond a simple biographical account. He allows audiences to confront the unsettling reality that people who shape history are not only ambitious but sometimes hollow, shaped by their own insecurities and fears as much as by their desires for greatness. As a result, Abbasi’s direction turns The Apprentice into a story that challenges the audience’s perception of right and wrong, urging them to see Trump and Cohn as more than just symbols of corruption but as people molded—and twisted—by the very society they dominated.
To bring this provocative vision to life, Abbasi leaned on distinctive cinematic choices that set the tone for the film’s satirical but dramatic exploration of power. Abbasi’s team employed a nostalgic, somewhat gritty visual style that echoed the 1970s and 80s New York real estate world Trump first conquered. Cinematographer Nadim Carlsen helped create this world with rich, golden hues that captured both the allure and the decay of Trump’s ambition, bathing key scenes in a light that simultaneously celebrated and condemned the excesses of the era.
Abbasi also used framing and camera angles as tools for psychological insight. In scenes where Trump and Cohn discuss strategy, the camera angles grow increasingly tight, almost claustrophobic, as if to mirror the walls closing in around Trump’s moral center. “It’s a subtle way of showing how narrow his world became under Cohn’s influence,” Abbasi explained, “because, by the end, Trump’s vision of the world is not much wider than Cohn’s darkly pragmatic view.”
One of Abbasi’s boldest choices was how he used silence. In scenes heavy with tension, he would often let silence fill the space, emphasizing the isolation, paranoia, and power play between characters. For instance, there’s a scene where Trump and Cohn sit in a dimly lit room, waiting for a phone call that could make or break a real estate deal. The silence stretches, and Trump’s restless movements are the only sound, showcasing a man who cannot stand still even in moments of triumph.
Abbasi’s direction transformed The Apprentice into more than a movie about one man’s moral descent. It became a portrait of a system that rewards greed, that champions ruthlessness, and that leaves space for satire even as it marches toward its own tragic conclusion. Every choice—from the golden-hued cinematography to the eerie silences—contributes to a film that isn’t simply about Trump’s rise but about the foundations of an American Dream twisted into something almost unrecognizable.
The Apprentice may be cinematic in its visuals and bold in its direction, but it is Gabriel Sherman’s script that fuels the engine of the film, a narrative structure that charts the dark waters of ambition and betrayal at the heart of Donald Trump’s rise. Sherman, a seasoned journalist, stepped into the screenwriting role with a clear mission: expose Trump’s early career as a microcosm of his future impact on American culture. As the narrative dives deep into Trump’s formative years under Roy Cohn, Sherman brings a journalist’s keen eye to each scene, merging biographical drama with moments of symbolic intensity to present a Trump that is both startlingly familiar and freshly unsettling.
Gabriel Sherman’s journey from journalist to screenwriter seems almost inevitable. Known for his investigative reporting on political and media power players, Sherman approached this project with a wealth of firsthand knowledge. During Trump’s 2016 campaign, Sherman covered the former president and witnessed firsthand how Trump maneuvered within circles of influence with a ruthless efficiency not often visible to the public. But what fascinated him most was the formative influence of Roy Cohn, a shadowy figure who had sculpted Trump’s philosophy during his early years as a New York real estate mogul.
Sherman knew there was a story to be told—not just of Trump the mogul, but of Trump the apprentice. In interviews, Sherman explained that his motivation was to capture the “origin story” behind the Trump persona, an almost mythical figure who had crafted himself according to a specific blueprint of power. This story, as Sherman saw it, was less about success and more about survival in a ruthless world. Trump’s early career was filled with moments that would eventually become iconic aspects of his persona: the refusal to lose, the disdain for vulnerability, and the obsession with appearances. As Sherman saw it, this was a chance to reveal the psychology of Trump’s rise, not through political analysis but through the unfiltered lens of biographical drama.
As a journalist, Sherman was used to fact-checking and cross-referencing, but the shift to screenwriting required a different approach. He had to merge reality with drama, knowing that film demands a sharper, often intensified portrayal of events. In shaping the script, he grappled with the balance between accuracy and narrative momentum, weighing what would serve the story versus what would strictly adhere to factual detail. His priority was to stay faithful to the core truth, even if some of the specifics became fictionalized to enhance the story’s impact.
One of the most charged scenes involves Cohn advising a young Trump on a scandal involving racial discrimination in his family’s apartment complexes. Cohn, in a scene of tense humor laced with malice, offers a practical solution: blackmail the lead prosecutor. Trump’s face lights up at this audacious suggestion, as if a new world has opened to him, one where morality is merely an obstacle. “Sometimes you have to beat the rules to beat the competition,” Cohn remarks, his voice dripping with confidence. Though the specifics of this dialogue are fictionalized, it captures the essence of Cohn’s guidance, showing how he empowered Trump to view rules not as boundaries but as negotiable tools.
Sherman made similar choices when portraying Trump’s volatile relationship with his father, Fred. While their dynamic was likely less theatrical in real life, Sherman captures the essential tension: Fred’s disdain for Donald’s ambition contrasted with Donald’s desperate desire for approval. In another pivotal scene, Fred confronts Donald, calling him out for his reckless plans. “You don’t know what you’re doing. Building a tower isn’t the same as inheriting one,” Fred scoffs. Donald, wounded but defiant, throws back, “I’m making this family name mean something beyond four walls.” It’s a conversation that could have happened, even if the words are Sherman’s invention—a dramatic approximation of a real-life dynamic that defined Trump’s hunger to surpass his father.
By combining biographical details with fictionalized scenes, Sherman creates a screenplay that doesn’t adhere strictly to the facts but amplifies the emotional truths that fuel the story. His approach reveals the slippery ethics and moral compromises Trump learned under Cohn’s tutelage, giving audiences a glimpse not only of the events that shaped Trump but also of the deeply ingrained attitudes that would later define his leadership style.
One of the boldest aspects of Sherman’s script is its narrative structure, marked by abrupt time jumps that plunge audiences into critical moments, often leaving them to piece together the intervening years. The effect is jarring, yet deliberate, mimicking the dizzying trajectory of Trump’s ascent and leaving viewers to connect the dots of his transformation from an ambitious real estate developer to a near-unrecognizable public figure shaped by Cohn’s “three rules.” This choice has sparked controversy among critics, with some praising the script’s ambition while others argue it disrupts the story’s flow.
But Sherman’s intent with these time jumps was to prevent the film from falling into a predictable rhythm, to keep the audience on edge as the timeline darts from the 1970s to the 1980s without preamble. In a particularly provocative transition, Sherman cuts from a scene of Trump and Ivana’s wedding to a moment a few years later, where Trump coldly informs her that she is “too visible” for his brand. The jarring leap from romance to cruelty exposes the toll of Trump’s ambition, showing how relationships that once meant everything became casualties in his drive for dominance.
Another bold choice lies in Sherman’s use of symbolic moments to emphasize Trump’s gradual moral decay. In one scene, Trump, now fully immersed in Cohn’s philosophy, is shown staring out from his high-rise office at a skyline he wants to conquer. He smirks, muttering, “The sky’s the only ceiling.” The line is heavy with irony, hinting at his unrelenting ambition and foreshadowing his eventual downfall. This kind of symbolism serves as a bridge for audiences, offering insight into Trump’s psychological transformation without needing extended dialogue.
Sherman also injects moments of raw, uncomfortable introspection, though they’re brief and fleeting. In one scene, after Cohn’s disbarment and declining health, Trump pauses in a rare moment of vulnerability, perhaps sensing his own mortality mirrored in Cohn’s fall. But the moment is quickly lost as Trump deflects, snapping back into his hardened persona. “Some people can’t handle the pressure,” he mutters, dismissing Cohn’s decline as weakness. These glimpses into Trump’s psyche, enhanced by Sherman’s narrative techniques, show a man who mastered the art of burying self-doubt beneath layers of ego and ambition.
Sherman’s storytelling in The Apprentice is as layered and complex as the subjects it explores. He pulls audiences into Trump’s world not with excessive exposition but through sharp, often unsettling choices that speak to the contradictions at Trump’s core. Through clever dialogue, symbolic cues, and time jumps, Sherman crafts a narrative that doesn’t simply recount a biography but reveals the dark allure of power and ambition, exposing how Trump’s journey was forged not in triumph, but in the murky waters of deception, manipulation, and relentless ambition.
For a film as daring and complex as The Apprentice, casting required more than just resemblance; it required transformation. The actors needed to embody, not merely impersonate, the sharp ambitions, moral ambiguity, and personal darkness that shaped their real-life counterparts. Each role presented its own psychological challenge, but none more so than Sebastian Stan’s Trump and Jeremy Strong’s Roy Cohn. Together, they form a volatile chemistry that defines the film’s core, a dynamic of mentor and apprentice driven by ambition and the desire to wield power without consequence. With Maria Bakalova’s Ivana Trump rounding out the cast, the film explores these layered characters through transformative performances that dive deep into the story’s core themes.
Taking on the role of Donald Trump was no small feat, and Sebastian Stan was determined to avoid caricature. Rather than adopting exaggerated mannerisms, Stan aimed for subtlety, focusing on Trump’s distinctive physicality, vocal cadence, and the layers beneath his public persona. He wasn’t interested in imitating the brash reality-show host or the political figure; instead, he focused on the young real estate mogul fueled by an insatiable desire to climb higher than his father ever dreamed. To do this, Stan immersed himself in Trump’s early interviews and speeches, noting the way he would carry himself with an almost rehearsed bravado.
“Trump at that age,” Stan explained in an interview, “was obsessed with the idea of himself as a king, or at least as a future king.” He wanted to reveal a Trump who, while outwardly exuding confidence, was haunted by the constant need for validation and trapped by his father’s cold expectations. Stan spent months perfecting Trump’s verbal nuances, dropping his natural Romanian accent and adopting Trump’s clipped New York cadence. At one point during filming, he confided to director Ali Abbasi that he was “dreaming in Trump’s voice” after months of vocal training.
Stan’s dedication to capturing Trump’s physical transformation also extended to his appearance. He gained weight for the role, a process that required daily peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and sodas, mirroring the young Trump’s known eating habits. In one scene, he’s shown standing in front of a mirror, scrutinizing his own reflection as if waiting for an image of his father to appear back at him, giving audiences a glimpse of the deep insecurities beneath his public persona.
If Stan’s portrayal was a deep dive into Trump’s formative insecurities, Jeremy Strong’s performance as Roy Cohn was its counterpart—a master class in calculating ruthlessness. Strong, known for his meticulous method approach, committed himself entirely to embodying Cohn’s infamous blend of charisma and menace. “Cohn wasn’t just a mentor,” Strong once said. “He was a guide, showing Trump the way, and showing him that the rules didn’t apply if you were smart enough to bend them.”
To prepare, Strong read deeply into Cohn’s life, studying transcripts of Cohn’s infamous legal battles and speeches. On set, he would arrive wearing Cohn’s distinctive 70s suits and refuse to break character. It wasn’t unusual to find him sitting alone, muttering under his breath as Cohn might have, as though preparing himself to wield his power through sharp words and even sharper threats. When they began shooting, Strong’s portrayal of Cohn was icy, but each line was delivered with the smoothness of a snake charmer.
One scene in particular showcases Strong’s brilliance in balancing Cohn’s dual role as mentor and manipulator. Trump, at this point a rising but reckless real estate player, nervously asks Cohn about handling a lawsuit involving racial discrimination. Cohn’s response is swift, dismissive: “They don’t touch you if you don’t give them a reason to. So don’t give them a reason.” He pauses, staring down Trump with a cold look that says everything. “And if they try, we’ll hit harder.” This subtle blend of manipulation and paternalism highlights the way Cohn not only advised Trump but redefined his very concept of morality.
The chemistry between Stan and Strong gave Abbasi’s direction its potent, chilling edge, and their scenes together became a psychological chess game. As Trump grows into his own, he gradually shifts from eager apprentice to a rival of sorts, embodying the very ruthlessness Cohn instilled in him. By the end, the balance of power shifts, and it’s Trump who dismisses Cohn, mirroring the same brutal detachment Cohn once taught him. Strong’s performance is electrifying, a portrait of a man so consumed by power that he becomes blind to his own irrelevance.
Maria Bakalova faced a unique challenge: to portray Ivana Trump, a figure often seen as merely decorative, as more than just the young trophy wife in Trump’s orbit. Though her screen time was limited, Bakalova seized the opportunity to delve into Ivana’s resilience, ambition, and her own complicated role within Trump’s world. Ivana was not just a fixture in Trump’s life; she was an essential part of his brand, someone who understood his weaknesses even as she played into his image of success.
Bakalova’s portrayal gives Ivana a sense of agency, showing her as an ambitious woman who, while benefiting from Trump’s rise, was far from passive. In one scene, she is shown confronting Trump after one of his numerous affairs, her voice both sharp and measured. “Do you think I married you to sit quietly and watch you tear us apart?” she demands, her accent heavy with Czech determination. Though Trump dismisses her, Ivana’s resolve lingers, giving the audience a glimpse of her strength—a quality often eclipsed by her role as a socialite.
The chemistry between Bakalova and Stan offers a brief yet powerful look at the fragile, transactional nature of their relationship. Ivana is shown in both her supporting role to Trump and her resistance to his attempts to control her identity. Even when her influence begins to fade, Bakalova’s Ivana doesn’t let go easily, a depiction that makes her a complex figure amid the film’s male-driven power plays.
By embracing Ivana’s multifaceted personality, Bakalova brings a quiet strength to the film, balancing her character’s loyalty with a sense of independence that adds layers to the story. Though her scenes are few, Bakalova’s Ivana serves as a reminder of the women who both contributed to and were caught in the wake of Trump’s ambition.
Trump’s transformation from a young real estate developer with a thirst for recognition into a man willing to embrace any means necessary to succeed was no sudden shift; it was a gradual descent. This journey, driven by his complex mentorship with Roy Cohn, a man as ruthless as he was intelligent, marked the formative years of Trump’s life, changing him from a son seeking approval into an independent force determined to make his mark on the world. Under Cohn’s influence, Trump’s moral landscape was reshaped, molded by “the three rules” Cohn had drilled into him. This wasn’t just advice for business—it was a blueprint for a life of calculated detachment, manipulation, and power.
Young Donald Trump was a man both drawn to success and wary of the traps he believed surrounded it. With his father, Fred Trump, casting a stern, ever-judging shadow, Trump was determined to surpass the expectations of both his family and the unforgiving world of New York real estate. But as he faced constant scrutiny, particularly around racial discrimination charges related to his father’s properties, he began to realize that achieving greatness might require setting aside the remnants of moral hesitation.
In one defining scene, Trump turns to Cohn for advice after the Department of Justice files a lawsuit against the family business. Trump voices his frustration, questioning how he could rise above when bound by what he called “petty rules.” Cohn’s response is chilling: “Donald, those rules are for people who don’t know how to get around them. Do you want to be one of them?” In this moment, Trump’s internal battle is clear. Here was a man eager to play by his own rules, willing to defy any constraint in pursuit of his own version of success.
From this point on, Trump’s path became one of selective morality, a journey in which he’d often have to choose between what was right and what was necessary. Time and again, he opted for necessity, a choice that would lead him deeper into Cohn’s world—a world where compromise was a foreign concept, and success was everything.
Cohn’s mentorship was built on “three rules,” a set of principles he treated with a nearly religious fervor. These rules—always attack, never admit wrongdoing, and always claim victory—became the cornerstone of Trump’s emerging philosophy. They were not just business tactics but rather a complete psychological reprogramming, intended to create a man who, like Cohn, viewed any sign of compromise as weakness. And Trump, eager to prove his worth, absorbed these lessons entirely.
In a private conversation between Trump and Cohn over lunch in a dimly lit restaurant, Cohn leaned forward and spelled out the essence of each rule. “First,” he said, “always attack. If they come for you, you go back at them twice as hard.” He watched Trump’s reaction, noting his eagerness, before moving to the second rule: “Never admit you’re wrong, no matter what. Weakness is worse than defeat.” Trump nodded, internalizing this, his mind visibly turning over the implications. Finally, Cohn lowered his voice, as if revealing a sacred truth: “And Donald, remember, if you’re losing, say you’re winning. Act like you’re on top, even if the ground is crumbling under your feet.”
With each rule, Cohn’s influence drove Trump further from any previous notions of humility or self-doubt. Trump took these rules to heart, wielding them as weapons. In later scenes, Trump is shown to employ these tactics with cold precision, responding to media criticism not with apology but with defiant attacks, using the lessons he had learned to shape his public persona. Cohn’s three rules weren’t just a strategy—they were the heart of Trump’s moral transformation, guiding him to a future where victory justified any means.
As Trump embraced Cohn’s teachings, his transformation was undeniable. The young man who had once sought his father’s approval became a figure willing to carve his own path, using Cohn’s tactics to overpower any opposition. The dynamic between apprentice and master shifted, with Trump slowly moving beyond Cohn’s influence, no longer seeking guidance but instead acting as the master of his own universe. By the time Cohn faced professional and personal ruin due to health issues and a disbarment threat, Trump’s loyalty had evaporated.
In a stark final exchange between the two, Cohn, visibly weakened, approached Trump for a favor. But Trump brushed him aside, his gaze cold, his demeanor dismissive. “I don’t owe you anything, Roy,” he said, his voice flat. The transformation was complete—Trump had learned everything he needed from his mentor, and now, as Cohn’s relevance dwindled, he discarded him without hesitation. This moment symbolized the moral climax of Trump’s journey, as he moved from a man seeking power to one who no longer recognized or felt bound by any loyalty other than to himself. In becoming his own master, Trump fully embodied the rules that had once been Cohn’s alone.
Roy Cohn’s influence on Donald Trump can be summed up in three ruthless rules that defined not just his mentee’s business philosophy, but his entire worldview. Cohn’s legacy lives on in these rules, which imparted a cutthroat approach that would forever shape Trump’s path. Cohn believed that moral compromise was not just acceptable but necessary to achieve greatness, and his three rules epitomize this belief. For Trump, these rules became an unbreakable code—a set of commandments that would guide him through the cutthroat world of New York’s elite.
Cohn’s first rule, “Always Attack,” demanded relentless aggression. He taught Trump that to gain power, one must never show weakness, even if it meant going on the offensive without provocation. Cohn was a man who viewed life as a battlefield, where showing mercy or hesitation was a fatal flaw. His approach to every challenge was to strike first, overwhelming the opposition before they had a chance to react. For Trump, this meant confronting rivals, competitors, and even allies with an iron fist.
This principle became a defining trait in Trump’s public dealings, shaping his responses to criticism, lawsuits, and media scrutiny. Trump applied this rule with remarkable tenacity, attacking any individual or institution that dared to challenge him. When Trump’s business ventures faced setbacks, he didn’t retreat or show remorse. Instead, he publicly derided his opponents, often framing them as failures or frauds, embodying Cohn’s rule with a merciless commitment. Cohn’s teachings on attack turned Trump into a force that demanded either submission or retreat, leaving little room for negotiation.
The second rule, “Never Admit You’re Wrong,” was central to Cohn’s survival as a controversial figure and became an equally important part of Trump’s philosophy. In Cohn’s mind, to admit fault was akin to conceding defeat—a dangerous vulnerability in a world where perception mattered more than truth. He passed on to Trump the ability to dodge accountability with practiced ease, training him to deflect accusations and deny wrongdoing as a matter of principle.
For Trump, this rule manifested as an almost instinctual response to criticism. When accused of discriminatory practices or unethical behavior, Trump would often respond by attacking the credibility of the accusations rather than addressing the issues. Cohn’s rule trained him to see truth as fluid, something to be controlled rather than confronted. This approach became one of Trump’s most recognizable traits, as he used denial to deflect blame and defuse scrutiny. Cohn’s influence in this regard instilled a sense of invulnerability in Trump, who learned to perceive accountability as a trap set by enemies rather than a path to personal growth.
The third and final rule, “Always Claim Victory,” taught Trump the importance of perception over reality. For Cohn, admitting defeat was inconceivable. Victory was not simply a result—it was a constant state of being, one that had to be projected even in the face of failure. Cohn trained Trump to view success not as an outcome but as an image to be maintained, regardless of setbacks or losses.
Trump applied this rule with fervor. Even when his projects were on the brink of bankruptcy, or when his casinos faced financial ruin, Trump framed these situations as opportunities or even successes, brushing aside the realities of failure. In Cohn’s eyes, and eventually in Trump’s, there was no room for doubt or hesitation. To the public, he would appear as the unflappable mogul, a winner no matter the circumstances. Claiming victory, always, became his unshakable mantra, a legacy from Cohn that would remain with him well into his political career.
Cohn’s three rules—attack, deny, and claim victory—became not just survival tactics but the foundation of a philosophy that would define Trump’s identity, not just as a businessman but as a public figure. These principles shaped Trump’s moral descent and positioned him as a force who would pursue his vision at any cost, leaving behind a trail of adversaries and disillusioned allies, yet always moving forward, undefeated in his own mind.
New York City in the 1970s and 80s was more than a backdrop for Trump’s rise—it was a crucible, a city caught in a whirlwind of ambition, decay, and reinvention. For a young developer like Trump, New York was full of opportunities and threats, a perfect storm where real estate and ego collided. The city itself became a character in his story, offering Trump his first challenges and shaping his relentless drive for success. From racial disputes over his family’s rental practices to his big breaks with the Commodore Hotel and Trump Tower, New York City was both canvas and contest, testing Trump’s patience and expanding his ambition.
When Donald Trump entered New York’s real estate scene in the early 1970s, he didn’t come as a fresh face with little to prove. He came as Fred Trump’s son, part of a family with a reputation and a sizeable stake in Queens and Brooklyn’s rental markets. But controversy struck early when the Department of Justice filed a suit against the Trump Organization for allegedly refusing to rent to Black tenants, a case that rattled the family’s reputation and forced Trump to confront public scrutiny head-on.
In The Apprentice, Trump is depicted in a heated discussion with his father, who demands, “We don’t apologize for who we rent to.” But Donald had learned differently from Roy Cohn. Cohn advised him to fight rather than fold. “Settle without settling,” Cohn told him, teaching Trump the art of concession without confession. With Cohn’s help, Trump countersued the DOJ, framing the suit as an attack on their business and portraying himself as a target rather than an offender. This confrontation, dramatized in The Apprentice, becomes a foundational lesson for Trump—a lesson in public relations warfare, where perception mattered more than truth.
The city that Trump envisioned himself conquering wasn’t merely about survival; it was about dominance, visibility, and ambition on a scale that demanded a landmark. That opportunity arrived with the Commodore Hotel, a deteriorating property that Trump managed to redevelop with help from the city’s economic development officials. In an audacious move, Trump convinced the city to grant a massive tax abatement, a win that set the stage for his emergence as a real player in Manhattan. The Commodore Hotel became a Hyatt, and with it, Trump demonstrated his ability to play both sides of the game: the public and private, the legitimate and the persuasive.
But it was Trump Tower, built in 1983 on Fifth Avenue, that immortalized him. Gleaming in bronze and glass, the tower was a statement—a challenge to New York’s traditional elite that the Trumps were no longer confined to outer-borough real estate. In The Apprentice, scenes of Trump proudly surveying the construction highlight his obsession with image and scale. Trump declared, “This building isn’t just a place to live; it’s proof I belong here.” Trump Tower, a skyscraper as grandiose as Trump’s ambition, became the face of his empire and cemented his image as a mogul who understood that success was as much about perception as achievement.
By the 1980s, the political climate in America had shifted dramatically. The Reagan era ushered in policies that championed deregulation, corporate growth, and wealth accumulation, creating an environment that suited Trump’s philosophy perfectly. This period encouraged a brash, unapologetic capitalism that celebrated wealth and dismissed the ethics of acquisition, aligning Trump’s approach to business with the spirit of the times. Reagan’s mantra of “making America great” paralleled Trump’s own mantra of personal greatness, and Trump’s rise from a prominent real estate developer to a celebrity mogul fit seamlessly into this narrative.
In the film, Trump is shown watching Reagan’s speeches with Cohn, commenting, “This is our time. Nobody’s apologizing for winning anymore.” The 1980s transformed Trump’s ambitions from grand ideas into concrete achievements, legitimizing his tactics and magnifying his persona. The rise of Wall Street excess and consumerism created a stage where Trump could shine as the symbol of opulence, leveraging Reagan-era influence to cement his empire.
As Trump’s empire grew, so did his relationship with Ivana Trump—a marriage as strategic as it was romantic, a union that merged business with personal life and created one of New York’s most talked-about power couples. Ivana was more than a wife; she was a partner, a figure who bolstered his public image and contributed to his brand. But as the two became increasingly entangled in Trump’s empire, the boundary between personal and business became blurred, and their relationship was marked by power struggles, ego battles, and, ultimately, the cost of success.
Ivana wasn’t a passive figure in Trump’s life. An ambitious woman in her own right, she contributed to the Trump Organization, overseeing projects and becoming a recognizable public face of the brand. As depicted in The Apprentice, Ivana is seen managing Trump’s casinos, exuding the confidence and style that matched Trump’s vision of his empire. In one scene, she coolly rebuffs a colleague’s suggestion to scale back Trump’s latest venture, asserting, “Donald doesn’t do ‘less,’ and neither do I.”
Yet, as Trump’s vision grew bolder, Ivana’s presence became a double-edged sword. Trump, once proud of her involvement, began to feel overshadowed by her influence and popularity. The tension between them simmered, leading to conflicts where business decisions became intensely personal. Ivana had contributed to the empire Trump valued so deeply, yet her strength and public persona clashed with his desire to be the singular force at its helm.
The film does not shy away from the personal conflicts that characterized Trump and Ivana’s relationship. In one chilling scene, the couple argues over Trump’s constant need for control, both in business and in their marriage. Ivana, portrayed with a mix of determination and frustration, accuses Trump of seeing her as “an accessory, not a partner.” Trump’s response is icy, a look that reveals both defensiveness and disdain. “People don’t remember the Queen of the Castle, Ivana,” he sneers. “They remember the King.”
Such moments in The Apprentice bring viewers face-to-face with the reality of Trump’s priorities and the toll they took on those closest to him. The film paints an unsettling portrait of a man who saw relationships as extensions of his own goals, blurring loyalty and possession in ways that left little room for compromise or empathy.
For Trump, ambition often overshadowed relationships, and his marriage to Ivana was no exception. As his empire expanded, the cracks in their marriage widened, revealing Trump’s relentless pursuit of success and control at the expense of personal intimacy. While Ivana had been crucial to his rise, her growing independence became a source of tension, a reminder of the vulnerability Trump loathed to acknowledge. In the film’s later scenes, after Ivana discovers Trump’s infidelity, she confronts him with raw emotion, demanding, “Was it worth it?” Trump’s reply is devastating in its simplicity: “Everything I’ve done is for this.”
This breakdown is portrayed not as a dramatic blow-up but as an inevitable consequence of Trump’s personality—ambition devouring loyalty, wealth overshadowing love. Ivana’s departure was more than a marital split; it was a fracture that symbolized the deeper costs of Trump’s climb. The dissolution of their marriage exposed the painful truth that Trump’s quest for dominance often left those closest to him disillusioned, marginalized, or simply discarded.
Ivana’s role in his life—both as a support and a challenge—offered Trump a chance to balance ambition with personal loyalty, but as his empire grew, so did his willingness to sacrifice personal ties for the sake of his public persona. The relationship that had once been a fusion of partnership and power struggle ultimately became a casualty of Trump’s relentless drive, illustrating a pattern that would come to define both his personal and professional life.
Each step in his rise came with a personal cost, a price paid not in dollars but in relationships, a theme that The Apprentice explores with dramatic intensity. Trump’s marriage to Ivana may have been built on shared goals, but it ultimately fell victim to the very ambition that had once united them, a reminder that success and sacrifice are often inseparable in the pursuit of greatness.
Ali Abbasi’s The Apprentice offers more than just a gritty portrayal of Trump’s early career—it gives audiences an immersive experience of New York’s corrupt corridors of power in the 70s and 80s through meticulously designed cinematography and a masterful use of visuals. Abbasi, along with cinematographer Nadim Carlsen, uses era-specific aesthetics, intricate set design, and symbolism to make the story both visual and visceral, blending the sights of luxury with the undercurrents of moral decay. Every frame of the movie is drenched in symbolism and heavy with meaning, each shot a carefully crafted commentary on the world of opulence and corruption that defined Trump’s ascent.
To capture New York’s look in the 1970s and 80s, Abbasi leans into a deliberate analog aesthetic. The film’s texture is purposefully grainy, evoking the era’s film stock and lending a raw, immersive quality to each scene. This visual choice is more than just historical accuracy; it’s an invitation for the audience to step back in time and experience the city as it was—gritty, glamorous, and just a little bit dangerous. The golden hues, in particular, cast a warm but almost sickly glow over every scene, giving the world a richness that’s both alluring and foreboding.
Abbasi explained in an interview that he wanted viewers to feel “the seductive pull of wealth” but also the undertone of unease that came with it. In scenes of young Trump walking through high-end clubs or his own lavish real estate projects, the golden tones highlight the glittering allure of his world while hinting at the tarnish beneath the glamour. The visuals subtly underscore that the wealth Trump pursued wasn’t pristine or noble—it was a tool for dominance, and its shine masked the greed that fueled it.
The set design in The Apprentice does more than just recreate Trump’s early real estate ventures—it symbolizes the man himself. Trump’s spaces are grand, sometimes almost exaggerated in their opulence, with touches of gold, dark wood, and marble, reflecting both his aesthetic and his ethos. These lavish surroundings project an image of success and power, but they’re also meant to intimidate, embodying Trump’s drive to prove his supremacy over New York’s elite.
Each setting is loaded with symbolic imagery that conveys messages about Trump’s values and insecurities. In one memorable scene, Trump’s penthouse is littered with gold-framed mirrors—a subtle but effective commentary on his obsession with appearance and self-image. The mirrors reflect Trump from multiple angles, symbolizing both his desire for control and his tendency to get lost in his own image, a visual metaphor that Abbasi and his team craft with chilling precision.
Another critical set piece is the Trump Tower, depicted as an icon of excess. The building itself, with its reflective glass and angular, imposing structure, embodies Trump’s philosophy: flashy, unapologetically self-serving, and impossible to ignore. Abbasi’s use of symbolic imagery transforms these spaces into reflections of Trump’s inner world—a world where wealth is wielded as both armor and weapon, and the line between reality and facade is constantly blurred.
One of the most distinctive aspects of Abbasi’s cinematographic choices lies in the lighting. Carlsen and Abbasi use lighting not only to enhance mood but to shape the viewer’s perception of Trump himself. In scenes where Trump is strategizing with Roy Cohn, the lighting becomes sharp, shadowed, almost theatrical, casting Trump in half-light, his face split between shadow and shine. This technique mirrors Trump’s duality—public persona versus private ambition—and creates a visual tension that heightens the sense of moral ambiguity.
In moments where Trump’s self-doubt briefly surfaces, the lighting softens, exposing the cracks in his iron-clad confidence. But as soon as he is back in the public eye, the lights return to harsh tones, reinforcing his constructed image. Abbasi’s approach to lighting becomes a powerful tool for character study, allowing viewers to see Trump not just as a mogul but as a man constantly battling his own insecurities, using every available resource—light, space, wealth—as a weapon in his pursuit of control and legacy.
As a provocative biographical drama, The Apprentice was bound to divide opinions. Abbasi’s unflinching portrayal of Trump’s early years and his moral descent under Cohn’s influence sparked strong reactions when it premiered at Cannes, with critics and audiences alike emerging with polarized views. Some lauded it as a darkly brilliant piece of cinema that offers a necessary critique, while others saw it as overtly controversial, an unfair portrayal that could fuel divisive debates. From Cannes to the U.S., the film’s reception has highlighted cultural divides, revealing the power—and the risks—of art that refuses to play it safe.
At its debut at Cannes, The Apprentice generated intense discussion. European critics, generally open to provocative social critiques, appreciated Abbasi’s cinematic boldness, praising his blend of satire and dark drama as daring and necessary. Some hailed the film as a “wake-up call” that exposes the hidden, murky side of capitalism and ambition, with French critics especially receptive to the film’s unapologetic dissection of Trump’s moral code.
Meanwhile, some American critics took a more nuanced stance, acknowledging the film’s visual brilliance but questioning its ethical stance. “It’s hard to decide if we’re meant to empathize or revile,” wrote one American reviewer, hinting at the ethical tightrope Abbasi walked in portraying Trump as both deeply flawed and strangely sympathetic at times. The controversy only amplified the film’s status, turning The Apprentice from a biopic into a cultural commentary with international impact.
The split between international and American audiences became even more pronounced when the film finally hit theaters. In Europe, viewers were more receptive to Abbasi’s critique, perceiving the story as a commentary not just on Trump but on the flaws within global capitalism. For many, Trump was merely the figurehead, the embodiment of systemic greed and power abuse, and the film became a conversation starter on the consequences of unchecked ambition. Some saw it as Abbasi’s daring critique of American values, a scathing yet artful portrait of ambition gone wrong.
In America, the reaction was predictably divided. For some, especially those sympathetic to Trump, the film felt like an attack, a piece of art disguised as a political weapon. Supporters of Trump were quick to dismiss the film as “unfair” and “propagandistic,” claiming it amplified the negative traits of the protagonist to an extreme. Conversely, those critical of Trump found the film’s dark portrayal satisfying, validating their perception of Trump as a man driven by ego and opportunism. Abbasi’s refusal to simplify the narrative into clear right and wrong polarized viewers further, pushing The Apprentice into the spotlight as an example of polarizing art that speaks to different audiences in markedly different ways.
The debates surrounding The Apprentice highlight the potent influence of polarizing art in today’s cultural landscape. Abbasi’s film not only sparked reactions but revealed deep-seated divides in how societies interpret art that challenges iconic figures. For some, The Apprentice is a necessary exploration of Trump’s origins, an artistic commentary on the nature of power, while for others, it’s an unforgivable criticism, pushing personal beliefs to the forefront.
The controversies around The Apprentice serve as a reminder of art’s role in provoking dialogue. The film forces its audience to confront uncomfortable realities, like the notion that powerful figures are often built on shaky moral ground. In its most intense moments, it serves not only as Trump’s story but as a broader narrative about the costs of ambition, creating a discourse that transcends boundaries. Abbasi’s work has stirred an ongoing conversation, proving that polarizing art—no matter how uncomfortable—remains one of the most potent forces in shaping cultural perspectives.
For all the boldness and creative risk-taking in The Apprentice, the film has not escaped critique. Many critics and viewers saw potential for a story that dives even deeper into Donald Trump’s complex psyche, but some believe the film stops just short of delivering a truly impactful narrative. While the provocative story, intense performances, and Ali Abbasi’s innovative direction received praise, the film’s pacing issues, inconsistent character depth, and certain missed opportunities led others to question whether it fully captured its ambitious aims.
One of the most frequently cited issues with The Apprentice lies in its pacing. Early reviews noted that the film’s structure—jumping between key moments in Trump’s rise—could feel abrupt, leaving little time for audiences to fully absorb each development before moving to the next. Abbasi’s choice to compress two decades of Trump’s life into a single narrative presents the challenge of balancing depth with brevity, and not all critics found this balance effective.
The film moves swiftly through Trump’s major milestones, from his initial lawsuit with the Department of Justice to the development of Trump Tower and his dealings with Roy Cohn. Some viewers felt that these events, which collectively shaped Trump’s worldview and business approach, were given a superficial treatment due to the rushed transitions. The impact of each moment, they argued, was diluted, and crucial opportunities for exploring Trump’s motivations were missed. One critic commented, “We see the acts, but we’re often left wondering what’s driving them,” implying that the lack of narrative cohesion kept the film from reaching its full potential.
The pacing is especially felt in the rapid-fire treatment of Trump’s complex relationships with people like Ivana Trump and his father, Fred Trump. These relationships receive only a cursory treatment, leaving the audience to piece together emotional connections without the benefit of thorough exploration. The film, in its rush to cover all key events, can feel like it’s racing toward an end without allowing viewers to truly connect with the path that got it there. This pacing choice may work for a certain style of film, but for a biographical drama, it sometimes left viewers grasping for more.
Another frequent criticism of The Apprentice is its approach to characterization. In its aim to depict a morally complex figure, the film occasionally veers toward caricature—an approach that some critics felt undermined the nuanced storytelling needed to portray such a layered subject. Abbasi’s Trump, portrayed by Sebastian Stan, is undoubtedly ambitious, conniving, and at times ruthless, but some felt these traits were overemphasized at the expense of exploring Trump’s vulnerabilities or the experiences that might have shaped them.
The character of Roy Cohn, played with chilling authority by Jeremy Strong, was another source of mixed reviews. While Strong’s performance was largely praised, some found Cohn’s portrayal a little too black-and-white, missing opportunities to delve into the twisted motivations that drove his mentorship of Trump. Cohn is presented as a master manipulator, and rightly so, but the moments where he and Trump clash or influence one another could have been expanded to show the complexities of their mentor-apprentice relationship.
Similarly, The Apprentice occasionally presents Trump’s emotional interactions with Ivana in a way that critics felt reduced her role to that of a stepping stone in Trump’s journey, instead of portraying her as a dynamic character with her own ambitions and challenges. Abbasi’s attempts to capture Trump’s personal and professional failings were commendable, yet some felt they were not handled with the subtlety necessary to avoid a two-dimensional portrayal. There’s a fine line in biographical dramas between highlighting a character’s flaws and turning them into stereotypes, and The Apprentice occasionally crosses it, according to some reviews.
Perhaps the most resonant critique of The Apprentice is the sense that the film, despite its length and ambition, left unexplored terrain in its portrayal of Donald Trump. Abbasi’s direction brings audiences close to Trump’s journey, but the rapid storytelling pace and selective focus leave some critical chapters of Trump’s evolution unexplored. Many critics argued that, with a figure as polarizing and impactful as Trump, the story demanded a deeper exploration of the forces that molded him, rather than merely depicting his actions.
The relationship between Trump and Roy Cohn, for instance, is one that could have been further mined for complexity. Viewers are shown the mentorship and the resulting moral influence, but Cohn’s full impact on Trump’s ethical framework feels, at times, only briefly addressed. A deeper focus on how Trump processed and internalized Cohn’s teachings—beyond simply repeating his rules—might have provided a richer understanding of how Trump adopted this worldview so fully.
Furthermore, the film skirts around certain themes that could have added layers to its critique of power and ambition, like the broader implications of Reagan-era capitalism. While the film does place Trump’s ascent within the context of the 80s’ capitalist boom, a more pointed critique of the socioeconomic conditions that fueled Trump’s ambitions might have provided a more robust framework for understanding his character.
The Apprentice does succeed in many ways—its performances are riveting, its visuals captivating, and its story compelling—but these critiques suggest that it could have delved even deeper into Trump’s psyche, the socioeconomic forces at play, and the consequences of such a journey on both personal and national scales. Abbasi and his team took on a monumental task in attempting to capture the essence of a figure like Trump, and while the film hit many powerful notes, these missed opportunities leave the audience with a lingering sense that, perhaps, there was more to be said.
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